Chapter 14 Faugh #2
Chantel's cheeks flush bright pink, and she nods quickly before turning back to me. "Take me home, Faugh."
I do not need to be told twice.
The rain has not let up by the time we reach our building, and Chantel is shivering against my side despite my attempts to shield her from the worst of the downpour.
I unlock the front door with one hand, keeping her tucked firmly against me with the other, and I guide her inside and up the stairs to our apartment.
The moment I close the door behind us, shutting out the rest of the world, the atmosphere shifts.
She turns to face me, her soaked sweater clinging to her curves, her hair plastered to her face in dark, wet tangles, and the look in her eyes makes my pulse kick violently .
There is heat there, raw and undisguised, and when she reaches up to push a strand of hair out of her face, her hand trembles slightly.
"I need to paint," she says suddenly, her voice breathless. "I need to—I have all this energy, all this emotion, and I need to do something with it before I explode. Will you—" She hesitates, biting her lower lip. "Will you come with me? To the studio?"
I nod slowly, understanding what she is not quite asking aloud, and I follow her down the narrow hallway to the small room she has claimed as her creative space.
She flicks on the overhead light, illuminating the chaotic explosion of color and canvas and half-finished projects scattered across every available surface.
She moves immediately to her largest easel, pulling out a blank canvas and setting it up with quick, practiced movements, and then she turns back to me.
"I want to paint you," she says, her gaze roaming over my face, my shoulders, my chest. "I want to capture this moment, this feeling, before it fades. Is that okay?"
"You may do whatever you wish, Chantel," I tell her, leaning back against the doorframe and crossing my arms over my chest. "I am entirely at your disposal."
She grins at that, a flash of her usual mischief breaking through the emotional intensity, and she begins pulling out tubes of paint and arranging them on her palette with quick, decisive movements.
For several minutes, I simply watch her work, mesmerized by the focused expression on her face, the way her small hands move with confidence and purpose across the canvas.
She glances up at me periodically, her gaze assessing and intense, and each time our eyes meet, the tension in the room ratchets higher.
"You're still too far away," she says finally, setting down her brush and wiping her hands absently on her already paint-covered leggings. "I need you closer. I need—" She breaks off, her cheeks flushing. "Come here, Faugh."
I push off the doorframe and cross the small space in three long strides, stopping directly in front of her. She has to tilt her head all the way back to maintain eye contact, as her pupils dilate, her breathing shifting into something faster, shallower.
"Closer," she whispers.
I step forward again, closing the remaining distance between us until I am standing so close that the toes of my boots nearly touch her paint-splattered sneakers. She places one small hand flat on me, directly over my heart, and I know she can feel the way it is pounding beneath her palm.
"Chantel, if you continue looking at me like that, I will not be responsible for what happens next."
"Good," she breathes out, and then she fists her hand in my shirt and pulls me down.
The kiss is nothing like the careful, tentative exploration from before.
This is raw and hungry and desperate, her mouth opening beneath mine as I cup the back of her head and angle her exactly where I want her.
She tastes like tears and tea and something uniquely her, and I devour it greedily, my other hand sliding down to grip her hip and haul her flush against me.
She makes a small, needy sound in the back of her throat, and I feel the last threads of my carefully maintained control snap entirely.
I lift her effortlessly, my hands gripping her thighs as I boost her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist with a gasp, her arms locking around my neck.
I turn, pressing her back against the nearest clear section of wall, and I kiss her harder, deeper, swallowing her moans as I grind against her.
"Faugh," she gasps out when I finally pull back enough to let her breathe. "The paint. I'm going to get paint everywhere—"
"I do not care," I growl against her throat, scraping my tusks deliberately along the sensitive skin there and feeling her shudder violently in response.
"I will clean it later. Right now, I need you, Chantel.
I need to feel you, to claim you properly, to make absolutely certain you understand that you are where you belong, here with me. "
"Yes," she whimpers, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Yes, Faugh, please—"
I carry her across the room, sweeping an arm across her worktable to clear a space, and I set her down on the edge.
Tubes of paint clatter to the floor, brushes scattering in every direction, and neither of us pauses to care.
Her hands are already yanking at my shirt, pulling it up and over my head, and I help her impatiently before reaching for the hem of her sweater.
We strip each other with frantic urgency, clothes falling away in a chaotic tangle of wet fabric and impatient hands, until she is sitting before me in nothing but her mismatched socks and flushed skin and I am gripping her thighs hard enough to leave marks.
