Chapter 6
KRUK
Her lips taste like champagne and strawberries and something underneath that's just her.
Sweet. Intoxicating. The tactical analysis part of my brain, the part that never shuts off, catalogs the information: rapid pulse visible at her throat, pupils dilated, breathing shallow and quick, fingers clutching my jacket like she'll fall if she lets go.
The rest of my brain, the part that's pure instinct and hunger, roars one word: Mine.
I pull back slowly, making sure she's steady on her feet. The sudden absence of her mouth against mine feels like a wound.
Around us, the cocktail party has become silent. Every single person is staring. I can feel their eyes like targeting lasers, but I don't care. Let them stare. Let them see exactly who she belongs to.
Colletta's face is flushed pink, her lips swollen from my mouth. Her curls have gotten wilder, tangled in my fingers. She looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly claimed, and the sight sends a savage satisfaction through my chest.
I keep my arm around her waist. She's trembling slightly, whether from shock or arousal I can't tell. Possibly both.
Derek's face has gone purple. His jaw works soundlessly, opening and closing like a landed fish. His new girlfriend clutches his arm, her expression caught between scandalized and envious.
"What the hell was that?" Derek finally manages.
I turn my gaze on him. Let him see exactly what I am. Exactly what happens to people who threaten what's mine.
"That," I say, my voice dropping to the register I used to use before battle, "was a warning. You will not speak to her. You will not look at her. You will not breathe in her direction for the rest of this gathering."
"You can't just—"
"If you continue," I interrupt, stepping forward and forcing him back a pace, "I will remove you from the premises. Permanently."
Silence.
Then Colletta giggles.
It's that nervous laugh of hers, high and slightly unhinged, and it completely ruins the intimidation factor I was going for. Several people flinch. Derek goes pale. Somehow the giggling makes the threat more disturbing, not less.
I don't understand human social dynamics, but I understand the results.
Derek backs away, pulling his girlfriend with him, and disappears into the crowd.
Mission accomplished.
Colletta is still giggling, her face pressed against my chest, shoulders shaking. I can feel her heart pounding my ribs. Her fingers are still fisted in my jacket.
"We should extract," I murmured into her hair. "You require water and a secure location."
She nods against my chest but doesn't let go.
I solve the problem by simply picking her up. She makes a small squeaking sound but her arms wrap around my neck automatically, her legs dangling. Several guests gasp. I ignore them.
The tactical route back to our room involves three corridors, two staircases, and one elevator. I memorized the layout when we first arrived. Standard operational procedure.
Colletta stays quiet the entire way, her face buried in my neck.
I can feel her breath against my skin, warm and quick.
Her body fits against mine perfectly, soft curves pressed to hard muscle.
The contact sends signals through my nervous system that have nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with base instinct.
Claim. Protect. Keep.
I manage the door lock one-handed, refusing to put her down. The hotel room is exactly as we left it: her exploded suitcase on one side, my neatly organized gear on the other, the ridiculous heart-shaped bed dominating the center like a pink monstrosity.
The heavy door clicks shut behind us with a solid, final sound that seems to seal us off from the rest of the world.
I turn, intending to set her down gently on the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, to get her water and ensure she's stable after the alcohol and the confrontation. Mission parameters: ensure target's wellbeing, maintain professional boundaries.
But Colletta has different tactical priorities.
She kisses me first.
Her mouth finds mine with surprising accuracy given that her eyes are closed and she's still slightly drunk. Her fingers slide into the hair at the base of my skull and she pulls me down, opens for me, invites me in.
The tactical part of my brain shuts off completely.
I back her against the door, using my body to pin her there. She gasps into my mouth and the sound goes straight to my cock. I'm already hard, have been since the moment I kissed her downstairs, and now she can feel it pressing against her stomach through the too-tight suit pants.
"Kruk," she breathes against my lips, her voice a soft, needy whisper that makes something primal unfurl in me.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my hands still braced on either side of her head, caging her in. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips already swollen from my mouth. Beautiful. Disheveled. Mine.
"Say it again." The words come out rougher than I intend, a gravelly command that sounds more like a territorial claim than a request. There's an edge to it, something possessive and demanding that I can't quite control.
I need to hear my name in her mouth again, and need the confirmation that she knows exactly who's touching her, who's making her feel this way.
"Kruk." She says it breathlessly this time, more certain, her fingers tightening in my hair as if she's anchoring herself to me.
Fuck. The sound detonates something fundamental in my brain, bypassing every remaining scrap of rational thought.
I kiss her harder, deeper, swallowing the sound of my name in her mouth. My hands find her waist, her hips, spanning the narrow curve and pulling her tighter against me. She arches, trying to get closer, and her thigh slides between mine.
The friction makes us both groan.
"Up," I ordered, my hands moving to grip her ass.
She obeys without question, jumping slightly as I lift. Her legs wrap around my waist automatically, locking at the ankles behind my back. The new position puts her at the perfect height, lines us up in a way that makes her gasp and I see stars behind my eyelids.
I grind against her, slow and deliberate, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. The door rattles.
"Oh god," she whimpers, her head falling back against the wood. "Oh god, Kruk, I—"
I cover her throat with my mouth, tasting the champagne-sweet skin, finding her pulse and sucking hard enough to mark. She makes a high, desperate sound and her hips roll against mine, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking more.
My control is shredding. The careful, mission-focused discipline I've maintained for years is disintegrating under the onslaught of her taste, her sounds, her body soft and willing in my arms.
