Page 14 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he door creaks as my fist meets the wood. I know she hears the danger in that sound—the splintering restraint of a man who spent hours pacing the pier, salt water freezing his lungs, and still couldn't escape the burn of her mouth.

I step inside. Her head snaps up from the stack of invoices, pen clenched white-knuckled.

"I didn’t want to leave," I rumble.

The air liquifies.

Rowan slams the pen down. "Then why the hell did?—"

I’m across the room before she finishes, my hand cradling the back of her neck. Her breath hitches. My thumb finds her pulse—wildbird frantic under damp skin.

"Because once I start," I growl against her temple, "I won’t stop."

She fists my tie, silk strangling my throat as she drags my mouth to hers. "Not asking you to."

The world fractures.

Her teeth sink into my lower lip, sharp as her wit.

I yank her onto the counter. Receipts scatter like snowfall.

Her legs lock around my waist as I tear her blouse open, buttons pinging against shelves.

She arches into my palm when I squeeze her breast—a breathless gasp that climbs into a laugh when I grind against her.

"All that tailoring," she pants, clawing at my belt, "and you still carry a dagger in your?—"

I bite her collarbone, silencing her with a moan. "Wouldn’t need it if you stopped talking."

"Make me."

My fingers dive under her skirt. She’s soaked through cotton, heat radiating as I drag my thumb over her clit. Her head thuds back against the travel memoirs section.

"Fuck." Her nails carve crescents into my shoulders. "Window?—"

I rip the curtains shut with one hand, the other still working her. "Better?"

"Still hate you." Her hips jerk.

"Liar." My finger slips inside her pussy, slick and tight. "You’d burn cities for me to do this again."

Her laughter shatters into a choked cry when I adds a second finger. "Shit— Gods ? — "

I slow, withdrawing. "Say my name."

She spits a curse, grabbing my wrist. "Drokhaz?—"

I lift her off the counter. She crashes into shelves, my mouth on her neck, her hands shredding my shirt. Paperbacks rain down around us as I shove her tights to her ankles. Her palm slaps the wall when I sink to my knees.

"What—" she wheezes, "what the fuck are you?—"

My tongue licks the seam of her, her soaking wet slit greeting me anxiously. She screams.

Her thighs quiver around my ears. I lock her in place, one arm banded across her hips as she bucks. Her taste floods me—salt and citrus soap and her, pure and stark as dawn breaking.

"Monster," she sobs, fingers snarled in my hair.

I bite her inner thigh. "Scream it louder."

She does.

When she collapses, shaking, I rise. She fumbles with my belt—amateur, frantic tugs. I pin her hands above her head, press my cock against her heat.

"Beg," I snarl.

"Or what?" Her grin’s all teeth and triumph. "You’ll stop?"

"Have it your way."

I drive my cock into her.

Her scream stitches into the humid air. Her walls clamp around me, vise-tight. Each thrust shakes books from shelves—Faulkner and Neruda and some thriller with "Blood" in the title smacking the floor in discordant rhythm.

"Try—try walking now," she taunts between gasps.

My turn to laugh—a feral sound I don’t recognize. I twist her leg higher, hit deeper. "You’ll limp for days."

Her moan trembles. "Not. A. Complaint."

Her breasts sway as she grinds back against me. I cover one with my palm, pinch her nipple. She throws her head back—hits the shelf. Instead of cursing, she laughs. Wild. Unashamed.

"Fuck the spreadsheets," she pants. "This—this is better math."

My control splinters. I slam her against the wall.

I hold back. Not yet.

"Please," she whines. "Please please please!"

Her back arches off the wall as I piston into her again, each snap of my hips punctuated by the rhythmic creak of protesting shelves. A poetry anthology titled Love in the Ashes glances off my shoulder.

"Looks like--" she gasps, knuckles whitening where they grip the ledge above her head, "your cultural education's... expanding ."

I snort, palming her ass to lift her higher. Her choked whimper vibrates against my throat. "Quoting Rilke at a time like this?"

"Neruda." Her teeth catch my earlobe. "His ode to... unreasonable pursuits. "

Damn her. Damn this woman who names her bruises and laughs through climaxes. I twist my hips, angling deeper. Her breath stutters.