"You are perfect," I tell her roughly, my gaze raking over every soft curve, every paint smudge, every beautiful inch of her. "Absolutely perfect, Chantel. And you are my mate."
"Yours," she agrees breathlessly, reaching for me. "Always yours, Faugh. Now stop talking and—"
I do not let her finish the sentence. I pull her to the very edge of the table, position myself between her spread thighs, and I claim her in one long, deep stroke that makes her cry out and arch back against the paint-splattered surface.
The angle is perfect, the height of the table putting her exactly where I need her, and I set a relentless pace immediately, driving into her with strong force that the table scrapes loudly against the floor.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into the small of my back, and she meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my shoulders.
"More," she demands breathlessly, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. "Harder, Faugh, I need—"
I lean forward, bracing one hand on the table beside her head, and I give her exactly what she asks for, pounding into her with such a big force that the entire table shudders beneath us.
My free hand slides up her body, cupping her breast, teasing her nipple, before moving higher to wrap gently around her throat.
She gasps at the possessive gesture, her eyes flying open to meet mine, and the trust I see there, the complete surrender, nearly undoes me entirely.
"Mine," I growl, tightening my grip just enough to feel her pulse fluttering wildly beneath my palm. "Say it, Chantel. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours," she gasps out, her voice ragged. "I'm yours, Faugh. Only yours. Always—oh god—"
Her entire body goes taut, her inner walls clamping down around me with devastating force, and I feel her shatter beneath me with a sharp cry that echoes off the studio walls.
She’s coming undone, the feel of her pulsing around me, the sound of my name on her lips, drives me over the edge immediately after, and I bury myself as deep as I can go, roaring her name as I fill her completely.
For a long moment, we simply stay locked together, both of us gasping for air, our bodies slick with sweat and streaked with paint from where we pressed against the table. Chantel's hands come up to cup my face, and she pulls me down for a slow, tender kiss that feels like a promise.
"I love you," she whispers against my lips. "I love you so much it terrifies me, Faugh."
"Good," I murmur back, pressing my forehead to hers. "Then we are evenly matched, because you terrify me as well, Chantel. In the very best way."
She laughs softly, the sound bright and joyful, and I carefully pull back, lifting her off the table and cradling her against my chest as I survey the absolute destruction we have wrought on her studio.
There is paint everywhere, vibrant streaks of blue and gold and crimson smeared across the table, the floor, our skin. Her carefully organized palette has been knocked over, tubes crushed and leaking, and several canvases have toppled from their easels in the chaos.
Chantel follows my gaze and winces. "I made a mess."
"We made a mess," I correct her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And I will clean every inch of it later. But first, we are going to shower, and then I am going to feed you, and then I am going to take you to bed properly and remind you exactly why you agreed to be mine."
She grins up at me, exhausted and happy and absolutely radiant. "That sounds perfect."
Three weeks later, I stand in the doorway of her studio, watching her work.
She is completely absorbed in the canvas before her, her brush moving in quick, confident strokes, adding layer after layer of color to the abstract piece she has been building for days.
Sunlight streams through the window, catching in her hair and painting her skin gold, and I take a moment to simply appreciate her in her element.
She is humming softly under her breath, something cheerful and off-key, and there is a smudge of cerulean blue across her cheekbone that she has not noticed yet.
In my pocket, the small black velvet box feels simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy.
I had the ring commissioned two weeks ago from a jeweler who specializes in custom work, providing exact specifications for something that would suit Chantel perfectly.
It is delicate and unique, a thin band of hammered gold set with a small, irregular opal that shifts through a dozen different colors depending on the light.
It is nothing like the traditional Orcish betrothal bands, which are thick and brutally practical, but it is absolutely right for her.
I step into the studio, and she glances up immediately, her face breaking into the warm, open smile that never fails to make my chest tighten.
"Hey," she says brightly, setting down her brush.
"I didn't hear you come in. What do you think?
" She gestures to the canvas. "I'm trying something new with the layering technique, and I think it's actually working, but I—" She stops abruptly, her gaze sharpening as she takes in my expression.
"Faugh? What's wrong? You look, are you nervous? "
I cross the room slowly, pulling the small box from my pocket, as her eyes go wide, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
"Chantel," I begin. "I have a question to ask you."