CHAPTER NINE
Lara
Item number one: Get to the ruins in the center of the island.
Number one on my list might be the simplest to say, but it sure isn’t easy to do. I walk about as much as most New Yorkers, which is mostly done in short bursts of going a few blocks to and from various subway stations.
That’s seriously different from an all-day slog, and through jungle, no less!
But for all the new activity I’m putting my body through, my brain doesn’t have anything to think about.
Besides Brokk. The way his wide shoulders ripple as he moves undergrowth aside for me. The way he always makes sure I eat and drink first. The way he held me this morning when I woke up sprawled across him, literally drooling on his chest.
My hands fly up. How am I supposed to process any of this?
Shit! Raising my hands makes the catsuit wedgie in front and back. I yank at it, trying to keep the thing from getting to third base. If anyone’s getting that close to my hoohaa around here, I want it to be Brokk.
I can’t keep lying to myself. I want him. I don’t care if he’s green. No, wait. That’s a lie. I want him even more because he’s green. I’m no longer as bothered about him pretending to be an orc, because I’m convinced he’s really taken on that identity—he believes he’s an orc and acts like it. And being an orc warrior? Let’s just say there are a lot of shittier things a guy could be, like a rich asshole who kidnaps people.
Plus, a tiny part of me wants to believe Brokk’s not lying. That Faerie is real, that this language I suddenly know is actually High Fae, that I’m a witch with magic. And if all of that’s true, then…
Brokk might really be an orc.
I suck in a breath, my heart skipping as I take in his wide back and seven feet of height. God, he’s taller than that Mountain guy from Game of Thrones !
He puts his size to good use, forging a trail for me. We follow the valley, Brokk somehow knowing in which direction to go to reach the center of the island. Every type of palm I’ve ever seen mixes in with plants I didn’t realize existed in the jungle, like little fern trees. The forest around my hometown, Ferndale Falls, has lots of ferns, but they’re the ground-hugging kind instead. The jungle also drips with numerous vines, some covered in huge, colorful blossoms the size of dinner plates.
Yellow and black toucans chatter to each other in the trees overhead, their long, multicolored beaks moving in flashes of green, orange, blue, and red.
I could swear I catch sight of something else in the trees every so often, but I must be seeing the sunlight reflect off of shiny leaves or something, because there’s no way I’m seeing a disembodied smile hanging in midair, right?
Damn. There it is again.
“Did you see that?” I gasp.
By the time Brokk turns to look where I’m pointing, it’s gone, if it was even there to begin with.
“What was it?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, unwilling to admit I’m seeing smiles hanging in the middle of the air. Yep, it’s just me, the fantasy author with an overactive imagination.
We continue on, Brokk blazing a trail. I know he’s moving slower than he could, but I still struggle to keep up.
We finally make it to the river, which is wide and calm-looking.
“So we just go along the bank?” I ask. There isn’t much of one—the jungle grows all the way to the water’s edge in most places.
“No, we need to cross. Not only is the center of the island on the other side, but it will also make it harder for them to track us.”
“Swimming?” I wince. I’m not that great of a swimmer. “Do you think the current is strong?”
There’s another problem. I pull out my ancestor’s journal and check the seal on the ziplock bag three times. A niggle of anxiety eats at my stomach. I hope it’ll hold, because water will ruin the journal. Besides being an irreplaceable family heirloom, it’s also the only example of this language I know of—or at least the only one not carved into a stone wall on an isolated island owned by a complete asshole.
Brokk’s big hands cover mine, stopping me from checking yet again. “Don’t fret. I’ll carry you on my shoulders. You won’t get wet, and the book will be fine.”
My muscles unwind in immediate relief. “Oh, would you?”
“Of course, I will.” He sits to take off his boots, then pulls my shoes from his pockets. He ties the boot laces around the heels of my Christian Louboutons and knots them all together, then slings the entire thing around my neck.
Still crouching, Brokk spins around and presents his back. “Climb all the way up to sit on my shoulders.”
I lift one leg, getting it only about halfway up his back before the catsuit freezes all motion, refusing to stretch any farther. I lie forward, plastering my chest to him to get some friction as I cling to his shoulders and try to climb him. My legs keep sliding off, getting nowhere near his shoulders. Why do I always write size difference as so easy in my books?
“Let me get even lower,” he says.
Heat flushes my cheeks. God, this is too embarrassing.
He sits and folds forward until his back’s only a couple of feet off the ground.
I stand beside him, one leg half-cocked, and pause. “Are you going to be able to stand up like this?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
It’s going to take massive amounts of strength, but if he says he can do it… “Okay, then.”
I brush his long hair forward so I won’t sit on it, my fingers lingering for a moment on the silky black strands. Yep, dammit. He really does have shampoo-commercial hair. How does it look this good after roughing it for a night in the jungle?
Even with him bending far forward, my awkward ass still falls across his wide back as I try to climb on.
“Just mount me like a horse.”
“Can we not say ‘mount’? It’s not helping.” It makes me think of other, sexier uses of the word, and now I’m even more flustered, my leg sliding off his back.
“What’s wrong with saying mount?” he says with a husky laugh. “Mount me, Lara.”
That laugh does things to me, and when combined with those words… My clit throbs, the rub of the catsuit only making it worse. It’s just enough pressure to add to the tease without being enough to satisfy anything.
It takes me three more tries, but I finally get a leg thrown over his neck.
Brokk’s huge hands swallow my thighs, holding me steady as he straightens up to sitting.
An eep slips from me as I scrabble to keep my balance, and only his hold on my legs keeps me upright. I finally steady, my hands buried in his hair.
We repeat the process when he stands, and this time, my heels dig into his chest as I fight to stay on him.
When I stabilize enough to sit upright, Brokk’s fingers squeeze my thighs, and his deep voice growls, “Good girl.”
An electric jolt flies straight to my clit, and I gasp, my legs clenching around his head.
He gives that husky laugh again, and I’m equal parts horny and embarrassed that he knows I’m horny.
“As much as I love being crushed between your thighs,” he says, “I think it might be good if I can breathe.”