Page 11 of One Night with Her Untamed Orc (Toothsome Monster Romance #6)

Tarik

M y heart thrums with need and desire. This is where she should always be.

With me. Touching me. In my arms. These are the words my heart says with every pounding thud, while trying to ignore her scent filling my home.

The longer she’s here, the more the essence of her scent filters into every corner, torturing me with the idea of how it could be. Her and me. Here.

By the time she comes back downstairs, I’m sitting back in my seat, attempting once more to read my damned book on gardening.

I have an overflowing folder filled with suggestions and requests from my customers.

Having read through them many times, I’m trying to figure out how to expand sustainably for next year.

It’s important that I read this book and comprehend the methods outlined.

But I can’t focus. I’ve reread the last paragraph at least five times, trying to force the words to make sense, but my brain won’t focus. All it can think about is her .

I should feel relief when she bounces down the stairs, still wrapped up in my robe.

A present for me to unwrap. But I just feel frustration.

She doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t even live on the island.

There’s no way she’s going to want to give up her eel research to stay with me, the boring farmer who doesn’t like people.

She’s got her thumbs tucked into the tie on the robe. The V is loose across her chest; I can’t see her gorgeous breasts, just the hint of roundness. I wonder briefly, if I blow hard enough if I could get the fabric to move out of my way. Probably not, but it’s a nice thought.

“Hey. The rain is almost done. I think I’ll go check on the camp. If there isn’t any more lightning for a while, I’ll take the boat to check my traps. It would suck to lose an entire day due to this rain.”

“No.” What is she thinking? She’s safe here.

“Um, I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you.

Though, I was wondering if I could borrow some clothes.

Mine are still soaked. If not, I’ll just wear my waders and raincoat.

It’ll be fine.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal to walk around naked in her rain gear.

No big deal to take a boat out on the water after a major rainstorm and flooding.

No big deal to walk away from my safety into the unknown… all for eels.

I stand, letting the book fall to the floor. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

My father always said my taciturn ways would bite me in the ass one day. I would like to tell him that he was wrong. It was the moment when I let my emotions rule and take over and speak without thinking that I got bit in the ass.

The camp looks like the Loch Ness Monster had lunch here. I brought most of her gear up, but the place where she had camped is full of thick mud and giant puddles. The beach is non-existent at the moment.

Emma is walking around in her waders and raincoat, trying desperately not to get stuck in the mud as she makes her way determinedly to the water’s edge. She’s right; it has calmed down a bit. The sea no longer looks like a riptide. Her little boat bobs alone out there. “How has it not sunk?” I ask.

“It’s self-bailing,” she says, tossing the words over her shoulder.

Hands on her hips as she stares at the boat, just like when I spied her yesterday from the porch, I half-expect her to whistle for the boat to come to her like a puppy dog.

I certainly would. Sighing, she takes off her raincoat, exposing her teal bra top, and kicks off the waders.

My body stirs against my will at the sight of her.

I keep my distance behind her and bite the moan that wants to come out of me.

Her panties are black. She doesn’t understand how hard it is to maintain control right now.

How much I want to dig my fingers into her thick thighs and have my way with her.

Before I can say anything or walk closer, she dives into the water. It’s several heart-pounding seconds before she surfaces to hear my roar. What the actual hell? It’s like she doesn’t hear me; she just takes off swimming for her boat.

I pace.

I can swim, but I hate it. Hate being in the water. Hate what’s in the water that I can’t see. I’m thigh-deep when she reaches the boat, climbs the ladder, and starts the engine. A feeling of pride washes over me at how strong and brave she is.

She zooms over, hovers near me, and says, “Hop in! We ride for eels!” Snorting my response, I do as she says.

My butt hasn’t hit the seat before she puts it in forward and takes off.

The drizzly mist that felt so gentle on shore is now pelting me.

When I squint over at her, she has the biggest smile on her face.

I cross my arms and settle in.

The ride is fast and a little bumpy. Thankfully, the sea has settled since the bulk of the storm has passed. She slows the boat, shifting to neutral, then grabs a hook and walks to the front. “Where is your life jacket?” I ask.

“Now you’re worried? Not when we were speeding along?

You’re funny.” She loops her hook through the orange floating buoy in the water and starts hauling up rope.

Lots and lots of rope. Sighing, I walk over, silencing my panic when the boat rocks under my weight shifting, and take the rope from her petite hands.

“I can do this,” she says, hand on her bare hip.

I grunt my “I know,” and haul. It’s oddly satisfying.

When I get to the trap, she tells me to stop and opens the toolbox next to her.

With black latex gloves on, she grabs a needle.

Without any hesitation, she grasps the eel just behind the head and gills so it can’t bite her, and gets her blood sample. Or whatever sample.

I’m almost ill watching. It’s fine. Then she coos soft words to the eel, opens the side door of the trap, and lets it go. Shuts the door again, then says. “Alright, back in,” to me, with another big smile.

I lower the rope, she puts her sample away, removes her gloves, makes notes in a notebook, and we move on.

Again. And again.

I can see the goosepimples on her skin, and her hardened nipples through her sports bra. After the fourth trap, I stop her, put my hands on her arms, and rub. Vigorously. She opens her mouth to say something, but it is just wobbly sounds as her whole body shakes. When I stop, she laughs .

She doesn’t say anything, just laughs as she puts the boat in gear and drives us back to the camp. Or lack of camp.

“Are we swimming to shore?” I ask. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“I intend to. Do you want me to drop you off?” I nod curtly.

“As you wish,” she says, driving the boat slowly to shore. I hop out, and she reverses and drops the anchor and sets it.

Again, I’m panicky as she swims to shore. I walk out to meet her, to fold her in my arms, to feel and touch and know that she’s okay, safe.

But she swims right past me. When she finally stands, wobbling on the stones of the beach, I try to catch her.

Instead, I scream. There’s a crab. A big, pointy crab with large pincers. On. My. Foot.