Page 51 of The Orc's Protection
I press my mouth to her center and taste her direct from the source for the first time.
The flavor of her arousal explodes across my tongue—sweet and musky and uniquely hers. I rumble my approval against her flesh, the vibration making her buck against my face. My hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as I explore her with lips and tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her cry out.
“Oh God,” she sobs, her hands pulling at my hair. “Your mouth—your tusks—I can’t…”
I slide one thick finger inside her, feeling how tight she is, how her body grips even this small intrusion. She’s going to need so much preparation when we finally claim each other fully. But for now, I focus on her pleasure, curling my finger to find that spot inside that makes her scream.
“That’s it,” I growl against her. “Let me hear you. No one else is here. Just us.”
I add a second finger, stretching her carefully while my mouth continues its assault on her sensitive flesh. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, her breathing ragged, her body coiling tighter and tighter.
“Vraag—I’m going to…”
“Come for me,” I command, my voice rough with possessive satisfaction. “Let me taste it. Show me you’re mine.”
She shatters with a scream that echoes through my apartment, her body clenching around my fingers as her release floods my mouth. I don’t stop, working her through it, drawingout her pleasure until she’s pushing weakly at my shoulders, oversensitive and gasping.
Only then do I withdraw, pressing one last reverent kiss to her center before rising. She looks thoroughly debauched—hair mussed, skin flushed, eyes glazed with satisfaction.
“That was…” She trails off, laughing breathlessly. “I have no words.”
“Good.” I scoop her into my arms, her small form fitting perfectly against my chest. “Because we’re not done.”
I carry her to my bedroom—oversized to accommodate my frame, the bed dominating the space. I lay her on the midnight blue sheets and take a moment just to look at her there—bare, flushed, entirely mine—before I strip off my shirt.
Her gaze tracks hungrily over my bare chest and shoulders. The clan markings seem to fascinate her the way they always do, her fingers already reaching.
“These tell your story,” she murmurs, following one particularly complex design across my shoulder. “Every oath, every battle, every protection vow.”
“And now you,” I say, covering her hand with mine, pressing it against my heart. “You’re part of this story now.”
She pulls me down beside her, a kiss that’s gentler than before but no less intent. “Show me,” she whispers. “Show me what it means to be yours.”
I do. For hours, the bed becomes its own world—my hands and mouth relearning every response, discovering what draws sighs and what draws moans. I bring her to climax twice more with my fingers, once with my mouth, until she is spent and certain and thoroughly claimed.
Through all of it, I remain clothed below the waist, my own arousal demanding but denied. Every time she comes, every time she cries my name, it’s another thread binding us together. Tonight is about her.
When she finally stills beneath me, sated and gasping, I gather her against my chest, pulling a blanket over us both.
She stirs after a moment, her hand moving toward me with unmistakable intent.
“Let me—”
“Sleep,” I say quietly, catching her hand and folding it against my chest.
“That’s not fair to you,” she murmurs, already heavy-lidded.
“It’s exactly what I want.” I press my lips to her hair. “Let me have this.”
The truth is, I am not capable of sleep. Not with her warmth against me, her scent saturating my sheets, her skin still flushed from everything I gave her. My body has not forgotten what it wants. I have simply decided that what I want more is this, her, here, choosing to stay.
She makes a small sound that might be argument and might be agreement, and then her breathing evens out and she’s gone—her fingers still loosely curled against my chest, her smaller form tucked against mine with the particular boneless trust of someone who has run out of reasons to be careful.
The wanting will keep. She will not always be this tired. And I am, for the first time in eight years on this world, entirely willing to wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Vraag
