Page 23

His tongue traces along my folds with maddening slowness, exploring, learning what makes me gasp and arch beneath him.

I grip the sheets, trying to stay still, but my body has other ideas.

When he finds that perfect spot, he focuses there with devastating precision, circling and teasing until I'm trembling.

"Ash," I breathe, but he doesn't rush. Just continues that relentless torture, taking his time like he has all night to learn precisely what drives me wild.

When he adds his fingers, I rock against him, meeting each thrust. This time I'm not shy about what I want.

I know what his touch can do to me. His thumb joins the assault, applying pressure where I need it most. The combination makes my back arch off the bed, but now I'm seeking more friction, more pressure.

"More," I gasp, and he rewards me with what I need.

My body responds instantly, and my hips move on their own. The pressure builds, and my thighs shake with the effort to stay open for him.

With my next labored breath, I begin to come undone in his grip, my voice breaking on his name.

He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening with evidence of what he's done to me. That wicked grin spreads across his face as he watches me come back to reality, satisfaction and possession written in every line of his expression.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, crawling up my body, all muscle and intent. "You’re absolutely fucking beautiful when you let go."

He captures my mouth in a kiss that lets me taste myself on his tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely mine. The intimate flavor should embarrass me, but instead it makes me feel claimed, marked in ways that have nothing to do with the physical.

"That's just the beginning," he promises against my lips, then starts to stand.

But I'm already moving, sitting up and catching his wrists before he can step back. "My turn."

I push his palms away and pull the shirt over his head myself, revealing the expanse of green-tinged skin I've been fantasizing about.

Scars crisscross his chest and arms—some old, some newer, all telling a story.

Tribal tattoos wind around his biceps and across his shoulders in intricate patterns and bold lines.

But it's the tattoo directly over his heart that makes me pause—circles within circles creating a never-ending loop of rings that are hypnotic in their perfect symmetry.

I trace them with my finger, feeling him shiver under my touch. His eyes never leave my face, watching my reaction to each mark, each piece of his story.

When I reach for his belt, his hands cover mine.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." I look up at him, seeing the careful control he's maintaining. "I want to see all of you."

I work his belt free, then his jeans, pushing them down thick thighs and muscular calves. When I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, I meet his burning gaze instead of hesitating.

The fabric slides down his hips, and my breath catches.

He's magnificent. Larger than I expected, but somehow perfect for the feel of his erection when I was sitting in his lap days ago. Surprisingly human in some ways—the dark hair that trails from his navel, the smooth shaft—but it's the underside that makes my core clench with anticipation.

Ridged texture runs along his length, pronounced enough that I can see it, tactile enough that I know I'll feel it when he slides inside me.

I reach out confidently, circling my fingers around his length. He's hot, harder than steel, and when I give him one deliberate stroke from base to tip, he groans deep in his chest.

"Nova," he hisses, my name torn from his throat.

My fingers trace those ridges with fascination, imagining how they'll drag against sensitive places and drive me wild. His powerful hand drops to my hair, gathering it into one fist so he can watch my face.

I meet his burning gaze as I lean forward, taking just his tip into my mouth. He tastes of salt and something uniquely him, clean and masculine and intoxicating. My tongue laps at the smooth head, exploring, learning.

His groan this time is lighter, more controlled, but I feel his hips begin to move, pressing forward incrementally. I take him deeper willingly, letting him fuck my mouth with careful thrusts that make me moan around him.

"Fuck," he breathes, free hand bracing against the wall. "Your mouth, Nova—"

I work him with my mouth, hollowing my cheeks, using my tongue to trace those fascinating ridges. His control fractures, hips bucking forward, and I breathe through my nose as his substantial length fills my mouth completely.

His head falls back, eyes closing as his breathing turns ragged, the hand in my hair tightening as he fights for control. Then his hips still.

"Stop," he gasps, pulling back. "Stop or I'll come, and I need to be inside you first."

"I want to taste you," I protest, reaching for him.

