Page 49 of Orc Me, Maybe
"Coming!"
Torack's shadow stretches across the warped floorboards when I open the door. His tie's already loosened, the top button of his dress shirt straining against that thick green neck. His gaze drags down my blouse like he's appraising a construction bid.
"New field uniform?" He steps inside without waiting for an invite, the cabin shrinking around his broad shoulders. His thumb brushes the leather belt at my hip. "Practical."
I shift sideways, the scent of his cedar cologne making my pulse skip. "Regulation camp attire. Page twelve of the employee handbook."
"Bullshit." His laugh rumbles deep, tusks glinting in the lamplight. He plucks the clipboard from my hands and tosses it onto the cot. "You wore the boots from the supply closet just to watch me notice."
My ponytail whips my cheek when I turn toward the desk. "The mud outside's ankle-deep. Unlike some people, I don't have a helicopter to?—"
His hand fists in my hair, gentle but unyielding as he tilts my head back. My scalp tingles where his calluses catch stray strands. "You want me to say it?" Warm breath ghosts my ear. "That you look like a corporate wet dream wrapped in camping gear catalogs?"
I brace against his chest, fingertips sinking into crisp cotton. "I want you to say the swing set delivery got pushed to Thursday."
"Later." His other arm bands around my waist, hauling me flush against him. The buttons of his shirt imprint my palms as he crashes his mouth to mine—no tentative exploration, just claiming pressure and the faintest scrape of tusk against my lower lip. I bite back a whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he walks me backward toward the wall.
His knee slots between my thighs, hiking up my skirt as he deepens the kiss. I arch into him, the leather belt digging crescents into my hips when he grinds me against the log wall.
His grip tightens in my hair as I sink to my knees, the cabin’s braided rug biting into my shins. I fumble with his belt buckle, the brass cold against my knuckles.
“Regulation camp attire, huh?” His thumb traces my ear, voice graveled. The click of his belt coming undone sounds louder than the generator humming outside.
I glance up through my lashes, the lamplight catching the scar that bisects his left tusk. “Page fourteen. Team-building exercises.”
His snort becomes a sharp inhale when I palm him through his briefs. The heat of him seeps through cotton, familiar and foreign all at once. I drag my teeth over the waistband, tasting salt and expensive detergent.
“Christ, Julie?—”
My breath ghosts across his stomach as I hook my thumbs in elastic. His hand spasms in my ponytail, yanking my head back just enough to force eye contact.
Hazel irises swallow their pupils. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
I let my skirt hike higher as I shift forward, the leather belt’s buckle scraping the floorboards. “Complaints go through HR. I’ll pencil you in Tuesday.”
His growl vibrates against my palm when I finally free him. I take my time, tongue flat against the underside of his cock until his hips jerk. The hand in my hair goes rigid, controlling the pace as I sink deeper.
“Fuck.” A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, disappearing under rumpled collar. “Should’ve…hired you…sooner.”
I pull off with a wet gasp, thumb circling the tip. “Still time to…negotiate my contract.”
His laughter cuts off into a groan when I swallow him again, fingers scrabbling at the log wall behind him. The ponytail tug turns punishing, but I lean into it—let him feel the chokehold of my throat muscles, the way my nails dig crescent moons into his thighs.
Cedar and musk flood my senses as he mutters something in Orcish, the guttural syllables making my spine arch. I hum in response, the vibration wringing a shattered curse from his lips. His free hand fists in the curtains, fabric ripping as I pick up speed?—
His grip yanks me upright so fast my knees leave rug burns on the floorboards. "Hey?—"
The protest dies as he flips me like I weigh less than his Montblanc pen. The cot screeches sideways, my clipboard clattering against the wall. My palms sink into the scratchy wool blanket as his knee spreads my legs wider.
"Budget didn't cover memory foam mattresses, huh?" I twist to glare over my shoulder, but he fists my ponytail again, pressing my cheek to the blanket.
His zipper rasps open behind me. "You want upgrades?" Callused hands hike my skirt past my hips, the leather belt's buckle biting my lower back. "Submit a requisition form."
I snort into the wool. "Three copies? Or just the?—"
He slams his cock into my pussy without warning, the cot legs gouging fresh scars in the pine floor. My fingers claw the blanket as he sets a brutal pace, each thrust jolting the clipboard off the mattress. Pens scatter like shrapnel.
No slow buildup, no time for more foreplay.
