Page 14

TORACK

T he screen door slams behind me with a twang of spring metal.

Pine resin and citronella candles cling to the humid air of Julie’s cabin.

She’s perched on the edge of her desk, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against the permits for tomorrow’s bonfire.

Her blouse wrinkles where she’s been twisting the fabric.

“Lillian’s bunking with the CITs tonight.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her jump at the sound of gravel in my voice.

Her pen clatters. “The—the junior counselors? But the orientation packet says trainees need three more certifications before?—”

“Relax, Miss Spreadsheet. They’re teaching her campfire songs, not performing open-heart surgery.”

A moth batters itself against the desk lamp as she stands, smoothing her skirt. “I should’ve been informed. The liability waivers alone require?—”

“You’re off-duty.” I step closer, catching the way her pulse jumps in that delicate human throat. Her scent cuts through the woodsmoke—vanilla hand cream and ambition. “Unless you’d rather discuss insurance premiums.”

She huffs, but it’s undercut by the flush creeping up her neck. “This is why your last three assistants quit.”

“They quit because I don’t pay them to mother me.” My thumb brushes a stray curl behind her ear. She doesn’t pull away. “You’re different.”

“Different how?” Her voice cracks. “Because I let you drag me into the woods to build your daughter’s monument to corporate diversity?”

“Because you haven’t run.”

The permit papers flutter to the floor. Her hands find my shoulders, small and fierce as she rises onto toes. Our first kiss tastes like coffee and poor decisions. She nips my lower lip, all teeth no apology, and suddenly I’m backing her against the wall. Her laugh vibrates against my chest.

“This is?—”

“Complicated?”

“Unprofessional.”

I trace the shell of her ear, grinning when she shivers. “You’re temporary staff.”

“And you’re my boss.”

“And you’re stalling.”

Her retort dissolves into a gasp as I lift her onto the desk.

Maps and safety protocols scatter. The lamp tilts, throwing shadows across her parted lips.

Somewhere beyond the cabin, cicadas scream in the pines.

Closer, Julie’s fingers tangle in my shirt, pulling me into the kind of chaos no liability waiver covers.

Her mouth moves like she’s still forming arguments, but I swallow every half-formed protest. The desk creaks under our combined weight, her legs locking around my hips as she yanks me closer.

Her fingernails scrape the shaved sides of my scalp—human-sharp, not claw-sharp, but it still makes my breath hitch.

“Temporary staff,” she gasps when I bite the hinge of her jaw. Her hips arch off the wooden surface, sending a stapler clattering to the floorboards. “Means this… ah… expires in six weeks.”

I laugh against her collarbone, fumbling with the tiny pearl buttons on her blouse. “You keeping a timer?”

“Section seven, subsection B of my contract.” She tugs my shirt free from my waistband, palms skating over scar tissue from old clan markings. “No fraternization with… megalomaniacal… orc CEOs…”

“Megalomaniacal?” My tusk grazes her earlobe as I speak. She shudders, all that meticulous posture dissolving. “I built a goddamn equestrian center because Lily mentioned liking ponies once.”

Julie’s laugh turns into a moan as I find the zipper on her skirt. “You’re… distracting me from inventory spreadsheets.”

“Spreadsheets.” I nip her bottom lip, grinning when she fists my hair. “That why your pulse is racing? Or the fact I’m the first person who didn’t treat you like a coffee fetcher?”

She stills, breath hot against my cheek. Her eyes flick to the safety manual splayed open beside us, pages crumpling under her elbow. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Not arguing.” I slide my hand up her thigh, watching her pupils blow wide. “But you’re still here.”

Her retort dies when I kiss the hollow behind her ear. She tastes like ink and the spearmint gum I've seen her blow bubbles with when she thinks no one's watching. The lamp tips further, casting amber light across the emergency evacuation plan now wedged under her shoulder blade.

