Page 20 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he salt-kissed air clings to my skin as we reach the sliding glass doors of his rental. Drokhaz doesn’t speak—just turns the key with hands steadier than my heartbeat. The door clicks open.

His palm presses warm between my shoulder blades, guiding me inside. Not pushing. Asking.

I cross the threshold.

Moonlight spills across minimalist furniture, all clean lines and cold surfaces. But his touch burns through my shirt as he steps close, chest grazing my back.

“Wait,” he rumbles.

I turn.

His fingers find the hem of my sweater, lifting it slowly. Each inch of exposed skin hums. My breath hitches when cool air wraps my torso—then his hands replace the fabric, calloused palms skimming ribs, the curve of my waist. Reverence in every motion.

“Drokhaz—”

He quiets me with a thumb brushing my lower lip. Slides the sweater off completely. Lets it pool at our feet.

His gaze holds mine as he unbuckles his belt. The leather sighing free. His trousers drop—thick thighs, the heavy arc of his cock already stiff against olive skin. My mouth waters.

“Look at me,” he growls softly when my eyes dart down. “Always look at me.”

I obey.

He lifts me like I’m weightless, hands cradling my ass as I lock ankles behind his back. The wall meets my shoulder blades, cold granite against feverish skin. His tusks graze my throat.

“Please,” I whisper.

He hesitates. “Name it.”

“You. All of you.”

A shudder rolls through him.

He carries me to the oversized sofa, lays me down like something fragile. Kneels between my legs, peeling off my jeans with agonizing care. When his mouth finds my pussy, I arch off the cushions.

“So sweet,” he murmurs against my pussy, tongue circling slow. “Gods, Rowan?—”

My fingers tangle in his hair, silver threads glinting. He licks deeper, groaning when I tug. Works me with lips and tongue until my thighs shake.

“Wait—I need— Drokhaz ?—”

He pulls back, chin glistening. Watches me pant. “You want this?” he asks, cock springing free.

I reach for him, guiding his cock to my entrance. “Gods, yes.”

He slides in with a restrained thrust, stretching me full. Buries his face in my neck as we groan in tandem.

“Look,” I gasp.

Storm-black eyes meet mine. He moves with deliberate rolls of his hips, each push dragging a broken sound from my throat.

“Mine,” he rasps, thumb finding my clit. “My Rowan.”

Our rhythm fractures. His pace quickens, grip bruising my hips. I claw at his shoulders, breathless, as the coil snaps?—

He follows me over, spilling hot and deep with a choked roar of my name. Collapses beside me, chest heaving.

His breath steadies first, warm against my temple. I trace the scar along his jaw. “Your combat trophy or drunken poker game?”

The rumble in his chest could be laughter. “Failed poetry duel.”

I snort. “Sonnets or haikus?”

“Limericks.” His hand drifts down my flank. “They cheated.”

Moonlight catches silver strands in his hair as he rolls us both upright. My back presses against his chest, his erection already hard against my spine. Calloused palms glide up my thighs, spreading them wide.

“You heal fast for an old man.”

A tusk grazes my earlobe. “Never said I was finished with you.”

His fingers dip between my legs, testing slickness. I arch into the touch.

The growl vibrates through my bones. He yanks my hips back, sheathing his cock again in one brutal thrust. My gasp smothers into cushions.

“Look.” His hand fists in my hair, angling my head toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the penthouse. “Watch me ruin you.”

Our reflection blurs—his olive skin gleaming under pendant lights, my knuckles white on the armrest. Each snap of his hips jostles the leather sofa.

“Still mocking my age?” He nips my shoulder.

I choke on a moan. “Act your years—use the bed next time.”

His thumb circles my clit rough enough to make my knees buckle. “Should’ve negotiated better terms, little hawk.”

The nickname unravels me. I clench around him hard.

“No.” He stills, chest heaving. “Look.”

Forced to meet my own gaze—flushed, fucked-out, his possessive grip branding my waist. His free hand slides up to cup my throat.

“Mine.”

“Yours,” I gasp.

He rewards the admission with deep, grinding rolls that torture us both. Our twin roars sync—his bass thunder to my shattered soprano.

“Drokhaz—"

“Shatter,” he commands.

The orgasm rips through me like wildfire. He follows moments later, teeth sunk into my shoulder as he spills hot and endless. We collapse sideways, tangled in each other.

His heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath my cheek. Moonlight stripes the tangled linen clinging to his hips, the scar along his jaw gleaming like molten silver. I trace it with my pinky. "Still mad about the limerick betrayal?"

The arm beneath me tightens. "Marlok had third-rate rhyme schemes. Should've won by default."

"Guess we'll need to workshop your verse."

His fingers skate up my spine, callouses catching on sensitive skin. "Doubt that's the craft you want me practicing tonight." The gravel in his voice stirs heat low in my belly.

I flatten my palm over the steady thump-thump of his heart. "This your way of confessing prior experience with bardic seduction?"

A rumble shakes his chest—orcish approximation of a laugh. "Swooned three grandmothers at the Midsummer Trials. Set a clan record."

"Charming. Were their hearing aids?—"

"Rowan." His thumb tilts my chin up, storm-black eyes gone serious. "Are you afraid?"

The question hangs between the smudged lipstick on his collar and my bare legs tangled with his. I press deeper into his warmth. " Only of wanting this too much. "

His exhale gusts across my forehead. Large hands frame my face with surprising gentleness. "Real estate moguls make poor fairytales."

"Good thing I prefer gothic romances." My smirk falters when he stills. "What?"

"Your son." The words sound dredged from bedrock. "He deserves..."

"Don't." I jab his ribs. "Jamie's been judging my choices since he learned 'disappointing.'"

His tusks brush my temple as he huffs. Insistent fingers tip my face upward again. "I can't be half a man for you."

The raw edge in his voice splits me open. I press our foreheads together. " Be greedy. "

He crushes me against his chest so suddenly my laugh gets trapped between us. His nose buries in my hair. We breathe in tandem until moonlight creeps past his shoulder blades.

"Your bookshop's roof leaks." The non-sequitur rumbles through me.

"Thanks. Thought the indoor rain aesthetic was chic."

"Contractors arrive Tuesday."

"I didn't?—"

His hand clamps over my mouth. "Hush."

I bite his palm. He retaliates by pinching my waist. Our laughter shakes the cushions.

We settle when his arms band around me again, anchoring me against the fortress of his body. His last whisper ghosts across sweat-damp skin. " Stay greedy. "

Sleep drags me under to the rhythm of his pulse—a war drum turned lullaby.