Page 71 of Orc Me, Maybe
"Rich coming from the man who just ripped my blouse with histeeth."
His laugh cuts off when I rock forward, his grip on my hips leaving tomorrow's bruises.
His thumb finds my clit swollen and slick, circling once—twice—before I slap his hand away. "Don't you dare rush me."
"Bossy." He licks a stripe up my throat. "Thought you preferred being in charge."
"Iamin charge," I bite back. “And I say don’t rush the boss.”
The lie splinters as he flips us again, pinning my wrists above my head. His tusks graze my cheek. Our breaths sync, ragged and damp.
"Julie." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. “Julie, you’re soaking wet.”
I arch into him, the friction drawing a moan neither of us will acknowledge tomorrow. His rhythm fractures, each thrust driving harder and deeper.
He stills suddenly, forehead pressed to mine. Hazel eyes hold me suspended—eight seconds, nine—before his control snaps.
The climax hits like a backdraft, heat roaring through every nerve. My scream lodges in his mouth as he kisses me through the tremors, his growl vibrating against my tongue.
“Not done,” he growls. “Not done until you come again.”
“I don’t know if I ca-! Ah!” His fingers find me, rough and wet, and pile on the stimulation. I squirm, frantic and unable to control myself.
“Torack please, oh my g- Torack!” I cry.
It’s unbearable.
It’s absolutely delicious.
I come again, harder, and Torack shows how proud he is of his work.
We collapse together, his weight driving blueprints into the rug beneath us.
His breath scalds my neck. "Still think hay bales were a bad idea?"
I swat his shoulder, fingers trembling. "You're buying me a new pencil skirt."
"Add it to the camp budget." His teeth flash in the lamplight as he nuzzles the sweat-damp hair at my temple. "Line item: workplace hazards."
CHAPTER 29
TORACK
There’s a sound I never thought I’d hear again in this place.
Laughter. Real laughter.
Not nervous chuckles from overworked contractors or the half-hearted kind you give in meetings to smooth tension. I mean belly-deep, wild, too-loud joy. Children shrieking in play as they tumble down the wild grass hill by the central field. Pixie twins chasing a centaur colt with a stream of enchanted bubble spells. A pair of goblins playing tug-of-war with a snake that looks suspiciously enchanted.
And no one’s fighting. No one’s bleeding. It’s chaos, yeah, but it’s the kind we planned for. The kind we dreamed of. The kind that feels like victory.
I stand just off the main path, arms crossed, boots sunk firm into the mossy ground. The official camp banners flap behind me, their edges still too crisp, like they’re waiting for stories to give them meaning. Everything smells like pine sap and toasted marshmallows.
It’s a miracle the fae didn’t hex the kitchen after that honey incident last week.
But it’s working.
All of it. They came. The kids. The counselors. The village parents. The investors. The holdouts. All of ’em. We did it. She did it.