Her pearl buttons pop off one by one, pinging against the steamer trunk in the corner. Julie’s breath hitches as my claws snag her lace-edged bra. “That’s—ah—Third Tailor’s blouse you’re mangling.”

“Bill me.” The fabric splits with a noise that makes her thighs clamp around my waist.

She claws at my belt buckle, all business even now. “Section twelve of the?—”

I bite down on the protest, her back arching off the desk as the bra gives way. Her skin glows whiskey-gold in the lamplight, moles mapping constellations across her collarbones. She smells like panic and arousal, that vanilla cream smeared where my tusks graze her sternum.

Her skirt zipper jams halfway. Julie’s laugh comes out strangled. “Not so easy when you’re not tearing through fabric like a?—”

I press two fingers against her clit through damp cotton. Her head thuds back against an orientation packet. “Finish that sentence, Miss.”

Her hips stutter. “Bastard.”

The zipper yields. I hook my thumbs in her underwear, dragging them down her legs as she kicks off ballet flats. Her ankle knocks over a coffee mug. “Predictable human underthings.”

“Predictable orc impatience.” She reaches for my cock, all defiance until her fingers wrap around the girth. Her gasp tastes like victory. “Gods. OSHA should regulate this.”

I sink into her slowly, watching her lips part around a silent curse. Her legs lock behind my back, calf muscles trembling. The desk groans as I set rhythm—deliberate, punishing.

“Still worried about—nngh—liability waivers?” My words slur against her throat as I dive into her deeper.

Her nails carve half-moons into my shoulders. “You’re… crushing… the emergency protocols.”

“Are you asking me to stop?” I ask, driving into her harder and harder.

“You better not!” she snaps back, hips bucking up to meet me.

“Ah, but this might tear the risk assessment report if we don’t move.”

I flip her onto the avalanche of paperwork. Pages stick to her sweat-slicked skin as she braces against the wall. Her choked moan when I thrust deeper sounds like surrender.

“Fuck your—ah!—risk assessment matrices,” she says, barely getting the words out between gasps of pleasure.

“Language, Miss Wren” I bite her shoulder, feeling the vibration of her laugh-turned-whimper. “This is a family camp, after all.”

Her hand flies back to grip my tusk, yanking my mouth to her ear. I indulge her unspoken demand, licking slowly at the shell of her ear, feeling the uncontrollable shiver she gives me in return.

“You’re paying for the dry cle…cleaning…oh!” Julie’s head wrenches backwards, air coming in shallow gasps as she gets closer and closer to sweet release. Her nails dig deeper, legs pull me tighter, lungs breathing rapider.

She’s close. So close. Right where I want her.

I shift so my pelvis rubs against her clit, and finally she’s completely undone.

The lamp topples as her climax hits, her own hand knocking it over like a were-cat.

shadows lurching across the bulletin board’s safety diagrams. Her back bows, a map pin stabbing my palm as I pin her hips down.

She chokes out something between my name and a swear, throat working like she’s still debating spreadsheets.

“To…Torack, mmm, don’t…don’t stop yet!” she practically begs. It’s unbecoming of a professional, modern woman like her.

I can’t get enough of it.

“Come again,” I demand in return. “Come for me, Julie. I’m not going to rest until I feel you tighten around my cock again.”

“Yes, yes, Tor- Ah!”

I can feel the exact moment her frenetic calculations short-circuit. Her muscles clench, all that meticulous control unraveling as she comes again with a ragged cry that scares the moths off the windowsill.

It’s enough to make me unravel. And then finally, I do just that.

The moment I spill into her, Julie’s fingers tighten in my hair hard enough to sting.

Her breath scalds my neck—quick, shallow gusts that echo too loud in the ransacked office.

The scent of sex and split pine planks coats my tongue.

Her hips jerk once, twice, still chasing the fading tremor between us.

We don’t move. Don’t speak. Her cheek sticks to my clavicle where sweat glues us together.

And as the endorphins wear away, realization of what I've just done replaces them.

I just fucked my assistant.

Fuck.