Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Vraag
The drive to my apartment feels both endless and too short. Riona’s hand rests on my thigh, her fingers occasionally tracing patterns that make concentration difficult. I should suggest we wait, follow proper courtship sequences, and maintain the control I’ve practiced my entire warrior life.
But the recognition band on her wrist changes everything.
The elders saw her—truly saw her—and found her worthy.
That is not courtship approval. It is something quieter and more significant, the community opening a door.
Whether we walk through it together is still ours to choose.
But we are no longer choosing in secret, or in defiance of something larger than ourselves.
And I want her with a desperation that threatens to consume me.
The elevator ride to my floor tests every ounce of warrior discipline I possess.
Riona steps in close, her hands sliding under my jacket, her face pressed against my chest. She glances up at the security camera mounted in the corner.
Then back at me. Then she presses her lips deliberately against my chest.
“I don’t care who sees,” she murmurs against me. “Let them watch.”
My hands grip her hips, holding her steady even as my control fractures. “Riona—”
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she continues, tilting her head to look up at me—and the angle of it, the deliberate exposure of her throat, does more damage than anything she could have done on tiptoe.
“Watching you at the cultural center, seeing how the other orcs looked at me, knowing they could all tell I was yours.”
A possessive growl rumbles through my chest before I can stop it. “They could smell my claim on you. Know what it meant that I’d brought you to our hearth myself. They knew.”
“Good.” She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her own dark with desire. “I want everyone to know.”
The elevator doors open and I all but carry her down the hall to my apartment, my civilized veneer crumbling with each brush of her body against mine. The moment my door closes behind us, she’s in my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press her against the wall.
“Finally,” she gasps between kisses. “No more enforced distance. No more restraint.”
“Some restraint,” I manage, even as my hands roam her curves with barely controlled hunger. “We’re not going all the way tonight.”
She makes a sound of frustration. “Vraag—”
“I know you know why,” I say quietly.
She stills. “Yes,” she says. “I know.” Something in her expression shifts—not disappointment, but recognition. She trusts me to know what we’re building.
Her expression softens, though the heat in her eyes doesn’t dim. “Then what are we doing tonight?”
A slow smile curves my lips as I carry her to the couch, settling her on the cushions before kneeling between her legs.
“Tonight, I’m going to show you exactly what being mine means.
I’m going to make you come so many times you forget your own name.
I’m going to claim your pleasure so thoroughly that you’ll feel it for days. ”
Her breath catches, pupils dilating. “Yes.”
I run my hands up her thighs, pushing her dress higher with deliberate slowness. “And you’re going to let me. You’re going to open for me, trust me, give me every sound and response. Understood?”
“Yes,” she whispers, already trembling under my touch.
The dress comes off first, pulled over her head and discarded without ceremony.
Her simple cotton bra and underwear follow, leaving her bare before me.
I take a moment just to look—to memorize the sight of her flushed skin, her quickened breathing, and the way she watches me with equal parts anticipation and trust.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, my hands spanning her waist. My green skin contrasts sharply against her paler tone, my fingers nearly meeting at her spine. “So perfectly made for me.”
I lower my mouth to her breast, my tusks framing the soft flesh as I lavish attention on one sensitive peak. She arches into me with a cry, her hands fisting in my hair. The scent of her arousal intensifies, making my cock throb almost painfully against my jeans.
Not tonight. Tonight is about her.
I work my way down her body with deliberate thoroughness—kissing, licking, occasionally letting my tusks graze her skin in ways that make her gasp. By the time I settle between her thighs, she’s trembling and incoherent, small pleading sounds escaping her lips.
“Please,” she manages. “Vraag, please—”
I press my mouth to her center and taste her direct from the source for the first time.
The flavor of her arousal explodes across my tongue—sweet and musky and uniquely hers.
I rumble my approval against her flesh, the vibration making her buck against my face.
My hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as I explore her with lips and tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her cry out.
“Oh God,” she sobs, her hands pulling at my hair. “Your mouth—your tusks—I can’t…”
I slide one thick finger inside her, feeling how tight she is, how her body grips even this small intrusion. She’s going to need so much preparation when we finally claim each other fully. But for now, I focus on her pleasure, curling my finger to find that spot inside that makes her scream.
“That’s it,” I growl against her. “Let me hear you. No one else is here. Just us.”
I add a second finger, stretching her carefully while my mouth continues its assault on her sensitive flesh. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, her breathing ragged, her body coiling tighter and tighter.
“Vraag—I’m going to…”
“Come for me,” I command, my voice rough with possessive satisfaction. “Let me taste it. Show me you’re mine.”
She shatters with a scream that echoes through my apartment, her body clenching around my fingers as her release floods my mouth. I don’t stop, working her through it, drawing out her pleasure until she’s pushing weakly at my shoulders, oversensitive and gasping.
Only then do I withdraw, pressing one last reverent kiss to her center before rising. She looks thoroughly debauched—hair mussed, skin flushed, eyes glazed with satisfaction.
“That was…” She trails off, laughing breathlessly. “I have no words.”
“Good.” I scoop her into my arms, her small form fitting perfectly against my chest. “Because we’re not done.”
I carry her to my bedroom—oversized to accommodate my frame, the bed dominating the space. I lay her on the midnight blue sheets and take a moment just to look at her there—bare, flushed, entirely mine—before I strip off my shirt.
Her gaze tracks hungrily over my bare chest and shoulders. The clan markings seem to fascinate her the way they always do, her fingers already reaching.
“These tell your story,” she murmurs, following one particularly complex design across my shoulder. “Every oath, every battle, every protection vow.”
“And now you,” I say, covering her hand with mine, pressing it against my heart. “You’re part of this story now.”
She pulls me down beside her, a kiss that’s gentler than before but no less intent. “Show me,” she whispers. “Show me what it means to be yours.”
I do. For hours, the bed becomes its own world—my hands and mouth relearning every response, discovering what draws sighs and what draws moans. I bring her to climax twice more with my fingers, once with my mouth, until she is spent and certain and thoroughly claimed.
Through all of it, I remain clothed below the waist, my own arousal demanding but denied. Every time she comes, every time she cries my name, it’s another thread binding us together. Tonight is about her.
When she finally stills beneath me, sated and gasping, I gather her against my chest, pulling a blanket over us both.
She stirs after a moment, her hand moving toward me with unmistakable intent.
“Let me—”
“Sleep,” I say quietly, catching her hand and folding it against my chest.
“That’s not fair to you,” she murmurs, already heavy-lidded.
“It’s exactly what I want.” I press my lips to her hair. “Let me have this.”
The truth is, I am not capable of sleep. Not with her warmth against me, her scent saturating my sheets, her skin still flushed from everything I gave her. My body has not forgotten what it wants. I have simply decided that what I want more is this, her, here, choosing to stay.
She makes a small sound that might be argument and might be agreement, and then her breathing evens out and she’s gone—her fingers still loosely curled against my chest, her smaller form tucked against mine with the particular boneless trust of someone who has run out of reasons to be careful.
The wanting will keep. She will not always be this tired. And I am, for the first time in eight years on this world, entirely willing to wait.