Chapter 12 #3
She didn't answer. Moved the cloth to his other thigh, gave it the same attention, the same slow drag of warm cotton over scarred skin. His hands hung at his sides, fingers flexing, and she could see the effort it cost him not to touch her.
She rinsed the cloth one more time.
When she wrapped it around him, he made a sound she'd never heard from him before. Low and broken, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His cock was fully hard now, the ridged length of him hot even through the wet fabric, and she stroked once from base to tip.
His whole body shuddered.
"Enough." The word came out strangled. His hand closed over hers, stilling the motion. "Mab. Enough."
She looked up at him. From this angle he was enormous, a wall of green skin and muscle blocking out the firelight, and his eyes were molten amber. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No." He pulled her hand away from him, pulled the cloth from her grip, tossed it somewhere behind her. "You did everything right. That's the problem."
"I don't understand."
He hauled her to her feet. His hands were not gentle about it, fingers digging into her arms hard enough that she'd have new bruises tomorrow. She didn't mind. She was starting to understand that his roughness was its own kind of care.
"I said tonight I would hold you." His voice was strained, the words coming through gritted teeth. "Not fuck you until you can't walk. You're sore. You need rest."
"What if I don't want rest?"
His eyes flared. For a moment she thought he would give in, would push her back onto the bed and take what they both wanted. His cock was pressed against her belly, hard and hot, and she could feel the pulse of his heartbeat through it.
Then he exhaled. A long, controlled breath that seemed to cost him something.
"You'll have me tomorrow. And the day after. And every day until you're sick of me." He lifted her, carried her to the bed, set her down on the sheets that still smelled of orange peel and sex. "Tonight you sleep."
"And you?"
"I'll survive." He climbed in beside her, arranged her body against his with the same matter-of-fact possessiveness he'd shown all day. Her back to his chest. His arm heavy across her waist. His cock pressed against the curve of her backside, still hard, and she felt him twitch when she squirmed.
"Stop moving."
"I'm getting comfortable."
"You're testing my patience." His arm tightened, pinning her in place. "And my patience is not infinite."
Mab smiled into the darkness. There was something heady about this, about knowing she could affect him. That her body, the body she'd spent a lifetime trying to make smaller and quieter and less, could make a seven-foot orc warrior grit his teeth and struggle for control.
His breath was warm against the back of her neck. His hand spread across her belly, palm flat, fingers curved around the soft curve of her side. His nose pressed behind her ear.
"You smell like oranges," he rumbled.
"Annie brought one." Mab's thumb traced the ridge of his knuckle where his hand rested on her belly. "She got it from Drogga. We had never had an orange before."
"Never?" Varek asked drowsily.
"Never. My whole life in a kitchen, and I never tasted an orange."
"I will make sure you always have oranges in Northwatch."
His breathing was slowing behind her, the massive chest at her back expanding in longer, deeper intervals. His arm grew heavier across her waist. His hand, still spread across her belly, stopped moving.
She lay awake.
The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the window, an owl called and was not answered.
Varek's heartbeat thudded against her spine.
Outside, the holding was settling into its occupied quiet.
Footsteps on stone. A voice giving orders in orcish, too distant to parse.
The creak of the gate being drawn shut for the night.
Two days. In two days she would leave this place.
She thought about what Annie had said. I think I'm still scared. But I'm also excited.
The girl was braver than Mab. Annie had named both things at once and let them live in the same sentence. Mab had spent her whole life separating her feelings into categories. This is fear, so push it down. This is hunger, so ignore it. This is grief, so save it for the dark.
This is wanting, so close the door.
She had opened the door. She had opened it in the kitchen garden with rosemary under her fingers and then again in this room with her mouth on his skin.
She had opened it and what was on the other side was not a single thing but a landscape, wide and unmapped and real, and she was standing at its edge with bare feet and no shoes.
Varek's arm was heavy. His heat was enormous. She could feel where the bruises on her hips pressed against the mattress, two thumbprints of ache that belonged to him, that she had pressed in the mirror and felt something sweet instead of something wrong.
She pressed her back into his chest. Felt his arms draw her closer in his sleep. Felt the heat of him wrap around her like a second skin.
She closed her eyes.