Talk Orcy To Me

Chapter 8 Korgan #2

"Much." Her voice muffles against my chest. "Though I think the producers wanted us to have a picturesque picnic, not huddle for survival."

I grunt. "Their plans rarely survive reality."

She laughs, the sound vibrating between us. The rain drums harder, a relentless rhythm that matches something primal in my blood. My hands flex against her back, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin.

Trinity tilts her head up. Raindrops cling to her lashes. "Korgan?"

"Yes?"

"Stop thinking so hard."

I blink water from my eyes. "What?"

She rises on her toes, her breath warm against my lips. "You're always thinking three steps ahead. Planning. Strategizing." Her fingers trace my jaw. "Just... be here with me. Now."

Then her mouth presses to mine, and all thoughts dissolve into sensation.

Her lips are soft but insistent, demanding a response I'm helpless to deny. My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her tighter against me. She makes a small sound, her fingers tangling in my hair.

The kiss deepens, her tongue tracing my lips before I open for her. The taste of her—sweet and warm and uniquely Trinity—fills my senses. My hands map the curve of her spine, the flare of her hips, learning her shape through the slick fabric.

She breaks away just enough to speak. "Is this okay?"

"More than." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Her smile flashes before she kisses me again, her body pressing closer. The rain hides nothing, reveals everything—the way her dress clings to her curves, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading across her skin.

I growl low in my throat, the sound lost in the storm. My hands slide under her thighs, lifting her against me. She wraps her legs around my waist with a gasp, the new angle letting me grind against her.

"Bedroom's probably nicer," she murmurs between kisses.

"Too far." I walk us backward until we reach one of the pavilion's support beams. The wood presses against her back as I pin her there, my body covering hers.

She arches into me, her nails scraping lightly down my neck. "Someone might see."

"Let them." I kiss along her jaw, her throat. "You're beautiful when you're desperate."

Her breath hitches as my teeth graze her collarbone. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something more... poetic?"

We kiss again, slower this time. "You taste better than poetry."

Her laugh dissolves into a moan as my hands find the hem of her dress. "Korgan—"

"Tell me to stop." I slide my palms up her thighs, pushing the fabric with them. "Tell me no."

She shakes her head, rainwater flying. "Don't stop."

That's all the permission I need.

Her skin burns under my touch, slick with rain and desire. I explore every inch I can reach—the dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs, and her breasts in my hands. She's perfect, all softness and strength, her body arching into each touch.

"Please," she whispers, her hips rolling against mine.

I capture her mouth again as my fingers find the apex of her thighs. She's hot even through the fabric, wet in a way that has nothing to do with rain. When I press harder, she gasps into my mouth.

"More," she demands when I pull back. "I need—"

I silence her with another kiss as I push her underwear aside. The first touch of her bare skin makes my vision whiten. She's slick and swollen, her body begging for attention I'm desperate to give.

Her cry gets lost in the storm as I find the rhythm she needs. Her hips move with my hand, her body tightening with each stroke. I watch her face as she comes apart, the way her lips part and her eyes squeeze shut, the way she bites her lip to keep from screaming.

Beautiful. Mine.

I want her, all of her, always. Want to see this every day, want to be the reason she looks like this. The realization should terrify me, but all I feel is rightness.

She goes limp against me as the last tremors fade, her breath coming in quick pants. I press kisses to her throat, her collarbone, anywhere I can reach.

"Korgan," she murmurs, her hands fumbling between us. "Your turn."

I catch her wrist before she can reach my pants. "Not here."

Her eyes fly open. "What? Why?"

"Because the first time I have you, it won't be against a wall in a rainstorm." My lips brush her knuckles. "It won't be rushed or public or anything less than you deserve."

She searches my face. "You're serious."

"Deadly."

Her smile blooms, slow and sweet. "Then we should get back before someone comes looking."

I want to argue, want to carry her somewhere private and spend hours showing her exactly how serious I am. But she's right—this moment exists in a bubble that's about to pop.

I help her fix her dress, my hands lingering longer than necessary. She watches me with eyes that see too much, then rises on her toes to kiss me softly.

"Later," she promises against my lips.

I growl and kiss her harder, pouring everything I can't say into the touch. When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard again.

The walk back to the main house feels like a dream. Trinity's hand stays tucked in mine, her shoulder pressed to my arm. For the first time in years, I don't feel my oath, don't feel the ghost of my brother's expectations.

Then we round the corner and see Darren Strange leaning against the porch railing.

His camera crew stands nearby, equipment pointed at us like weapons. My body goes rigid, every muscle locking down. Trinity notices immediately.

