Page 25 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

My back hits the ground, and the scent of disturbed soil and bruised herbs rises around us. He follows me down, his weight settling over me, solid and real. One large hand fists in the fabric of my skirt, gathering the practical linen until cool evening air hits my thighs.

“Draven.” His name comes out as half-protest, half-plea.

“You said I should choose something for myself.” His voice is a low growl against my throat, his tusks scraping the sensitive skin there. “I choose this. I choose you.”

The words unravel me. My hands find his shoulders, digging into the hard muscle beneath his leather vest. I can feel the scars there—ridged stories of violence and survival—as I arch against him.

He yanks my skirts higher, baring me completely to the open air. His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready. A rough sound escapes him—approval mixed with hunger.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his golden eyes dark with intent. “So ready for me.”

Then he’s freeing himself from his trousers, and my breath stutters. He’s thick and heavy, the broad head already glistening. He notches himself at my entrance, and the stretch is immediate, breathtaking.

“Isolde.” My name is a warning and a promise.

He pushes inside.

The fullness steals my voice. My nails bite into his shoulders as he sinks deeper, stretching me open in a way that borders on pain before tipping into perfect, shocking pleasure. He bottoms out, his hips flush against mine, and we both go still for a heartbeat—both of us adjusting to the reality of this connection.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is controlled, testing. The second loses some restraint. By the third, he’s fucking me in earnest, his hips driving into mine with a rhythm that speaks of hunger barely leashed. The dirt grinds into my back through my dress, the crushed lavender releases its perfume beneath us, and all I can do is hold on.

His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks. The size of him, the sheer strength in his grasp—it makes me feel delicate in a way I’ve never experienced. Not fragile, but cherished in my surrender.

“That’s it,” he growls, his pace turning relentless. “Take me.”

I do. I take every inch, every driving thrust, meeting him with a hunger that matches his own. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sound he makes is pure animal satisfaction.

His mouth finds mine again, messy and desperate. Our teeth clash, his tusks careful even in his frenzy. I taste salt and wildness, and something inside me cracks open.

“Draven, I⁠—”

He swallows my words with another kiss, his hips pounding into me now, the slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet evening. I’m so close, pleasure coiling tight in my belly, and he knows it. One hand slides between us, his thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and the world shatters.

The world shatters into light and sensation as I come, my back arching off the dirt. He swallows my cry with his mouth, his hips never slowing, fucking me through the convulsing waves of my pleasure until I’m oversensitive and trembling.

“Look at that,” he growls, his voice ragged against my ear. “My quiet beekeeper, coming apart in the dirt like a common thing.”

The words should sting. Instead, they fuel the fire. My nails scrape down his back, finding the scars beneath his vest.

“Your common thing,” I gasp, the defiance clear in my voice.

A sharp, approving grin flashes across his face. He shifts, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder, the new angle breathtaking. He drives into me, deeper, and I cry out.

“That’s it. Sing for me.” His praise is a dark, rough thing. “They think you’re so delicate. That pretty honey-seller with her soft hands.” He brings one of my hands to his mouth, bites the pad of my thumb—not hard, but enough to make me gasp. “But you take me like you were made for it. Greedy for it.”

He’s right. I am greedy. I meet every thrust, my hips rising to meet his, the filthy sound of our joining mixing with our ragged breaths. The degradation is woven into the praise, and I can’t separate them. They are the same truth.

“They’d faint,” he snarls, his pace becoming punishing. “Alma with her perfect silks. Vaelis with her calculated smiles. If they could see you now. Soil in your hair. My marks on your skin. Begging for it.”

“I’m not begging,” I pant, even as my body is doing exactly that, climbing again toward a blinding peak.

“Aren’t you?” He slows, withdrawing almost completely, and the loss is a physical pain. “Tell me.”

The command hangs in the lavender-scented air. I am exposed, pinned, utterly at his mercy. And I have never felt more powerful.

“Fuck me, Draven.” The words are raw, stripped of pretense. “Please.”