Page 46 of Till Orc Do Us Part

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—trywalkingnow," 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 titledLove in the Ashesglances 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--