Chapter 15 #2
The sound that tore out of her was not a word.
It was raw and broken and desperate, and his answering growl vibrated through every point where their bodies connected.
He did it again. Another small withdrawal, another slow press forward.
The ridges dragged against her inner walls, each one a separate point of friction.
Her hips moved without her deciding to move them, tilting up to meet his next thrust. His hand found the curve of her hip and gripped, fingers sinking into soft flesh, holding her at the angle he wanted.
"Yes," he said, the word grinding out of him. "Like that. Take what you need."
She did not know what she needed. She only knew that her body was moving, rocking against him, her heels digging into his backside to pull him deeper.
The stretch was still there, still enormous, but no longer pain.
It had become pressure. Fullness. A claiming she had not known she wanted until it was happening.
His pace increased. Still controlled, still careful, but faster now. The slide of him inside her grew slicker with every thrust, her body learning his shape, accommodating him in ways that should have been impossible.
His hand slid from her hip to her belly, palm pressing flat against the soft curve of flesh. She felt her stomach jump under his touch, the old instinct to contract, to hide, surfacing for just a moment before his fingers spread wide, moved higher, hand cupping her breast, testing the weight of it.
"I have thought about this every night since you arrived."
She arched into his palm. Her nipple pressed against the rough callus at the base of his thumb, and the friction sent a spike of sensation straight down to where he filled her.
"I thought about taking you in my quarters." He thrust deeper, and she cried out. "Against the wall. Over the table. In the chair where you sat reading my books."
His mouth found the side of her throat. His tusks pressed against her pulse point, cool ivory framing the heat of his lips.
"Across my desk in the council chamber." His teeth grazed her neck. "I thought about making you come with Tormund in the next room."
She should not find that arousing. The councilroom. Cold stone and treaty documents and the possibility of interruption. But the image seared through her mind—his hand over her mouth, his body blocking hers from view, the risk of it making everything sharper—and her inner walls clenched around him.
He felt it. His hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking for just a moment.
"You like that." It was not a question.
"I don't—" She didn't know what she liked. She had never done any of this before. But her body knew things her mind had not yet caught up to, and her body was responding to the image of being taken where they might be caught with a fresh surge of slick heat.
"I will remember that." His voice dropped lower, a promise. "When you are healed. When you can take me without care. I will remember exactly what makes you clench around me."
He shifted his angle. Deeper. The head of his cock pressed against something inside her that sent sparks cascading through her pelvis, and her back bowed off the furs.
"There," she gasped. "That—"
"I know."
He did it again. And again. Each thrust finding that spot with a precision that could not be accidental, the ridges of his shaft dragging across it with every withdrawal.
The pleasure built in layers, each stroke adding to the last until she could not tell where one sensation ended and the next began.
His hand found hers in the furs. His fingers laced through hers, massive and rough, and he pinned her hand beside her head. The gesture was possessive and tender at once, claiming and anchoring, giving her something solid to hold onto while her body flew apart.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened eyes she had not realized she'd closed. His face was above hers, close enough that his breath mingled with hers. His features were drawn tight with restraint, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and she understood suddenly how much control this was costing him.
Her fourth climax hit without warning, her whole body seizing around him. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock mid-thrust, and his rhythm shattered. He drove deep and held there, his massive frame shaking, a roar tearing out of his chest that rattled the weapons on the wall.
She felt him come inside her. The pulse of it, hot and copious, flooding her in spurts that seemed to go on forever.
His hips jerked against hers, grinding, as though he could get deeper if he only pressed hard enough.
The ridges of his cock seemed to swell, locking him inside her while his seed filled her completely.
Then his arms gave out.
He collapsed onto her—mostly. Even in extremity, some part of him remembered she was smaller, and he caught most of his weight on his elbows. But his chest pressed her into the furs, his face buried in her hair, his breath coming in great heaving gusts against her temple.
She could not move. She was pinned beneath seven and a half feet of sated orc warchief, his cock still buried inside her, their bodies cooling in the aftermath.
She had never felt more content in her life.
His mouth moved against her hair. She felt rather than heard the words, his lips shaping them against her scalp.
"Stay."
Not a question. Not quite a command. Something in between.
Her hand found the back of his neck. The skin there was damp with sweat, the muscle beneath still trembling with aftershocks. She spread her fingers through his hair and held on.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said.
He made a sound against her hair, and she felt the last of the tension drain out of his massive frame.
They lay tangled together in the dying firelight, his heartbeat slowing against her chest, hers still racing beneath his weight. She catalogued the sensations: the pleasant ache between her thighs, the stickiness where their bodies joined, the cool press of his tusks against her temple.
She should probably say something. Something meaningful about what they had done, what it signified, what came next.
Instead, she yawned.
His chest vibrated against her. That rumbling laugh again, felt more than heard.
"Sleep," he said. The word was half-growl, his voice roughened to gravel. He shifted his weight, and she felt him soften inside her, felt the slow slide of his withdrawal. The loss of him left her hollow, aching in ways that were not entirely unpleasant.
He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, tucking her against the furnace of his chest. One arm curled around her waist, his hand splaying across the small of her back. The other reached down, snagging a fur that had been kicked to the foot of the bed, and dragged it over them both.
She should clean up. She could feel the evidence of what they'd done trickling down her thigh, cooling in the air. She should probably have thoughts about that. Complicated thoughts. Feelings about the intimacy of it, the implications.
Instead, she burrowed closer to his chest and let her eyes fall closed as his heartbeat carried her into darkness.