Chapter 13 #2
At his nod, I help him remove the garment, revealing his torso to my eager exploration.
His chest and shoulders are broader than seems possible, covered in smooth green skin a shade deeper than his face and marked with intricate patterns worked into the skin itself—not tattooed but pressure-etched, the lines raised slightly, darker where the pigment runs deepest. Defined muscles ripple beneath my touch, a testament to strength that far exceeds human capacity.
“These tell your story?” I observe, following one particularly intricate pattern that spans his right shoulder. “Like living history on your skin?”
“Family lineage,” he explains, voice roughened as my fingers continue their exploration. “Warrior commitments. Protection vows.”
I bend to press my lips against one of the markings, a spiraling pattern over his heart. When my hands slide down to his arms, my fingers find the bands—dark metal, warm from his skin, the stamped markings small and precise under my fingertips.
“Yes,” he says. “Those are earned. One at a time.”
The metal is warm from his body heat.
The taste of his skin is subtle but distinctive, something like cedar and earth, elemental in a way I can’t quite describe. He inhales sharply, his hands tightening on my waist.
“You enjoy this research, teacher?” he asks, a hint of teasing in his strained voice.
“Thorough investigation is the key to understanding,” I counter, continuing my exploration of his chest with both hands and lips. “Don’t you want me to be well-informed?”
His response is a growl that vibrates through my entire body as his hands finally move upward, cupping my breasts with exquisite gentleness. Even through the fabric of my bra, the heat of his touch burns like a brand, making me arch into the contact.
“May I?” he asks, fingers hovering at the clasp between my shoulder blades.
At my nod, he unfastens it with surprising dexterity for such large fingers. The garment falls away, exposing me fully to his gaze. For a moment, I fight the urge to cover myself, acutely aware of our differences—my human fragility against his orc solidity.
But the reverence in his eyes banishes any insecurity. “Perfect,” he murmurs.
I take his wrists, guiding his hands to my body. “You won’t hurt me,” I assure him. “I trust you.”
The simple declaration seems to touch something deep within him.
His palms cup my breasts with exquisite care, his thumbs brushing across sensitive peaks that tighten at his touch.
The contrast between his green skin against my paler tone is strikingly beautiful—different worlds meeting, connecting, creating something new between them.
“So soft,” he says wonderingly. “Humans are so soft.”
“Not fragile, though,” I remind him, arching into his touch. “Just different.”
His exploration becomes more confident, learning what draws sighs and small sounds of pleasure from me.
When his mouth replaces one hand, the wet heat of his tongue against my nipple draws a gasp from my throat.
The cool, smooth edge of a tusk grazes my skin and I shiver—not from fear, nothing like fear—just the startling intimacy of him, all of him, completely present against me.
My fingers tangle in his long hair, holding him close as sensation spirals through me.
The hardening length beneath me makes his arousal impossible to ignore.
I shift deliberately against him, drawing a rumbling groan that I feel through my entire body.
His hands grip my hips, and for a moment I think he’ll guide my movements, but instead he stills completely, muscles going taut with restraint.
“Riona,” he says, voice strained. “We need to slow down.”
The words don’t match the hunger in his eyes, the tension in his body, the way his hands still grip my hips like he’s fighting not to pull me closer.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, genuinely confused.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths, clearly struggling for control. “Because if we continue like this, I won’t be able to stop. And I refuse to claim you fully without proper preparation. Without certainty that you understand what it means.”
“I know what it means,” I protest, even as part of me recognizes the wisdom in his restraint.
“Do you?” He cups my face gently, forcing me to meet his eyes. “In my culture, physical joining isn’t casual. Full claiming is a declaration. A commitment. And you deserve better than hurried passion when we’ve barely begun to understand what we’re building.”
The formality of his words somehow makes them more powerful. My pulse still races, my body still aches with wanting, but I understand what he’s saying. This matters too much to rush the most sacred part.
“You’re right,” I admit reluctantly.
His thumb traces my cheekbone. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t give you pleasure tonight. If you’ll let me.”