But he's already lifting me easily, settling me back onto the bed before covering my body with his.

The sheer size of him, the heat radiating from his green skin, makes me feel small and protected in ways I've never experienced.

When he settles between my thighs, I can feel him pressing against me, hot and hard and perfect.

"Look at me," he commands, one broad hand cupping my face. "I want to see your eyes when I take you."

I meet his gaze as he guides himself to my entrance. The first press of him makes me gasp—even knowing how big he is, feeling those ridges stretch me is overwhelming. This is what it means to be with an orc.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Let me in, Nova. All the way in."

I breathe through the stretch, my body adjusting to accommodate his size. As he sinks deeper, I feel every ridge along his length dragging against sensitive places that make me cry out. The friction is intense and threatens to unravel me before we've even begun.

"God," I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can feel—the ridges, they're—"

"Perfect for you," he finishes, voice rough with possession.

When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still. Every piece of me locks into place around him.

"How does it feel?" he asks, thumb brushing across my cheek. "Perfect," I whisper, and watch his eyes go molten.

When he starts to move, I meet each thrust. Each withdrawal drags those ridges against my inner walls, each thrust sends them pressing into places that make me arch beneath him. I'm trembling, but not from fear.

"More," I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Harder."

"Careful what you ask for," he warns, but his rhythm increases, thrusts becoming deeper, more urgent.

Pressure builds inside me with each drive, my body coiling tighter. His broad hand finds the place where we're joined, thumb circling with perfect pressure.

"Come for me," he commands, voice turning hypnotic. "Let go and come on my cock."

The orgasm hits me hard and fast. I scream his name as my body clenching around him with enough force to make him groan. Every ridge along his length drags against me as I spasm around him.

"Fuck, Nova, you're—" His words cut off as his own control snaps. He drives into me, chasing his release while I'm still shaking.

When he finally spills inside me, he buries his face in my neck, growling my name. The rawness of it vibrates through my bones.

For long moments, we stay locked together, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. The ridges along his length continue to provide sensation as he slowly softens inside me, aftershocks rippling through my oversensitive body.

"Jesus," I gasp when I can finally speak.

"Not Jesus," he says, lifting his head to look at me, lips curving in that wicked smile. "Just me."

"Just you," I agree. My fingers drift up to trace the jagged scar that bisects his eyebrow.

He goes very still under my touch, watching my face with careful intensity.

I remember the first time I saw this scar, how it made him look dangerous.

Now it just makes him look like Ash - complex, real, mine. "Perfect, complicated, impossible you."

He rolls us so I'm sprawled across his chest, one broad hand stroking down my spine and along the rise of my ass. The movement causes him to slip from my body, and I feel the wet evidence of what we've done trickling down my thighs.

"You okay?" he asks without the usual edge to his voice.

"Better than okay." I press my face into his neck, breathing him in. "I feel... quiet. For the first time in months, my head is quiet."

His arms tighten around me.

"Good," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "That's what I wanted. For you to have peace, even if it's just for tonight. You carry too much weight alone."

"My sister carried too much weight alone, too." The words come out barely above a whisper. "Carman. She was... she was everything I'm not. Trusting. Hopeful. Believed people could change if you just loved them enough."

Ash goes very still beneath me, but his hand never stops its gentle stroking. "Tell me about her."

"She was dating this guy—Derek. Real piece of work. Controlling, manipulative, the kind who convinces you that you need him." I taste copper in my mouth. "I tried to warn her, tried to get her to see what he was doing. But she was stubborn."

"Sounds familiar," he says quietly, and I can hear warmth in his voice.

"She was twenty-four. A college senior studying accounting.

Had this idea that numbers never lied, that truth always surfaced if you knew where to look.

" I trace the tattooed patterns on his chest, following the lines with my fingertip.

"She called me one night, scared. Said Derek was involved in something illegal, that she'd seen some documents that didn't add up. "

Ash's breathing changes slightly, becoming more controlled. "What kind of documents?"