Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
There’s no logic or slow build, just a magnetic snap that yanks me straight off the ground. I barely register the air leaving my lungs before he’s got both hands in my hair, mouth crushing mine, and my body goes up in flames. I taste his hunger, and something inside me knows that this is it. This is forever.
Every doubt I ever had about Orcs, about myself, about what the fuck I’m doing here? Gone. Burned to ash. All that matters is Oren, his hands, his mouth, the way his body fits to mine like he was built custom for me.
I want him. I want this. Fuck waiting for another second or pretending to be careful when every cell in my body is screaming for Oren. I don’t care if this isn’t how it usually goes. The second his tongue tangles with mine, I slide my arms up and around his neck and basically climb him, legs wrapped tightly around his hips.
He makes this deep, guttural sound against my mouth that sends heat straight to my core. All my good intentions are gone. I hook my fingers in his shirt, trying to rip it off, desperate to feel his skin, his strength, his everything. Oren’s hands are busy exploring every inch of me. They tangle in my hair before sliding down to grip my ass so tightly I’ll probably have bruises. I freaking love it.
I push my fears to the back of my mind. Screw it. We’ll figure out the rest later. Right now, I just need him inside me.
He sets me down on my feet and stares into my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I don’t hesitate at all.
Oren holds out his hand, palm up, big enough that my whole hand would be swallowed by his. When I slide my fingers into his, he’s gentle. Reverent. The skin is callused, warm, and I realize that he’s shaking—just a little, but it’s there. This huge, terrifying warlord is as nervous as I am.
He doesn’t tug, just keeps my hand in his and waits for me to follow. There’s an electric hum along my skin, like the air after a summer lightning storm. The room feels charged. His eyes lock on mine, and in them I see a battle trying not to break the world in half.
“Ella.” The way he says my name is like a shock wave. He’s not asking. He’s not inviting. He’s claiming.
I nod, my throat too tight for words, and follow where he leads.
He brings me through the house, down a short corridor lined with glass panels and strange, swirling art in green and black. The flooring is ancient stone, but the edges are trimmed with LED strips set to the lowest light. A mixture of primitive and hyper-modern, but it fits him.
The door at the end is heavy wood, marked by an old world symbol—something that looks suspiciously like a battle axe and a heart. He opens it with care, as though he’s afraid of breaking the moment, and ushers me through.
His bedroom is enormous. It smells of cedar and soap and the underlying tang that’s all Oren. It’s sharp and dark, like a forest about to rain. The first thing I see is the bed. It dominates the room, comically oversized with a custom frame hewn from blackened oak. Dark gray satin sheets shimmer under moss-lights embedded in the ceiling beams, catching the green glow like water at midnight. The headboard is a web of chainmail, polished so it gleams blue-green. There’s nothing soft about it, except for the way it makes the rest of the space feel safe.
I stand in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with my hands. He closes the door, the sound quietly final. For a second, all we do is stare at each other.
Then he moves. Not quickly, not even confidently, but with a careful precision that makes my pulse jump. He’s closer than I expect, all seven feet plus of him, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
He releases my hand and lifts his to my face, palm against my cheek. There’s a feather-light tremor in his touch. His thumb skims my cheekbone, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I feel my cheeks go nuclear.
“You’re shaking,” he says, voice very low.
“So are you,” I shoot back, because I’m incapable of letting the moment stay serious. He snorts, then catches himself, and for a flash, he looks like he might bolt.
But instead, he steps even closer.
“You aren’t afraid?”
I should be. His hand alone could crush my windpipe, and yet it’s softer than silk. I breathe deep, nod. “No. Just… nervous.”
His eyes flare, a wild gold. “Good. I want you nervous.” He says it so matter-of-factly I almost laugh.
The tension breaks. I let out a breath I’ve been holding since I got here, and a laugh escapes. He stares at my mouth, and suddenly, my entire body is hot.