Chapter 10 Olog
OLOG
Iwatch the precise moment she surrenders.
Her shoulders drop, her breath hitches, and those expressive brown eyes stop calculating escape routes and just... open. Like she's been holding herself so rigidly together that the smallest permission to let go threatens to shatter her completely.
I know that feeling intimately.
It took forty-eight hours of maintaining professional distance while every primitive instinct in my body screamed to claim her, to shield her, to take her somewhere far away from these people who have spent years making her feel small.
The contract is void the second I slide the deadbolt home.
"Stay right here," I tell her.
She nods, her back pressed against the marble vanity, her hands gripping the edge like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
I cross to the restroom door and flip the small brass lock beneath the handle, then drag one of the heavy upholstered benches across the tile floor until it wedges firmly against the doorframe. The wood scrapes loudly, the sound echoing in the too-quiet space.
Professional Olog would never barricade a client in a public restroom.
Professional Olog died the moment she wrapped her legs around me and kissed me like she was trying to crawl inside my skin.
When I turn back, she's watching me with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin silk of her dress.
"You're serious," she breathes.
"Extremely."
I remove the gap between us in three strides, caging her against the vanity with my hands braced on either side of her hips. She tilts her face back to meet my gaze, and the vulnerability in her expression nearly breaks me.
"I need you to understand something," I say quietly, forcing myself to hold still even though every muscle in my body is screaming to touch her.
"Once I start this, I'm not going to be able to stop.
I'm not going to be professional. I'm not going to be detached.
I'm going to be selfish and possessive and I'm going to take everything you're willing to give me. "
Her breath catches.
"What if I want you to be selfish?"
My control fractures.
I grip her waist and lift her onto the marble counter in one smooth motion, stepping between her legs and hauling her against me. She gasps, her hands flying to my shoulders for balance, and I capture her mouth in a kiss that obliterates any remaining pretense of restraint.
She tastes like champagne and desperation and something uniquely, devastatingly her.
I angle her head with one hand fisted in her hair, deepening the kiss until she's making soft, broken sounds against my mouth that shoot straight through my chest and lodge somewhere dangerously close to my heart.
"Olog," she gasps when I break away to trail my mouth down her throat. "We can't, there are people right outside—"
"What about your five-star rating?"
I pull back just enough to look at her, my breathing ragged.
"Bliss," I say slowly, deliberately. "I am about to thoroughly compromise every professional boundary I have ever maintained. My rating is the absolute last thing on my mind right now."
Her eyes darken, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of brown remains.
"Show me," she whispers.
I freeze.
"Show you what?"
"That this is real. That you actually want me and it's not just—just some biological response or pity or—"
I silence her with another bruising kiss, pouring every ounce of frustrated want and barely restrained need into the slide of my mouth against hers. When I pull back, she's flushed and breathing hard, her lips swollen.
"Does that feel like pity?" I rasp.
"I don't know," she admits, her voice shaking. "I don't know what's real anymore."
"Then let me show you."
I slide my hands down her sides, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath the thin silk, and hook my fingers beneath the hem of her dress.
She lifts her hips instinctively, helping me drag the fabric up her thighs, and the practical cotton of her underwear is somehow more erotic than anything else she could have worn.
"You're shaking," I murmur, running my thumbs along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
"I'm nervous," she admits.
I pause, meeting her gaze.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"God, no. Don't you dare stop."
I huff a rough laugh against her throat, pressing a kiss to her racing pulse.
"Tell me what you need."
"You," she breathes. "Just you."
I slide one hand higher, tracing her underwear, and she jerks against me with a soft gasp that goes straight to my already painfully hard cock.
"I've been thinking about this," I confess roughly, "since the moment you climbed into bed with me last night. The way you smell. The way you fit against me. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
"I didn't think you noticed," she gasps.
"Bliss." I push my forehead against hers, my breathing harsh. "I notice everything about you. The way you fidget when your aunt criticizes you. The way you bite your lip when you're stressed. The way your breath catches when I stand too close."
