Page 88 of Her Orc Healer

I rose onto my toes and kissed him harder. No gentleness, no hesitation—just need and heat and the desperate knowledge that morning would come too soon.

His restraint broke with a low growl that vibrated through my bones. He lifted me effortlessly, one arm around my waist while his other hand tangled in my hair, deepening the kiss until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the taste of him.

When he set me down again, it was to undress me with careful hands, each button and tie loosened with deliberate attention. I pushed his hands away when he moved too slowly, rushing to shed the layers between us. He caught my wrists.

"Let me," he murmured.

So I stood still and let him unwrap me like something precious, each piece of clothing set aside until I stood bare in the candlelight, skin prickling with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold.

He touched me with such care—fingertips trailing along my collarbone, palm curved to the shape of my waist, thumb brushing the soft skin beneath my breast. Each touch was gentle and measured, as if he was trying to commit me to memory just as I had done with him.

Too gentle. Too careful. Like I might break.

I kissed him again, harder this time, letting my teeth catch his bottom lip. His response was instant—arms tightening around me, a deep hum of approval vibrating from his chest to mine. He lifted me again, carrying me the few steps to the bed before sitting with me straddling his lap. I could feel the tension in him—barely leashed, held tight. His hands on my hips, not moving. His mouth on mine, gentler now, like he thought I might break.

But I didn’t want gentle. I didn’t want to be handled like glass. I wasn’t here to be comforted.

I was here to beremembered.

I shifted in his lap, the rough fabric of his pants dragging against my inner thighs. My hands moved between us, clumsy now, fumbling with the laces at his waistband. I didn’t care if I looked desperate—Iwasdesperate. For this. For him.

His breath hitched when I brushed against him, already hard beneath the worn fabric. He bent his head, mouth finding the curve of my breast, then lower—slow kisses, the tip of his tongue flicking against my nipple.

He started to shift beneath me—one arm sliding behind my back, the other bracing under my thighs, like he meant to lift me, lay me down, but I resisted, keeping him upright. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Let me take care of you," he said, hands moving to lift me. "Let me—"

"No." My voice was rough with emotion. "I just want you. Like this."

He stilled. His forehead rested against my sternum for a long second, like he was weighing something. Then his hands gripped my hips again, anchoring me there, his breath unsteady.

“Rowena… if we don’t go slow…” His voice was thick, rough-edged. “I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

I reached down, took his hand—bigger than mine, rough and scarred, the hand that had healed wounds I couldn’t see—and brought it between my legs.

“Then heal me.”

His eyes snapped to mine. And stars, the look on his face—like I’d just handed him the last piece of something sacred and broken.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded once, like anything else would shatter both of us.

His hand slid between us, fingers brushing where I was already aching. I felt the warmth of his magic gather there, not hot, but deep—a hum under my skin, like my body knew him and welcomed him.

I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet. But as I freed him from his trousers and lowered myself onto him, slowly, carefully, that quiet gave way to a sharp sound—half pain, half something else. A sting, then a bloom of relief, as if the ache was being rewound, knit back together under his touch.

My eyes blurred, but not from pain. From the weight of it—of being seen, of being healed, of being held even as I was coming apart.

Here was the unbearable contradiction: he could do this, could touch me, see me, heal me with such profound tenderness... and still choose to leave.

He noticed my tears and immediately stilled. "Am I hurting you?"

I shook my head, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.

"We can stop—"