Page 112 of Her Orc Healer

He stayed pressed against the workbench, one hand cradling my jaw as if I might disappear if he stopped touching me. His thumb brushed just beneath my lower lip, and when I met his gaze, I saw something in it that rooted me in place.

Not hunger. Not urgency.

Devotion.

The kind that didn't ask. The kind that simply stayed.

“I still wake up sometimes,” he said, voice barely a breath, “thinking I lost you. Both of you.”

I leaned into his hand, kissed the pad of his thumb. “We’re right here,” I said.

Kazrek hummed, unconvinced. His other hand brushed the hair from the nape of my neck, calloused fingers trailing along my skin. No magic tingled there anymore, but his touch still sparked something in me. Something that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with him.

"It's been so long," he groaned, pressing his lips to that sensitive spot below my ear.

"Three days," I corrected. "Hardly an eternity."

"Felt like one."

I laughed softly. "You've grown dramatic in your old age."

He made a low sound of disagreement, then lifted me easily from the stool, setting me on the edge of the workbench. Pots of ink rattled, and I should have cared—should have worried about spills and stains and the waste of precious materials.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

"I missed you," I admitted against his mouth. It was easier to say now, these small vulnerabilities. Easier to let them exist between us.

His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. After everything, after all the passion and hunger between us, it was this gentleness that undid me the most.

"I know," he said simply.

I laughed again and tugged at his tunic. "Arrogant."

His smile was slow, private. A thing I'd earned the right to see. "Honest."

And then his mouth was on mine, warm and familiar and still somehow thrilling. I melted into him, my hands finding their way beneath his shirt to spread across the broad expanse of his back. He made a sound of approval deep in his throat, his own hands moving to the laces of my bodice.

"Not here," I breathed against his lips. "Upstairs."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark with desire. "You sure you want to wait that long?"

I pressed my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my touch. "I want a bed," I said. "And time."

Kazrek nodded once, then lifted me again, this time carrying me toward the stairs. I wound my arms around his neck, pressed my face to his throat, breathed in the scent of him—herbs and clean sweat and something distinctly his.

"I can walk, you know," I murmured.

"I know," he said, taking the stairs two at a time. "I like this better."

Our room was bathed in midday light, dust motes dancing in the beams that streamed through the half-drawn curtains. Kazrek set me down gently on the edge of the bed, but I didn't let go of his shirt. Instead, I pulled him down with me, reveling in the solid weight of him as he braced himself above me.

"You're wearing too many clothes," he observed, his voice rougher now.

I reached up to pull the tie from his hair, watching as it fell forward around his face. "So are you."

We undressed each other slowly, savoring the familiar terrain of skin and scars. His fingers worked the laces of my bodice with practiced ease, then slipped beneath the fabric to caress my breasts. I arched into his touch, eyes falling closed as pleasure spiraled through me.

"Better than ink-making?" he asked, lips brushing my collarbone.