"Vocabulary lesson's over." I pin her wrists with one hand, the other clamping her jaw. "Eyes on me."

She struggles, not to break free but to press closer. Our foreheads knock together. "Make it hurt."

A growl rips from my chest. I spin us, dropping onto the threadbare armchair she uses for storytime readings. She straddles me backward, my cock sheathed to the hilt. Her choked moan bounces off picture books stacked like uneven battlements.

"Control freak," she accuses, rolling her hips slow as a poison drip.

"Hypocrite." My thumbs dig into the dimples above her ass. "You've been steering since I walked in."

Her hands brace against my knees as she rises, agonizing inch by inch, then slams back down. The chair screeches against floorboards. "Still...hate...this chair."

I chuckle darkly, yanking her hair to arch her spine. My teeth graze the wing of her shoulder blade. "Liar."

"Prove it."

I do.

Her pace fractures into desperation, our skin slapping loud enough to wake her precious ghosts. A tin of colored pencils cascades from the adjacent crafts table, scattering rainbow shrapnel. I grip her hip with my free hand, thumb finding that spot that makes her--

" Drokhaz! "

Every muscle in her body locks. She collapses backward against me, trembling through waves as I keep thrusting up into her. Her heel kicks over a stack of sheet music.

"Fuck," she pants, limp as a marionette with cut strings. "Stealing...your tie...to garrote you later..."

I bite her pulse point. "Try."

Her laugh comes out broken, sweaty hair plastered to my chest. I slow but don't stop, chasing the coiling tension in my gut. She twists, nails raking down my sternum.

"Look at you," she breathes, pupils blown wide. "Orc warlord brought low by a...secondhand bookseller..."

My hand flies to her throat. Not squeezing—cradling. My thumb brushes her frantic pulse. "Brought high ," I correct hoarsely.

Her smile could ignite wildfires.

Her sweat cools sticky between our chests. I count her breaths—twelve, twenty, thirty-seven—before she stirs.

"Anniversary sale ledgers..." she mutters, squinting at the shredded papers beneath us. "Were inside the filing cabinet yesterday."

I pluck a scrap of invoice from her hair. "I’ll replace the cabinet."

"That’s not?—"

"Double the security deposit."

Her laugh punches out, brittle. "How romantic."

A Scholastic Book Fair poster clings to my forearm when I sit up. Rowan watches me peel it off, her gray eyes tracking my every movement like I might vanish mid-motion. Static crackles as I tug my dress shirt from under War and Peace’s spine.

"You missed a button." She nods at my collar.

"I know." Fastening it would mean admitting this ends.

Her toes brush my thigh when she stretches. "So. What happens after a real estate titan demolishes local small business property?"

"Rebuild."

"Ah." She plucks a pencil from her bun, twirling it like a baton. "With steel reinforcements? Parking garages?"

I stare at the crescent marks her nails left on my wrist. "Whatever you need."

"Need." The pencil stills. Her smile fades. "What if I need?—"

My cufflinks snap into place with military precision. "It’s simpler if we?—"

"Don’t." She sits up abruptly, her torn blouse gaping. "Don’t do that corporate hedge-speak bullshit. Not here."

The silence weighs heavier than my armor. Outside, a delivery truck beeps. Real life marching on.

Her knees crack when she stands. "I don’t need your guilt-mortar charity, Drokhaz. Just..." Cotton whispers as she re-ties her skirt. "Forget the cabinet."

I capture her wrist as she turns. Her pulse flutters against my thumb. "Rowan."

"Don’t." She shakes free, clutching a Byron anthology to her chest like a shield. "Just...go run your empire."

My polished oxfords crunch over colored pencil shards as I retreat. At the door, her voice hooks between my ribs:

"What now?"

I freeze. Centuries pass in the squeak of her shifting weight.

My hand grips the knob. "The Henderson Building’s asbestos report needs signing."

"That’s not?—"

"Goodnight, Ms. Moore."

Her sharp inhale follows me into the street. I don’t look back.

Wind snatches her final words as the door slams:

"Still hate you."

The lie hangs brighter than the bookstore’s shattered neon sign.