Chapter 7
ROMEE
Istare up at Thrall, my back pressed against the solid mahogany door, his massive frame blocking out everything else in the room, in the world, in my entire carefully organized existence. His molten eyes are predatory, waiting for an answer I'm not sure I should give but can't seem to hold back.
"Yes," I whisper, and the word comes out raw and honest and terrifying.
His pupils dilate immediately, swallowing the amber until his eyes are nearly black, and something fundamental shifts in the air between us. The careful, sardonic tech CEO who's been needling me for three days vanishes entirely, replaced by something primal and utterly overwhelming.
"Say it again," he demands.
"I trust you," I manage, my voice barely steady, as something fierce and possessive flash across his face.
"Good," he rumbles, and then his mouth crashes down on mine with absolutely no warning, no gradual build, no tentative exploration. He kisses like he does everything else, with total overwhelming force and zero apology for taking up space.
I gasp against his mouth, my hands flying up instinctively to his chest, and the sheer heat and solid muscle under my palms scrambles every organized thought in my brain.
He's so hot it's almost shocking, his body temperature running significantly higher than human normal, and the contrast between the lingering chill from the rain still clinging to my skin and the furnace-like heat radiating off him makes me dizzy.
His massive hand comes up to cup the back of my head, completely engulfing my skull, his fingers threading through my soaked hair and destroying what's left of my professional chignon.
I should care about that. I've spent three years perfecting the image of unshakeable competence, and he's dismantling it with his bare hands.
I can't bring myself to give a single damn.
His tusks graze my jaw as he angles his head, careful despite the intensity, and the sensation sends a shockwave of heat straight down my spine.
I've never kissed an Orc before, never been this close to one, and the logistics are different, unfamiliar, but somehow Thrall makes it work, makes it feel inevitable, like my body was designed specifically to fit against his despite the ridiculous size difference.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his breathing rougher now, his eyes scanning my face and makes me feel completely exposed.
"You've been driving me insane for three days," he growls, his thumb tracing along my jawline with startling gentleness given the barely leashed violence I can feel thrumming through his frame.
"Walking around with your clipboard and your color-coded schedules, bossing my executives around like you're not five feet something and surrounded by Orcs who could snap you in half. "
"Five-five," I correct automatically, breathlessly, and his mouth curves into something dark and amused.
"You're doing it again," he says, his other hand sliding down to grip my hip, his fingers spanning nearly my entire side. "Being bossy. I like it."
Before I can formulate a response, he's kissing me again, harder this time, demanding, and I'm making sounds I've never made before, desperate and needy and completely unprofessional.
His hand on my hip tightens, and then he's lifting me like I weigh absolutely nothing, hauling me up against the door until my feet leave the ground entirely and I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist just to stay upright.
The position puts us almost at eye level, though he's still larger, still overwhelming, and the feeling of his body pressed fully against mine makes coherent thought essentially impossible.
I can feel every muscle, every ridge of his abdomen through the soaked fabric of his t-shirt and my ruined blazer, and the friction is simultaneously too much and not nearly enough.
"Thrall," I gasp out against his mouth, not sure if I'm protesting or begging, and he makes a sound low in his chest that's pure animal satisfaction.
"You're still wearing too many clothes," he informs me, his voice a rough rasp, and then he's moving, turning away from the door and carrying me across the executive cabin like I'm something small and easily managed instead of a fully grown woman who's been handling corporate chaos for the last seventy-two hours.
He sets me down on the massive bed, and I have approximately two seconds to register the absurdly high thread count of the sheets before he's bracing himself over me, his weight supported on his forearms, caging me in completely.
"Last chance," he says, his eyes locked on mine and steals my breath. "You tell me to stop, I stop. No consequences. No questions."
I look up at him, at this massive, dangerous, brilliant man who's been challenging me and protecting me and infuriating me in equal measure since the moment he stepped off that bus, and I make possibly the least professional decision of my entire career.
"I'm not telling you to stop," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm telling you that if you don't get these wet clothes off me in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to file a formal complaint about inadequate cabin heating."
His laugh is low and wicked and sends heat spiraling through my body. "Still bossing me around. I'm going to enjoy breaking that habit."
"You can try," I shoot back, reaching for the buttons on my blazer with shaking hands, but he catches both my wrists in one massive hand, stopping me.
"No, I'm doing this. You spend every waking hour controlling everything around you. Right now, you're going to let go."
He transfers both my wrists into one hand and pins them above my head against the mattress, his grip firm but careful, and the position arches my back, presses my chest up against his, and I can't move, can't adjust, can't do anything except feel.
"Thrall," I start, but he cuts me off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, deliberate, and by the time he pulls back I've completely forgotten what I was going to say.
His free hand goes to the buttons of my blazer, and he undoes them one by one with surprising dexterity for someone with hands that size. The soaked fabric peels away from my skin, and I shiver despite the heat radiating off him, hyperaware of how exposed I am, how vulnerable.
"Beautiful," he rumbles, his eyes tracking over the thin silk camisole underneath, now completely see-through from the rain. "And still overdressed."
The camisole goes next, hauled over my head while he keeps my wrists pinned, forcing me to stay still while he strips me down with methodical, overwhelming patience.
My bra follows, front-clasp giving way under his fingers, and then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast, and I'm arching up into him helplessly, gasping his name.
"You taste like rain," he murmurs against my skin, his tusks grazing sensitive flesh carefully, precisely. "And citrus. And desperation."
"I'm not desperate," I protest weakly, but my voice breaks on the last word when his tongue circles my nipple, his teeth following with just enough pressure to make me cry out.
"Liar," he says, satisfaction bleeding through his tone, and then he's moving lower, his mouth blazing a trail down my ribcage, my stomach, and his hand releases my wrists so he can grip my hips, holding me still while he works open the button of my slacks.
I grab onto his shoulders the second my hands are free, my fingers digging into solid muscle, and I can feel him smile against my hip bone.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice rough. "Hold on. You're going to need it."
He strips my slacks and underwear off in one smooth motion, leaving me completely bare while he's still fully clothed, and the power imbalance should bother me but instead it sends another wave of heat through my system.
He sits back on his heels, still kneeling between my thighs, and just looks at me with an intensely focused expression that borders on reverent.
There's something almost sacred in the way he tracks across my body, like he's committing every detail to memory, cataloging every tremor and flush of skin.
"Perfect," he says. The sheer physical dominance of the gesture, the way he handles me like I weigh nothing, sends another surge of heat through my system.
I should say something professional, something sharp and cutting to maintain at least a shred of my armor, my dignity, but instead all that comes out is a breathless, desperate, "You're still dressed."
It's a complaint and a plea all at once, and I can feel the exact moment he registers both.
His grin is pure, unadulterated wickedness, the expression of someone who has just discovered a weakness and fully intends to exploit it for maximum effect.
"Impatient," he observes, amusement threading through his tone like dark chocolate. "I like that too."
He strips his soaked t-shirt off in one fluid motion, and I lose the ability to form words entirely.
I knew he was built, could see the outline through his clothes, but actually seeing him bare is something else entirely.
He's all solid muscle and green skin, a few pale scars across his ribs and shoulder that somehow make him even more overwhelming, and when he moves to undo his belt my brain shorts out completely.
"Eyes up here," he says, amusement threading through his voice like dark honey, and I drag my gaze back to his face with significant effort, which is harder than it should be, considering the man is basically a walking violation of workplace conduct policies.
His chest is still heaving slightly, muscles still taut and glistening from our time in the water, and every fiber of my being wants me to look back down.