Chapter 6 Thraka
THRAKA
Ifigured out the lavender part three days ago when she leaned over my shoulder to fix whatever I'd broken on the glowing screen box. Some kind of lotion or soap or one of those human potions they rub on their skin to smell like flowers instead of sweat and honest work.
The fury is newer. Sharper. Mixed with something else I recognize from hunts and raids and the moment before a battle when everything goes quiet and focused.
Want.
She wants this. Wants me. Even though her mouth keeps forming words about policies and procedures and professional boundaries that don't mean anything in this small dark space where the air tastes like her accelerating heartbeat.
"Terms," I prompt, because watching her try to organize chaos into neat little categories is somehow as arousing as the scent of her arousal itself. "You were establishing parameters."
Her throat moves when she swallows. Such a delicate thing, that throat. I could span it with one hand. The thought makes my pulse kick up another notch.
"No one can know," she says, each word clipped and precise despite the tremor underneath. "What happens here stays here. We maintain complete professionalism in all other contexts."
"Agreed."
"This is a one-time occurrence driven by temporary stress and proximity. It doesn't mean anything beyond immediate physical relief."
I grin at that obvious lie but don't call her on it. "Continue."
"We stop the moment either party indicates they want to stop. Clear verbal communication throughout."
"Yes." I shift closer, watching her pupils dilate. "Anything else?"
"I..." She loses her train of thought when I brace one hand on the shelf beside her head. Regains it with visible effort. "We never speak of this again after today."
"No."
Her eyes snap to mine, startled. "What?"
"That term I reject." I lean in until our faces are inches apart. "If we do this once, we do it again. And again. Until one of us decides we're finished. I don't do temporary, Little Manager. I don't do meaningless."
"That's not, we can't—"
"Then we stop now." I straighten up, giving her space even though every instinct screams to press forward. "You walk out that door. Return to your color-coded papers and your anxiety bean water. Pretend your heart isn't racing."
She regards me like I've spoken in Old Tongue. Processing. Calculating. Running whatever complex human arithmetic happens in that sharp mind.
"You're serious."
"Always."
"This is insane." But she's not moving toward the door. Not putting space between us. "Completely unprofessional. Career suicide if anyone finds out."
"So we don't let anyone find out."
"You tried to duel Steve over a sandwich this morning. You're not exactly subtle."
I shrug, unconcerned. "Steve challenged my honor."
"He asked you to stop eating his lunch."
"Same thing." I tilt my head, studying her flushed face and rapid breathing and the way her fingers keep flexing like they want to grab onto something. "Do you accept my counter-offer or not?"
The silence stretches between us like a rope pulled taut, ready to snap. One second passes. Then two. Then five. The air in the supply closet feels thick, charged with electricity, with possibility, with a decision that cannot be unmade once chosen.
Her eyes are locked on mine,those sharp, calculating eyes that miss nothing, that analyze everything, that right now show nothing but raw want and barely controlled panic.
I can see the war happening behind them.
Logic versus desire. Professional reputation versus this thing burning between us.
All her carefully constructed walls crumbling in real time.
Then something shifts in her expression. A surrender. A decision made.
Her hand shoots forward and fists in my tie, the ugly striped thing I bought because the salesman said it looked professional, and she yanks me forward with surprising strength for someone so small.
I stumble half a step, so close I count the flecks of gold in her grey eyes.
I can smell that crisp scent she wears that reminds me of winter mornings and steel.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispers, and her breath ghosts across my mouth, making my pulse spike. Her voice shakes slightly, betraying the nervousness beneath the brave words.
"Yes," I agree, because there's no point pretending otherwise. Terrible doesn't begin to cover it.
"I'm going to regret this." But even as she says it, her other hand comes up to grip my shoulder, fingers digging in like she's afraid I might pull away. Like she needs the anchor.
"Probably." My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravelly with want that I've been suppressing for weeks. Months, maybe.
She makes a frustrated sound, something between a growl and a laugh. "Shut up and kiss me."
So I do.
I crush my mouth to hers.
She tastes like coffee and mint and the kind of reckless surrender that only happens when someone who lives by rules decides to shatter them all at once. Her lips are soft, yielding, perfect against mine.
