Page 24 of The Orc’s Comfort

His hand lifts, hesitates in the air between us, then drops back to his side with visible effort. Whatever he sees in my face makes his pupils dilate, his eyes darkening.

He stands, slowly, as if he’s not entirely sure why, and the shift fills the room differently. From the couch I have to look up at him now, and I can no longer tell where his height ends and his nearness begins.

“We should…” he starts, then stops, his gaze dropping to my lips.

“Should what?” I whisper.

The moment stretches, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then he exhales sharply and steps back, breaking the spell.

“The silver thistle,” he says, his voice not quite steady. “I should explain what it does before we proceed.” He clears his throat, returning to safer territory. “It accelerates cellular regeneration when properly prepared. But its effectiveness requires direct transfer of…”

He hesitates, searching for words.

“Magic?” I suggest teasingly.

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Energy would be the human term. The healing properties must be activated through proper handling.”

He motions me closer, and I push up from the couch to join him at the counter. Standing beside him is different from sitting beside him, close enough now that I can count the pulse at his throat, level with my eyes.

“Like this,” he demonstrates, crushing a tiny leaf between his thumb and forefinger. The scent released is unlike anything I’ve experienced, sharp and sweet at the same time, with an underlying note that makes my skin tingle pleasantly.

“Now you try,” he instructs, holding out another leaf.

As I reach for it, our fingers brush, sending that now-familiar jolt through my system. I mimic his motion, crushing the delicate leaf, but the scent seems less potent.

“You must apply precise pressure,” he says, moving behind me. “Like this.”

His massive hand engulfs mine, guiding my fingers with surprising gentleness. The heat of his palm against my skin makes it difficult to focus on the herb.

“Feel the resistance,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. “Then release.”

Under his guidance, I crush the leaf properly. This time, the aroma explodes around us, intoxicating and otherworldly.

“I did it!” I exclaim, turning to face him without thinking.

Our faces are suddenly close, well, as close as they can be given that he’s over a foot taller than me. He’s bent forward, leaning down toward me, searching my face. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. I’m acutely aware of the warmth of his scent and the gentle pattern of his breathing.

“There’s another method,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel more than hear. “For a more potent release.”

Is it my imagination, or did he put extra emphasis on the word “potent”? Frankly, my thoughts are scattered and it’s hard to do much more than stare at how beautifully his lips move despite his tusks.

He takes another leaf, crushes it between his fingers, then raises it to his mouth. Unhurried, he places the crushed leaf on his tongue.

“The oils release more effectively with body heat.” His eyes never leave mine. “The traditional method involves direct transfer.”

Something about his intense gaze and the way he says “direct transfer” makes my pulse quicken. I take another leaf from the bundle, crushing it between my fingers as he taught me.

“Like this?” I ask, raising it toward my lips.

“Yes,” he confirms, watching my movement with unwavering focus.

But instead of placing it on my own tongue, some impulse drives me to reach toward him, offering the crushed herb to him instead.

Time seems to suspend as understanding dawns in his eyes. Seeming to decide, he lowers his head, his lips parting slightly. When his mouth closes around my fingertips, accepting the offering, the gentle pressure of his lips sends a shock of desire straight through me.

His eyes close briefly, savoring the flavor, and when they open again, something primal and hungry has replaced his usual reserve.

“Julia.” My name is transformed into something sacred in his deep voice.