Page 89 of Her Orc Healer

"Don't stop," I whispered, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please—just let me have this."

Something shifted in his expression then—a flash of realization, perhaps, or understanding. His hands tightened on me, and he moved again, slow and deliberate, golden healing light pulsing between us with each careful thrust.

I buried my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—earth and smoke and something faintly bitter, like crushed herbs. He was warm everywhere I touched him, solid and steady beneath me, grounding me even as I unraveled. The ache in my body softened, edged by the curl of pleasure winding slow and deep in my belly, but the ache in my chest only sharpened.

I knew this wasn’t forever. And Seven save me, it made every breath taste like grief.

His mouth found mine again, not demanding—just there, offering. I kissed him back through tears I couldn’t stop, my body trembling with every slow drag of him inside me. My hands gripped his shoulders, then his face, then his back—searching for places to hold on. For something to anchor me.

I moved against him harder, chasing the release building inside me. His hands gripped my hips tighter, helping me find the rhythm, meeting me with a controlled strength that threatened to undo me all over again. The way he held back—not because he didn’t want to lose control, but because he refused to risk breaking me—that was what shattered me.

“I can take it,” I whispered, half a sob. “You don’t have to be careful.”

But he didn’t go harder. He just kissed me again, deeper this time, and whispered, “You shouldn’t have to take it. Not from me.”

And still he moved, slow and steady and unrelenting, like he could draw every unspoken word from my skin. Like he needed this too, even if he didn’t understand why.

Pleasure crested, sharp and sudden, stealing my breath. I clung to him, burying my cries in the crook of his neck. He held me through the shudders, his hands broad and warm, whispering my name like a prayer.

When the wave passed, I stayed curled against him, shaking. He didn’t move—just cradled me there, his breathing ragged, sweat beading at his temple. He was holding back still.

“Kaz,” I whispered, tilting my head to meet his eyes. "Please."

His mouth crushed against mine in answer. His hands shifted, gripping my thighs as he finally let himself move the way I knew he’d wanted to from the start—deep, rough, raw.

I gasped, clinging to him, the pleasure sharp again, the magic flaring bright and golden where we were joined. His lips dragged over my jaw, my shoulder, my throat, until he reached the curve where neck met collarbone—

And bit.

My breath hitched, and I felt it—his magic, sinking into me. Not just healing. Not just pleasure. Something binding. Claiming.

And I gave something back. Not just my body. Not just this night. But a piece of whatever I still had left to give.

A heat spread from that point like sunlight under the skin, a golden thread stitching us together.

Still, he held me.

Still, I knew he would leave.

But for now—for now—I belonged to him.

And he belonged to me.

For a long time, we didn’t move.

His forehead rested against mine, our breathing ragged and uneven, the candle flickering soft shadows across the walls. My thighs ached, my chest still hitched with leftover sobs, but I couldn’t seem to let go. Not yet. Not when the warmth of his body wrapped around me like the last safe place in the world.

His hands moved slowly now—soothing passes down my spine, fingers brushing my hips, my back, my hair. Like he was trying to smooth the edges of something he didn’t have words for.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he murmured finally, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t.” I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hand cupping his jaw. “Not like that.”

His eyes searched mine, but I didn’t explain. Couldn’t. Because how do you sayyou made me feel safe enough to break? How do you admitI don’t know how to let myself be loved, andnow that I am, it’s too late to keep it?

He leaned in and kissed the mark he’d left at my throat, where it throbbed with quiet heat.

“You didn’t heal it,” I said softly.