For about three seconds.
Then she bites my lower lip hard enough to sting and I growl as the kiss turns into desperate passion. Not soft. Not gentle. A clash of tongues and teeth and competing instincts to dominate, devour, consume.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight to my groin.
I want to hear that sound again. Want to catalog every noise she's capable of making and figure out exactly what actions produce which responses.
My hands find her waist, spanning the narrow curve easily. She's so small compared to me, so breakable, and the protective urge wars with the need to pin her down and make her scream.
"Up," I order against her mouth.
"What?"
I lift her in one motion, setting her on the shelf behind her. Paper packages crinkle and shift under her weight. She gasps, grabbing my shoulders for balance.
Better. Much better.
Now her face is level with mine instead of forcing me to bend down. Her legs dangle, skirt riding up her thighs as she adjusts to the new position.
I step between her knees, spreading them to make room for my hips.
She inhales sharply. "Oh."
"Terms accepted?" I check, even though my control is hanging by a thread and the scent of her is making coherent thought increasingly difficult.
"Yes. Fine. Whatever you want. Just—" Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Don't stop."
I hate this suit she wears.
Hate the structured blazer and the starched collar and the way it hides every curve and soft place. Hate that she wraps herself in corporate armor every morning like she's going to war instead of sitting in meetings with incompetent males who wouldn't know real combat if it bit them.
The buttons are small and fiddly and not designed for orcish fingers, but I manage.
One. Two. Three.
She's watching my hands with wide eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Each button reveals more skin. More of what she keeps hidden under professional layers.
Four. Five.
The fabric parts further, revealing the gentle valley between her breasts, the delicate architecture of her collarbones. My thumbs brush against her skin as I work—an accident that makes her shiver.
"You're good at that," she says, and her voice has gone slightly dazed, unfocused in a way I've never heard before. Like I've managed to short-circuit that relentless corporate processing system she runs on.
I like it. Want to hear more of it.
"Practice," I say simply, moving to the next button.
Her expression shifts in an instant. The haze clears, replaced by something sharp and possessive that makes my pulse kick up. Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, nails pressing through the fabric of my shirt hard enough that I can feel the individual points.
"Practice?" The word comes out dangerously soft. Her eyes narrow, that keen corporate intelligence focusing on me like a spotlight. "What kind of practice? With who?"
Oh.
Oh.
She's jealous.
Orla Peace, who claims this is purely physical and temporary and means nothing beyond stress relief, is jealous at the thought of me undressing someone else.
I grin, filing away that reaction for later examination. "With other buttons. Different context." Not entirely true but close enough. I've undressed enough warriors after battle to know how fasteners work. Never cared much about being gentle before.
Care now.
The blouse falls open and my breath catches.
Human softness. Curves where orcs have hard muscle and battle scars. Skin like cream, flushed pink across her chest. A white undergarment holding her breasts that has more engineering than my entire wardrobe combined.
Beautiful.
Fragile.
Mine.
The last thought rises unbidden, primal and possessive, but it feels undeniably, fundamentally correct. As natural as breathing. As certain as an axe in my palm.
"Stop staring," she mutters, her voice carrying that particular edge of self-consciousness that humans get when they're vulnerable. Her hands move toward my shirt buttons in what I recognize as a defensive maneuver—attack to deflect attention from herself.
I catch both her hands mid-motion, wrapping my fingers around her smaller wrists. Careful. Always careful with her, even when instinct screams to just take and claim and conquer.
"No."
Her eyes snap up to mine, that corporate challenge flashing even through the haze of arousal. "No?"
"This is your reward, remember?" I bring her wrists together in one hand, holding them loosely. Testing. "I want to look at what's mine."
Her breathing stutters. "I'm not—we agreed this was just physical—"
"You're shaking."
"Because you're—" She breaks off, flustered in a way that's completely different from her usual corporate composure. "Let go of my hands."
"Why?"
"Because I want to touch you."
I release her wrists and she immediately attacks my shirt buttons with the same focused intensity she brings to spreadsheets.
Her fingers brush my chest as she works and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.
Too much. Too good.