Page 49 of The Orc’s Comfort

I carry her down the hallway in long strides, and she takes this as an invitation, her mouth finding my neck, then my ear. My response is involuntary, immediate, and entirely beyond my control.

I fumble with my keys, which is undignified and also unavoidable.

She does it again. Her tongue traces the pointed edge with the focused curiosity she brings to everything she decides to learn, and my hands shake badly enough that I nearly drop the keyring entirely. When her teeth catch the tip, gently and precisely, I abandon the keys and lean us both against the wall instead, burying my face against her neck before I do something foolish.

“Julia,” I say. A warning.

“Rhazgar,” she says back, breathless and laughing and completely unintimidated.

I get the key in the lock. I’m not certain how.

Inside, the door shuts behind us, lock clicking into place. She stills.

The condo has been transformed. Candles glow across every surface, throwing warm amber light into every corner. The air is thick with something headier than my usual cooking, incense carrying scents of home, rich and warm. I lit them myself, this afternoon, not knowing whether I would need them tonight. Hoping.

“You did all this?” Her voice comes out unsteady.

“After you agreed to dinner with Elder Korgath.” My voice drops lower than I intend. “In case she gave her blessing.”

“She did.”

“Yes. She did.” I slide my hand to the small of her back and draw her closer. “Which means I don't have to hold back anymore.”

Heat moves through her expression, her breath catching. “Good,” she says. “Because I'm done waiting.”

I carry her through the living room and lower her onto the wide arm of the couch, her feet finding the floor, slow and careful. She is looking up at me with her cheeks flushed and her lips parted and her pupils so wide there is almost no color left.

I have imagined this, though I have tried not to.

Her dress comes off first. She reaches behind herself for the zipper with the focused efficiency of someone who has made a decision. She steps out of it, the fabric pooling at her feet, then looks at me and waits.

I shrug out of my own shirt and let it fall.

Her hands come to my chest immediately. Not tentative, purposeful. She flattens her palms against the clan markings that spiral across my skin and I go still, watching her face as she traces them. They are pressure-etched, raised beneath her fingers, the story of my lineage and my losses and the things I have managed to carry across an impossible distance.

She follows the pattern over my heart with her fingertips. She does not rush.

“I love these,” she murmurs. “I've wanted to touch them since the first time I saw you without a shirt.”

Something possessive curls hot in my gut. “When was that?”

“The community garden opening last spring.” Her fingers trace lower, following the markings down my abdomen. “You were helping dig the beds. Your shirt rode up.” She glances up at me briefly. “I couldn't stop staring.”

“I remember that day.” I catch her hand and bring it to my lips. “You dropped an entire flat of seedlings.”

Her cheeks go darker. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything about you.” I turn her hand and press my mouth to her wrist, where her heartbeat flutters beneath my lips. “The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. How you always smell like lavender and old books. The small sound you make when something surprises you.” I kiss her shoulder. Her collarbone. The swell of her breast above her bra. “I’ve been documenting you for months.”

She goes very still.

“The sketches,” she says.

“The sketches.” I reach behind her and unhook her bra. “Every time I saw you, I needed to capture it. To have even the smallest piece of you, even when I couldn't have all of you.”

Her bra joins the pile. I step back just enough to look at her: flushed skin, rapid breathing, her watching me watch her with an expression that is not shy and is not performing. She simply gazes back.

“You're staring,” she says.