I slip my fingers beneath the cotton, finding her slick and ready, and she chokes on a moan that echoes off the marble walls.
"This real enough for you?" I growl.
"Yes," she whimpers. "Oh God, yes."
I work her slowly, methodically, learning exactly what makes her gasp and arch and cling to my shoulders like I'm the only solid thing in the world.
She's responsive and vocal and absolutely perfect, and when I finally slide one thick finger inside her, she cries out so loudly I have to capture her mouth in another kiss to muffle the sound.
"Quiet," I murmur against her lips. "Unless you want everyone at that dinner to know exactly what we're doing in here."
She bites down on my shoulder in response, and the sharp pressure makes me groan.
"You're going to be difficult about this, aren't you?"
"You have no idea," she gasps, then rocks her hips against my hand in a way that makes rational thought temporarily abandon me.
I add a second finger, stretching her carefully, and she whimpers against my neck.
"Too much?" I ask roughly.
"Not enough."
"Bliss—"
"Please, Olog. I need—I need more."
I withdraw my hand, and she makes a frustrated sound of protest that turns into a sharp inhale when I grip the waistband of her underwear and tear the cotton apart with one sharp tug.
"I'll buy you new ones," I mutter.
"I’m not concerned about the underwear," she gasps. "I care that you're still fully dressed and I'm about to lose my mind."
Fair point.
I release her long enough to shrug out of my wine-stained dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap that would have horrified me six hours ago. Her eyes widen as she takes in the full expanse of tattoos covering my chest and arms, and I freeze.
Humans don't always react well to Orc markings.
But Bliss just reaches out and traces one of the thick black lines with trembling fingers, her expression awed.
"These are beautiful," she whispers.
"They're soup recipes," I admit.
She blinks.
"What?"
"And my family tree. My grandmother insisted I get them all documented before she passed. Most Orcs think they're intimidating war markings. They're actually her instructions for bone broth."
Bliss starts laughing, the sound bright and genuine and so unexpected that I can't help but smile.
"You're telling me," she gasps between giggles, "that every time someone has backed away from you this weekend because they thought you looked dangerous, you were actually just wearing your grandmother's cookbook?"
"Essentially, yes."
"That's the most adorable thing I've ever heard."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Adorable?"
"Terrifying," she corrects quickly, her eyes sparkling. "Absolutely terrifying. Very scary soup."
I capture her mouth again, swallowing her laughter, and she wraps her legs around me with enough force to pull me flush against her.
The heat of her core presses directly against the rigid length of my cock through my dress pants, and I have to brace both hands on the counter to keep from losing control entirely.
"Bliss," I grit out. "I need you to tell me exactly how far you want this to go."
"All the way," she says immediately.
"I'm significantly larger than a human male."
"I noticed."
"I'm not trying to—this isn't ego. I'm saying there are logistical considerations. I don't want to hurt you."
She cups my face in both hands, forcing me to meet her gaze.
"Olog," she says firmly. "I trust you. Completely. I know you'll be careful. I know you'll stop if I ask. But right now, I need you to stop treating me like I'm fragile and just—just take what you want."
My last thread of restraint snaps.
I yank open my belt, the leather hissing through the loops, and shove my pants down just enough to free my cock. Bliss's eyes go wide, her gaze dropping, and her throat works as she swallows hard.
"Still sure?" I rasp.
"Very sure," she breathes. "But you might need to—oh."
I'm already positioning myself, gripping her hips to angle her correctly, and I can feel how slick and ready she is as I notch the head of my cock against her entrance.
"Breathe," I tell her.
She nods, her hands fisting in my hair, and I push forward slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign of pain.
The stretch is immediate and intense.
She gasps, her spine arching, and I freeze.
"Bliss?"
"Don't stop," she grits out. "Please don't stop."
I push deeper, my body shaking with the effort of going slow when every instinct is screaming at me to just drive forward and claim her completely. She's impossibly tight, her body clenching around me in rhythmic pulses that threaten to shred my control.
"You're doing so well," I murmur against her throat. "Taking me so perfectly."
She whimpers, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"More," she gasps. "I can take more."