Chapter 11
COLLETTA
The kiss slams into me like every terrible decision I have ever made crashing together at once, except this one feels like the first right thing in years.
I kiss him back with everything I have. Desperation, relief, three days of pent-up tension, the lingering taste of champagne and fear and this wild, reckless hope that maybe I have not ruined everything after all.
Kruk makes a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and a groan. His arms lock around me like steel bands. He lifts me off the ground without breaking the kiss, my feet dangling in the air. Suddenly I am pressed against the rough bark of a tree I did not realize was behind me.
"Inside," I gasp against his mouth. "Room. Now."
He does not argue. He just turns and starts walking, carrying me like I weigh nothing, his hands gripping my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him, clean sweat and something earthy and warm, something that causes my brain to short-circuit.
We pass a pair of elderly guests on the garden path, white-haired and holding hands, probably married for fifty years. I realize with dawning horror that I am being carried like a sack of extremely horny potatoes by a seven-foot orc in a tuxedo t-shirt.
I lift my head from where I've been attempting to leave what will definitely be a hickey on Kruk's neck and offer them a cheerful, mildly unhinged wave.
"Beautiful night!" I shouted, my voice too high, too bright.
The woman's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. The man's mouth falls open slightly.
Kruk does not acknowledge them. He does not slow down. He does not even glance in their direction. His stride remains purposeful, relentless, his hands still gripped firmly under my thighs as he carries me toward the resort entrance like a man on a mission.
I press my burning face back into his shoulder and pray they're too old to remember this tomorrow.
The elevator ride is torture. I try to kiss him again but he catches my jaw in one massive hand, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"When we reach the room," he says, voice rough and commanding, "you will not change your mind. You will not panic. You will surrender control. Understood?"
My pulse hammers frantically against my throat, each beat visible, my heart practically throwing itself against my ribcage in a desperate attempt to escape.
My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow, try to find moisture somewhere in the desert that my mouth has become, and manage only a strangled sound that might generously be called a whimper.
His golden-capped tusks catch the harsh fluorescent lighting of the elevator, and his eyes, those impossibly dark, intense eyes that see through every defense I've ever constructed, don't waver from mine for even a second.
The grip on my jaw is firm but not painful, grounding me, anchoring me to this moment when every instinct is screaming at me to deflect with a joke or fill the silence with some unhinged fact about Victorian mourning rituals.
I manage a nod instead, jerky and graceless, my curls bouncing with the motion.
His expression doesn't change. If anything, his gaze sharpens, becomes even more focused, like I'm a tactical problem he's determined to solve with absolute precision.
"Say it," he commands, his voice dropping even lower, rougher, leaving no room for evasion or my usual nervous deflection tactics.
"I understand," I whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
"Good." He releases my jaw but does not stop touching me, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of my dress. "You will tell me if you want me to stop. You will use words, not hesitation. I need to hear your voice."
"I will," I promise, and the elevator doors slide open.
We stumble down the hallway, me still wrapped around him, his hands gripping my ass now with a possessiveness that catches my breath. He fumbles with the key card, growls something in Orcish that sounds like a curse, and finally shoves the door open.
I expect him to drop me on the bed immediately. Instead, he sets me down carefully, almost gently, and steps back.
I blink, suddenly cold without his body against mine. "What—"
"I packed," he says, nodding toward his duffel bag sitting neatly by the door, everything folded and organized with military precision. "I was preparing to leave."
The sight of it punches the air from my lungs. He was really going to go. He was going to walk away because I told him to, even though it was the last thing either of us wanted.
"Unpack it," I demand, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound firm and decisive. The words come out breathier than I intended, but I stand my ground, refusing to look away from him.
He tilts his head, studying me with that intense, predatory focus that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and protected.
His dark eyes search my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that I don't mean what I'm saying.
"Are you certain?" he asks, his voice low and careful, each word measured.
"Once I unpack, I will not be leaving this room.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow." He takes a single step closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"Not until you give me another order to go. "
"Yes." I cross the space between us, stumbling a little in my heels, and shove his chest. It is like pushing a wall. "I un-fire you. I un-break up with you. I un-ruin everything. Now unpack your stupid loincloths and get over here."
A slow smile spreads across his face, sharp and predatory. "As you command."
He moves past me, deliberately brushing his shoulder against mine, and lifts the duffel bag with one hand. He drops it in the corner, nowhere near unpacked, and turns back to me with that same dangerous smile.
"Now," he says, voice dropping an octave, "you will remove the dress."
My hands fly to the zipper before my brain catches up.
I fumble with it, fingers clumsy with nerves and need, and finally manage to drag it down.
The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me standing in a strapless bra and underwear that definitely do not match because I was not planning for this when I packed.
Kruk's gaze travels over me slowly, taking inventory. His pupils dilate, his breathing deepens, and when his eyes meet mine again there is hunger there, raw and unfiltered.
"Beautiful," he rumbles. "You have no idea how many times I have imagined this moment."
"Tell me." I step out of the dress, kicking it aside. "Tell me what you imagined."
He moves toward me with deliberate slowness, each step measured, and I realize this is part of it. The control. The anticipation. He is a tactician even here, building the tension until I am ready to scream.
"I imagined tasting you," he says, stopping just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Every part of you. I imagined making you come on my tongue until you forgot the name of every man who came before me."
My knees wobble. I lock them, refusing to collapse, but I cannot stop the whimper that escapes.
"I imagined pinning you down," he continues, reaching out to trace one finger along my bra. "Holding you still while you struggle and beg. Teaching your body to surrender."
"I don't beg," I manage to say, though my voice comes out barely above a whisper, breathless and trembling despite my attempt at defiance.
His smile sharpens into something predatory, something that promises he knows exactly how this will end. Those golden-capped tusks catch the light as his lips curve. "You will," he says with absolute certainty, the words less a prediction and more a vow.
Then he kisses me again, and this time there is nothing gentle about it.
His mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entry, and I open for him without hesitation.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra, and he unhooks it with surprising dexterity for someone with fingers the size of sausages.
The fabric falls away. Cool air hits my skin, and then his hands are on me, palms rough and warm, cupping my breasts like he is testing their weight. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I gasp into his mouth, arching into the touch.
"Sensitive," he notes, pulling back just enough to watch my face. He does it again, circling one nipple with deliberate slowness, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. "You will not hide your reactions from me. I want to hear every sound you make."
He pinches one nipple lightly, just enough pressure to send a jolt of sensation through me that feels like a livewire connecting directly to every nerve ending in my body.
I shout, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
The sensation is sharp and perfect, toeing that delicious line between pleasure and pain that short-circuits my brain.
"Better," he approves, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction that I feel vibrating through my chest. His eyes are locked on my face, studying every micro-expression like he's cataloging my reactions for future reference, and there's something almost clinical about his intensity that somehow makes it even hotter.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, then gives me a gentle push. I fall onto the red satin sheets, bouncing slightly, and he stands over me, blocking out the soft lighting.
"Arms above your head," he commands.
I obey, arms extended, and he makes another approving sound. He strips off his shirt in one smooth motion, revealing the expanse of his chest, the tattoos that snake across his skin, the scars that tell stories I want to hear someday.
But not now. Now I just want him.