Page 28

JULIE

T he blueprint for the new arts-and-crafts cabin slips from my hands when Torack’s knuckle brushes the nape of my neck. Graphite smudges his cuff as he plucks the pencil from behind my ear.

“You missed dinner.” His voice vibrates through the pine-paneled office, all gravel and low thunder. The camp map I’ve been annotating for two hours flutters under his exhale.

I press a thumb into the knot between my shoulders. “Counselor applications don’t vet themselves.”

He leans over the drafting table, biceps straining his rolled sleeves. Pine resin and bergamot flood my senses. “You’re chewing your lip again.”

“Am not.”

A green finger taps my chin. My teeth release the abused flesh.

“Liar.” His tusks glint in the lamplight as he nods at the half-empty coffee carafe. “Fourth cup?”

“Fifth. Your daughter’s archery instructor called. Again. Something about replacing hay bales with moving targets?”

He chuckles, the sound warm as the whiskey he pours into my mug. “Told you she takes after her mother.” The usual shadow flits across his face at the mention—there and gone, like a bird against thunderheads.

He stills my jittering knee with a thigh like an oak branch. “Julie.”

The world tilts as he lifts me onto the drafting table. Blueprints crinkle beneath us. My fingers find the scar bisecting his eyebrow—a faded hyphen from some boardroom battle or bedtime story gone rogue.

Buttons ping across the floor. I trace the tribal tattoos swirling down his collarbone, ink older than my college diploma. He hesitates when my nails graze the gold chain at his sternum.

“If you make me wait any longer I might?—”

“Shut up.” I press his hand to the lace creeping up my thigh. “Just… shut up and kiss me, you overgrown?—”

His growl swallows the rest.

The blueprint edges dig into my thighs as his hands find the zipper at my back.

My pencil skirt splits like birch bark, the sound louder than his ragged inhale.

His claws catch on the lace trim of my stockings—hesitation that lasts three heartbeats before I arch into the scrape of calluses against silk.

His teeth graze the hinge of my jaw. "Still wearing the?—"

I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste iron. The growl that follows rattles the drafting lamps. Blueprints flutter to the floor as he pins my wrists above my head, one massive hand spanning both my arms.

Cold air hits bare skin. His palm eclipses my ribcage, thumb brushing the underwire of my bra.

I kick off a stiletto—it clatters against the coffee carafe, sending lukewarm dregs bleeding across supply manifests.

His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back to expose the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his mouth.

The gold chain around his neck swings into my vision, the pendant catching lamplight as he bends me backward over scattered site plans. My nails score twin crescents into his forearms when he bites the strap of my camisole. Fabric tears.

"Torack—"

He stills, tusks hovering over the hollow of my throat. Hazel eyes meet mine, pupils swallowing the amber irises whole. For half a breath I think he'll speak, but then his mouth crashes into mine again, all heat and hunger and the copper tang of his split lip.

My remaining shoe falls. The heel snaps off. He laughs against my collarbone—a dark, breathless sound—before lifting me clear off the table. Blueprints stick to my bare back as he carries me toward the leather couch. We don't make it halfway.

His knee hits the floorboards first, my spine meeting the braided rug as he strips the ruined stockings down my legs.

The tribal tattoos on his chest heave, ink rippling with each labored breath.

I rake fingers through his cropped hair, tugging until his tusks press warning dimples into my inner thigh.

Somewhere beyond the office door, a nightjar calls. The camp's new flagpole rope clangs against metal in the wind. His hands map my hips like they're surveying disputed territory, claiming every inch with lips and tongue and the occasional sharp nip that makes my legs tremble.

When I finally claw at his belt, the leather snaps in my grip. My name fractures into three syllables as I work the button of his slacks, the sound strangled when my palm finds what's beneath.

His cock bounces free and I lick my lips, still impressed with its girth. I move to taste him again, but he forces me back down onto the rug.

"Not waiting this time," he growls.

I bite my lips in response, throwing my arms around his shoulders.

"Then take me."

He does.

His cock slides into me so firmly I audibly gasp. His weight envelopes me, securing me against the floor.

The rug burns my shoulder blades. His chain presses a crucible brand between my breasts. Every thrust drives blueprints deeper into the floorboards, graphite smearing our skin like war paint.

The world narrows to the rhythm of his hips turning my gasps into shattered syllables. My fingers find the notches along his tusks—smooth grooves from decades of clenching, of boardroom battles and bedtime negotiations.

"Deeper," I moan. "Deeper!"

"If you want it," he says, "take it."

I hook my ankles behind his knees and roll us sideways. I straddle him, his chain swinging wildly. His hands lock around my thighs, nails pricking skin through ruined stockings.

"Julie—"

I grind down, relishing the way his pupils blow wide.

He bucks hard enough to slam my spine against the drafting table leg. Pencils scatter. I bite back a yelp, nails digging into the tribal swirls over his heart. His smirk dies when I sink my teeth into his pectoral, the taste of salt and pine resin flooding my mouth.

"Feral little?—"

"Rich coming from the man who just ripped my blouse with his teeth ."

His laugh cuts off when I rock forward, his grip on my hips leaving tomorrow's bruises.

His thumb finds my clit swollen and slick, circling once—twice—before I slap his hand away. "Don't you dare rush me."

"Bossy." He licks a stripe up my throat. "Thought you preferred being in charge."

"I am in charge," I bite back. “And I say don’t rush the boss.”

The lie splinters as he flips us again, pinning my wrists above my head. His tusks graze my cheek. Our breaths sync, ragged and damp.

"Julie." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. “Julie, you’re soaking wet.”

I arch into him, the friction drawing a moan neither of us will acknowledge tomorrow. His rhythm fractures, each thrust driving harder and deeper.

He stills suddenly, forehead pressed to mine. Hazel eyes hold me suspended—eight seconds, nine—before his control snaps.

The climax hits like a backdraft, heat roaring through every nerve. My scream lodges in his mouth as he kisses me through the tremors, his growl vibrating against my tongue.

“Not done,” he growls. “Not done until you come again.”

“I don’t know if I ca-! Ah!” His fingers find me, rough and wet, and pile on the stimulation. I squirm, frantic and unable to control myself.

“Torack please, oh my g- Torack!” I cry.

It’s unbearable.

It’s absolutely delicious.

I come again, harder, and Torack shows how proud he is of his work.

We collapse together, his weight driving blueprints into the rug beneath us.

His breath scalds my neck. "Still think hay bales were a bad idea?"

I swat his shoulder, fingers trembling. "You're buying me a new pencil skirt."

"Add it to the camp budget." His teeth flash in the lamplight as he nuzzles the sweat-damp hair at my temple. "Line item: workplace hazards."