LANEK
Idon't do slow.
I've restrained myself for three months, watching her stomp around in those ridiculous vintage dresses, listening to her yell at me with fire in her eyes, breathing in the intoxicating combination of vanilla and fury that clings to her skin. I've tried to court her properly, tried to follow the confusing human dating rituals my supplier explained over coffee and uncomfortable diagrams.
I'm done trying.
I hitch her higher against the wall, adjusting my grip so her thighs are locked around my hips, and she gasps at the friction, her head falling back against the brick. The exposed column of her throat is too tempting to resist. I drag my tusks along the delicate skin, careful not to pierce, just enough pressure to make her shudder and dig her nails into my shoulders.
"You want fast?" I growl against her pulse point, feeling it hammer beneath my lips like a war drum. "You want me to stop being careful with you? Stop holding back?"
Her breath hitches, and I feel the tremor run through her entire body.
"Yes," she gasps.
I drag my tusks along the sensitive skin of her throat again, harder this time, proprietary. Possessive. "You want me to take you right here, in your ruined kitchen, covered in flour and smoke? Want me to claim you on this counter where you've spent three months baking those ridiculous pastries while pretending you don't feel this thing between us?"
"Lanek—" My name comes out strangled, desperate, and the sound of it on her lips makes something feral unfurl.
"Say it," I demand, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. I need to hear her admit it. Need to know she wants this as badly as I do, that she's done fighting this pull between us. "Say you want me. Say you're done pretending you hate me. Tell me, Quinn."
Her eyes snap open, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from my kisses. "Yes. God, yes. Stop asking questions and just?—"
I kiss her hard enough to bruise, swallowing her demand, my tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that makes her whimper into my mouth. She tastes like butter and sugar and desperation, and the small, needy sounds she makes are driving me absolutely insane. My control is shredding by the second, the carefully cultivated civilized butcher persona I wear for my human customers burning away under the overwhelming need to claim her, mark her, make her mine in every way that matters.
The wall isn't good enough.
I turn, carrying her the few steps to the massive stainless steel prep counter, and set her down on the cool surface. She yelps at the temperature change, but I'm already pushing her back, following her down, caging her smaller body with mine. The counter is the perfect height. I can stand between her spread thighs, can bend over her and still have leverage, can finally touch her the way I've been fantasizing about for months.
"You smell so good," I mutter against her throat, my hands roaming over her curves, mapping her soft human flesh. "Like sugar and vanilla and mine."
"I'm not—oh—" Her protest cuts off into a moan as I cup her breast properly, no fabric barriers this time, my thumb circling her nipple through the thin cotton of her bra. "Lanek, please?—"
"Please what, little baker?" I ask, pulling back just enough to watch her face, to see the exact moment my words register through the haze of desire clouding those pretty blue eyes.
"More," she gasps, her fingers tightening in my hair, tugging hard enough that it borders on pain. The slight sting only makes me want her more.
I bare my teeth in a feral grin against her collarbone, letting her feel the blunt edges of my tusks scraping carefully over her delicate skin. The gesture is pure predator, pure Orc, and the way she shivers tells me she knows it. "Greedy," I rumble, my voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes her pupils dilate.
"You have no idea," she shoots back breathlessly, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks even through the fabric of my shirt. There's a wildness in her expression now, something untamed breaking free from beneath all that pastel perfection and controlled sweetness.
I shove her dress higher, bunching the vintage fabric around her hips, and freeze. She's wearing pale pink underwear, delicate and lacy and completely impractical, and the scrap of fabric is already soaked through. The smell of her arousal hits me, rich and heady and utterly intoxicating.
"Quinn," I rasp, my voice barely recognizable.
"Don't you dare stop."
I hook one finger under the elastic, dragging it aside, and the first touch of my calloused fingertip against her slick heat makes her arch off the counter with a choked gasp. She's impossiblysoft, impossibly wet, and so responsive that just that single touch has her trembling.
"Look at you," I murmur, sliding one thick finger inside her carefully, watching her face as she adjusts to the intrusion. "So tight. So perfect. You're going to take me so well, aren't you?"
"Yes—god—Lanek?—"
I add a second finger, stretching her slowly, and her inner walls clench around me. She's scorching hot, slick and needy, and the way she's rolling her hips against my hand is absolutely obscene. I curl my fingers, searching, and when I find the spot that makes her cry out and grab my forearm, I file that information away with ruthless focus.
"That's it," I praise, pumping my fingers in a steady rhythm, my thumb circling her clit. "Take what you need. Show me how fierce you are."
"This isn't, oh fuck, this isn't fair?—"
