I pull back just enough to look at her face, taking in the blown pupils, the kiss-swollen lips, the flush that's spread from her cheeks down to the tops of her breasts visible above her dress. Beautiful. Disheveled. Undone.
"Mine," I repeat, the word coming out rougher than before, more guttural. The Orcish dialect makes it sound like apossession, a claim, a threat and a promise all rolled into one syllable.
She shudders, her whole body going taut against me, every muscle tensing as though the word itself has physical weight. Her breath catches audibly in her throat. I watch her pupils dilate even further, turning her eyes almost black.
"Say it again," she whispers, and there's something desperate in her voice, something that sounds like need and plea and demand all at once. Her hips roll against mine, seeking that friction again, and her fingers tighten in my jacket hard enough that I hear the fabric strain.
"Grishka." I thrust against her, the layers of fabric between us suddenly intolerable. I can feel her heat even through her dress, through my pants. "Mine. You are mine, Colletta."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, Kruk, I'm—oh god, right there, don't stop?—"
I won't. Can't. My hips move in a steady rhythm now, grinding against her, the door rattling with each thrust. She's soaking through her underwear, I can feel the dampness through the fabric, and smell her arousal sharp and sweet in the air.
My tusks scrape her throat as I kiss down to her collarbone. She tilts her head, giving me access, trusting me with the vulnerable column of her neck. The gesture sends a primitive satisfaction through my chest.
Submission. Trust.Mine.
I gently bite where her neck meets her shoulder, careful of my tusks. Shekeens, the sound high and desperate. Her hips jerk against mine, seeking friction, and I give it to her, grinding harder, faster.
"Kruk," she sobs. "Kruk, I'm going to—I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." I keep the rhythm steady, relentless. "Take it. Take what you need."
Her fingers scrabble at my shoulders, my neck, finally fisting in my hair and pulling. The sharp pain makes me growl, low and possessive, and I thrust harder, pinning her completely against the door.
She comes apart in my arms.
Her whole body locks up, back arching, a broken cry spilling from her lips. I feel her pulsing even through the layers of fabric, feel her nails digging into my scalp, feel the way she shakes and trembles as the orgasm rolls through her.
Beautiful. Devastating. Mine.
I work her through it, grinding slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks fade and she goes boneless against me, panting.
Silence fills the room except for our ragged breathing.
Slowly, carefully, I become aware of my surroundings again. The door against her back. The uncomfortable tightness of my pants. The throbbing ache in my cock that demands attention, demands release, demands to be buried inside her heat.
Contract. Job. Boundaries.
Fuck.
I force myself to step back, to let her legs slide down until her feet touch the floor. She wobbles slightly and I steady her, my hands gentle on her waist.
Her face is flushed, her curls wild, her dress rumpled. She looks thoroughly debauched. The marks I left on her throat are already darkening to purple.
She stares up at me, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips still parted as she struggles to catch her breath. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and hazy with satisfaction. There's a dazed quality to her expression that makes something primal and satisfied rumble in me.
"That," she says faintly, her voice hoarse and raw, "was not in the contract."
"No." My voice comes out rougher than gravel, scraped over broken glass. The single word is barely recognizable as speech. "It was not."
I can still taste her on my tongue. I can still feel the ghost of her thighs trembling against my shoulders, the way her body seized and shuddered when she fell apart. My cock throbs in angry protest, demanding its turn, demanding to be buried inside her wet heat until she screams my name again.
Not part of the mission. Not part of the agreement.
"I should probably..." She trails off, swaying slightly on unsteady legs. Her hand comes up to touch the wall beside the door, seeking balance, but her fingers slide uselessly against the smooth surface. Her knees buckle just enough that I see it coming before it happens.
I catch her before she falls, scooping her up again. This time I carry her to the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, setting her down gently on the pink comforter. She immediately curls onto her side, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.