"Who's that?" she asks quietly.

"Darren Strange, also known as Webb in the industry." My voice comes out flat. "The journalist who destroyed my reputation after Drakar's death."

Her hand tightens in mine. "What's he doing here?"

"Waiting for us." I force my shoulders to relax, my expression to smooth. "Probably has questions about our 'relationship.'"

She stops walking. "You don't have to do this."

I turn to face her fully. "Do what?"

"Pretend with him. For the show. For anything." She searches my face. "Not after... that."

I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I know."

Her breath catches. "Then what are we doing?"

"Walking back to the house. Together." I press a quick kiss to her lips. "The rest we'll figure out."

She nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. We start walking again, our hands still linked. Webb watches our approach with the predatory focus of a man who scents blood in the water.

"Korgan," he calls as we reach the porch steps. "Care to comment on your... relationship with your co-star?"

I help Trinity up the steps before answering. "No."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "No? That's not very cooperative of you."

"Not everything requires commentary."

Webb's gaze flicks to Trinity. "And you, Ms. Lewis? How do you feel about being used as a publicity stunt?"

Trinity stiffens, but her voice stays steady. "I think that's a question better suited for the producers, don't you?"

Webb's smile turns sharp. "Oh, I plan to ask them. But I'm more interested in your perspective. After all, you're the one who stands to gain from this... arrangement."

I step slightly in front of Trinity, blocking Webb's view. "We're done here."

He doesn't move. "I haven't gotten my answers."

"You haven't asked any actual questions." I keep my voice level. "You're fishing for drama where there isn't any."

"Drama?" Strange laughs. "Is that what you call it? I'd call it deception. Manipulation. Using a sweet small-town girl to rehabilitate your image."

Trinity's hand presses against my back. "Korgan—"

"Don't." I don't look at her. "This isn't your fight."

Strange's eyes light up. "Oh, so it is a fight? Interesting choice of words for someone claiming this is all above board."

I take a slow breath, counting to five before speaking. "You're not getting what you want here. Move along."

For a long moment, Strange just stares. Then he smiles, slow and unpleasant. "Fine. For now." He steps back, gesturing to his crew. "But I'll be watching. And when this all falls apart, and it will, I'll be there to document every delicious moment."

He walks away, his crew trailing behind. I watch until they're out of sight, my body still tense.

Trinity touches my arm. "Hey. Look at me."

I turn to her, the motion stiff.

Her eyes search mine. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say."

"Bullshit." Her voice carries an edge. "That man clearly has history with you, and not the good kind. I deserve to know what's going on."

I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it." She crosses her arms. "Because right now, it feels like you're shutting me out. And after what just happened between us, I won't accept that."

She's right, after the intimacy we just shared, after the way she trusted me with her body, I owe her more than silence.

I exhale sharply. "Strange interviewed me after my brother's death.

I was young, grieving, trying to explain our side of the conflict.

He promised to tell our story fairly." My hands clench.

"Instead, he painted me as a bloodthirsty savage who sacrificed my own brother for human approval.

The article destroyed my remaining political connections.

My father disowned me. I was exiled from my clan. "

Trinity's expression softens. "Oh, Korgan."

I shake my head. "It's in the past."

"Is it?" She steps closer. "Because that man just threatened us both, and you're acting like this is normal."

"It's not normal. But it's not unexpected either." I meet her eyes. "People like Webb always find ways to twist things. To make stories fit their narrative."

"And what's their narrative here?"

I don't answer. Don't need to. We both know what Webb wants to paint—an orc using a human woman for publicity, a woman being manipulated for ratings. The story he tried to sell years ago, just with different details.

Trinity searches my face. "What are you thinking?"

"That I should have been more careful." The words come out rougher than intended. "That I let myself get distracted when I knew better."

Her expression shutters. "Distracted."

"Trinity—"

She steps back, her arms wrapping around herself. "Right. Of course." She forces a smile. "Well. At least we know where we stand."

Before I respond, she turns and walks into the house, leaving me standing alone on the porch with my mistakes pressing down on me.

I want to follow her, to explain that I didn't mean it like that, that I'm not thinking clearly with Webb's presence stirring up old ghosts. But the cameras are watching, and the last thing Trinity needs is more public scrutiny.

So I stand there, watching the door she disappeared through, and wonder how everything went from perfect to shattered in the space of an hour.

The rain starts again, cold and relentless. Fitting. I welcome the discomfort, the way it grounds me in the present instead of letting me spiral into memories of the last time Webb destroyed my life.

Because this time, it's not just my reputation on the line. This time, Trinity stands to lose everything too.

And that changes the game entirely.