I grind against her again, harder this time. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to bruise even through the suit jacket. The pain centers me slightly, enough to remember that she's drunk, that she hired me for a job, that this is not part of the contract.
But she's kissing me like she'll die if she stops. Her mouth is hungry, demanding, and when I break the kiss to breathe she chases me, whimpering.
"Grishka," I growl against her mouth. Mine. The Orcish slips out before I can stop it.
"What does that mean?" Her voice comes out breathless and wrecked, each word punctuated by the ragged rise and fall of her chest against mine. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, anchoring herself as her legs tremble around my waist.
I pull back just enough to look at her face, taking in the blown pupils, the kiss-swollen lips, the flush that's spread from her cheeks down to the tops of her breasts visible above her dress. Beautiful. Disheveled. Undone.
"Mine," I repeat, the word coming out rougher than before, more guttural. The Orcish dialect makes it sound like a possession, a claim, a threat and a promise all rolled into one syllable.
She shudders, her whole body going taut against me, every muscle tensing as though the word itself has physical weight. Her breath catches audibly in her throat. I watch her pupils dilate even further, turning her eyes almost black.
"Say it again," she whispers, and there's something desperate in her voice, something that sounds like need and plea and demand all at once. Her hips roll against mine, seeking that friction again, and her fingers tighten in my jacket hard enough that I hear the fabric strain.
"Grishka." I thrust against her, the layers of fabric between us suddenly intolerable. I can feel her heat even through her dress, through my pants. "Mine. You are mine, Colletta."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, Kruk, I'm—oh god, right there, don't stop—"
I won't. Can't. My hips move in a steady rhythm now, grinding against her, the door rattling with each thrust. She's soaking through her underwear, I can feel the dampness through the fabric, and smell her arousal sharp and sweet in the air.
My tusks scrape her throat as I kiss down to her collarbone. She tilts her head, giving me access, trusting me with the vulnerable column of her neck. The gesture sends a primitive satisfaction through my chest.
Submission. Trust. Mine.
I gently bite where her neck meets her shoulder, careful of my tusks. She keens, the sound high and desperate. Her hips jerk against mine, seeking friction, and I give it to her, grinding harder, faster.
"Kruk," she sobs. "Kruk, I'm going to—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." I keep the rhythm steady, relentless. "Take it. Take what you need."
Her fingers scrabble at my shoulders, my neck, finally fisting in my hair and pulling. The sharp pain makes me growl, low and possessive, and I thrust harder, pinning her completely against the door.
She comes apart in my arms.
Her whole body locks up, back arching, a broken cry spilling from her lips. I feel her pulsing even through the layers of fabric, feel her nails digging into my scalp, feel the way she shakes and trembles as the orgasm rolls through her.
Beautiful. Devastating. Mine.
I work her through it, grinding slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks fade and she goes boneless against me, panting.
Silence fills the room except for our ragged breathing.
Slowly, carefully, I become aware of my surroundings again. The door against her back. The uncomfortable tightness of my pants. The throbbing ache in my cock that demands attention, demands release, demands to be buried inside her heat.
Contract. Job. Boundaries.
Fuck.
I force myself to step back, to let her legs slide down until her feet touch the floor. She wobbles slightly and I steady her, my hands gentle on her waist.
Her face is flushed, her curls wild, her dress rumpled. She looks thoroughly debauched. The marks I left on her throat are already darkening to purple.
She stares up at me, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips still parted as she struggles to catch her breath. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and hazy with satisfaction. There's a dazed quality to her expression that makes something primal and satisfied rumble in me.
"That," she says faintly, her voice hoarse and raw, "was not in the contract."
"No." My voice comes out rougher than gravel, scraped over broken glass. The single word is barely recognizable as speech. "It was not."
I can still taste her on my tongue. I can still feel the ghost of her thighs trembling against my shoulders, the way her body seized and shuddered when she fell apart. My cock throbs in angry protest, demanding its turn, demanding to be buried inside her wet heat until she screams my name again.
Not part of the mission. Not part of the agreement.
"I should probably..." She trails off, swaying slightly on unsteady legs. Her hand comes up to touch the wall beside the door, seeking balance, but her fingers slide uselessly against the smooth surface. Her knees buckle just enough that I see it coming before it happens.
I catch her before she falls, scooping her up again. This time I carry her to the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, setting her down gently on the pink comforter. She immediately curls onto her side, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.
I should leave. Find another room. Put distance between us before I do something stupid like strip her naked and finish what we started.
Instead I sit on the bed, just out of reach.
"Water," I say. "You need water."
"In a minute." She's still staring at me, her gaze tracking down to the obvious bulge in my pants. "You didn't..."
"No." My voice comes out rougher than I intend, like gravel scraping over steel. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight with the effort of restraint.
"That's not fair." She props herself up further on her elbows now, and I force myself to look away from how her dress has ridden up her thighs, how her skin is still flushed pink from what I did to her. The scent of her arousal fills the room, making my control feel threadbare and fragile.
"The contract—" I start, gripping my knees hard enough that my knuckles go white, trying to anchor myself to something solid and professional. To the mission parameters. To the boundaries I've already crossed and can't afford to obliterate completely.
"Screw the contract," she interrupts, pushing herself up on one elbow. The movement makes her dress slide off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. "I don't think I'm paying you enough."
Despite everything, despite the ache in my cock and the primitive urge to claim her properly, I feel my mouth twitch.
"We will discuss overtime rates later," I grunt, standing before I do something that breaks every professional boundary I've ever maintained.
Her giggle follows me to the bathroom, bright and unhinged and absolutely perfect.