The offer sends a shock of heat through me. “What do you mean?”
“Let me show you what I can do without claiming you fully,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my toes curl. “Let me learn your body. What makes you sigh. What makes you moan. What makes you come apart in my arms.”
The explicit words from his usually formal mouth nearly undo me. “Yes,” I breathe. “Please, yes.”
He lifts me easily, repositioning me so I’m lying back on the couch with him kneeling between my legs.
The shift in dynamic—him looming above me, clearly in control—sends my pulse spiking hard and my breath coming faster, heat pooling low in my belly at the sight of him like this: vast and certain and entirely focused on me, like I’m the only thing in his world worth this level of attention.
“These,” he says, fingers hooking in the waistband of my leggings, “need to go.”
Yet he waits for my permission. I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs along with my underwear. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, and suddenly I’m completely bare before him while he’s still wearing jeans.
His eyes darken further as he takes me in. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, his large hands sliding up the inside of my thighs, spreading them gently. “And already so wet for me.”
I should be embarrassed by how obvious my arousal is, but the hunger in his gaze burns away any self-consciousness. When his thumb brushes against my center, my hips jerk involuntarily.
“Sensitive,” he observes with clear satisfaction. “Good. I want you to feel everything.”
He starts slowly, one thick finger sliding through my wetness, learning the shape of me. The gentle exploration is maddening—not quite enough pressure, not quite where I need it most. When I whimper in frustration, his answering chuckle is dark with promise.
“Patience, little teacher. I’m studying.”
“Vraag, please—”
“Please what?” His finger circles my entrance, teasing. “Tell me what you need.”
“More,” I gasp. “Touch me. Make me—”
My words dissolve into a moan as he finally gives me what I need, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes stars burst behind my eyelids while one thick finger slowly pushes inside me.
“So tight,” he growls. “Even for one finger. We’ll need so much preparation before you can take me fully.”
The reminder of what’s to come, the size difference we’ll have to navigate, sends another wave of heat through me. His finger moves slowly, carefully, letting me adjust to the intrusion. It’s thicker than a human finger, the stretch noticeable even with just one.
“Okay?” he asks, watching my face intently.
“Yes,” I manage. “More than okay.”
He adds a second finger, and the stretch increases. There’s a moment of discomfort before pleasure takes over, especially when he crooks his fingers and finds a spot inside me that makes me cry out.
“There,” he says with satisfaction. “I can feel you tightening around my fingers. You like that.”
It’s not a question. His enhanced senses can probably detect every flutter, every clench of my body responding to his touch. The knowledge that he can read my responses so clearly is incredibly arousing.
He sets a rhythm, fingers moving inside me while his thumb works my clit, that quickly has me climbing toward release. The rumble in his chest grows louder, vibrating through me where our bodies connect.
“I can smell how close you are,” he murmurs. “Can hear your heartbeat racing. Your body is telling me everything, little teacher. And it’s saying you’re about to come for me.”
His words are the thing that breaks me, low and deliberate, as if he’s been saving them.
The pleasure crests so fast I don’t have time to brace for it, my whole body pulling tight before it shatters.
I cry out his name, my hips rocking against his hand, chasing every last pulse of sensation he’s willing to give me.
He gives me all of it. His fingers don’t stop, don’t rush.
They stay with me, reading every shudder, drawing out each wave until I’m trembling and boneless and his name is still on my lips.
Only then does he ease back, slow and unhurried, as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than right here, watching me come apart in his hands.
When I finally come back to myself, I find him watching me with an expression of pure satisfaction.
“That was…” I struggle for words. “Incredible.”
“That was just the beginning,” he promises. “When we finally join completely, it will be even better. But this—” he slides his fingers free, and I flush at the evidence of my arousal coating them, “—this was perfect for tonight.”
He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting with an expression of pleasure that makes my spent body stir with renewed interest. “You taste as good as you smell,” he says. “I could feast on you for hours.”
The image his words create makes me shiver with anticipation.
“Soon?” I ask hopefully.
“Soon,” he agrees, helping me sit up and pulling me against his side.