I choke on a laugh that twists into a moan. “Yours—fuck?—”
He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around my back to keep me impaled as he stands. The wall meets my shoulders, cold stone against my feverish skin. His free hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “And?”
The stretch burns deliciously, every snap of his hips lighting sparks behind my eyelids. “And you’remine,” I gasp.
His answering grin is all teeth.
Vagarth’s hands clamp around my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my hips. He lifts me effortlessly, the friction vanishing for a terrible, breathless second before he slams me back down onto him. Hard. A sharp gasp tears from my throat, my spine arching off the bed.
"More," I gasp, the word ragged. "Please, Vargath. I need?—"
"Louder." His command is a low vibration against my ear, his hips snapping up to meet my desperate descent. My hands fly to his shoulders, nails biting into the dense muscle bracketing his neck. "Tell me what you need."
"You." My voice cracks, breath hitching as he pistons up, filling me impossibly deep. "I need you. Fuck me.Please." The plea is shredded, raw. "Harder. Gods, don't stop?—"
He grunts, a primal sound of satisfaction. "Fuck, I've missed seeing you like this." His mouth finds the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, teeth scraping. "So wet and needy for me. Begging. Desperate to be fucked." Each word punctuated by a brutal thrust that steals my breath. "Mine."
Then the world spins. Wool blankets scratch my belly as he flips me onto my hands and knees. One large hand lands between my shoulder blades, pressing me down, forcing my hips higher. The other grips my waist, holding me steady as he sheathes himself completely in one powerful drive. I cry out, knuckles white against the bedding.
He’s everywhere. Behind me, inside me, surrounding me. The sheer size of him is overwhelming like this, the positiondeepening the angle until I’m trembling. His rhythm is relentless, punctuated by the slap of skin and his low growls. My head bows, a keening sound escaping me as I push back, meeting him thrust for thrust.
"Vargath!" The name is a sob wrenched from my chest. Pressure coils, unbearably tight, low in my belly. "I'm going?—"
His hand moves from my waist, fingers tangling roughly in my hair, pulling my head back. "Do it," he commands, his voice thick with dark promise. The shift in angle sends a shockwave through me. "Come for me. Now."
The command unravels me. Pleasure detonates, white-hot and consuming. My muscles clench violently around him, drawing a ragged groan from his chest. Wave after wave crashes over me, leaving me trembling, crying out into the rough fabric, vision blurring at the edges. My arms give out, and I collapse onto my elbows, spent, gasping.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. His fingers tighten in my hair, keeping my hips raised. The rhythm turns punishing, deep, hard drives that push me against the bed with each powerful thrust. My whimpers are muffled by the blankets. Just when I think I can’t take it, that I’m too sensitive, his control shatters.
A guttural roar rips through him, half frustration, half ecstasy. He slams into me one final time, grinding deep, his body stiffening as he empties himself inside me with a shuddering pulse. Heat floods me, a possessive claim that leaves me trembling yet again. He collapses forward, his heavy chest pressing against my back, his breath hot and harsh against my shoulder. The weight pins me, grounding, claiming. Complete.
"I love you, Seris," he says, his voice rough and gravelly.
Snuggling into his broad chest, I breathe a sigh. "I love you, too."
40
VARGATH
The morning sun filters through the gaps in the storage barn's roof as I wrestle with a stubborn wooden beam that's decided today is the perfect day to demonstrate its independence. Sweat beads along my forehead despite the cool air, and I'm beginning to suspect this particular piece of timber has personal grievances against me.
"You're fighting it like it insulted your mother." Seris's voice carries that particular note of amusement that means she's been watching me struggle longer than strictly necessary.
I grunt, adjusting my grip on the beam. "It did. Called her a weak-tusked milk-drinker."
Her laughter rings across the barn, bright and unguarded in a way that still catches me off-guard after all these months. She approaches with a coil of rope slung over her shoulder, moving with the easy confidence of someone who's found her place in the world.
"Here, you stubborn orc. Let me show you how it's done." She nudges me aside with her hip, examining the beam's position with the same careful attention she once reserved for diplomatic translations.
"I've been building things since before you could walk properly."
"And yet here we are, with you glowering at inanimate wood like it's personally wronged you." She threads the rope through a pulley system I hadn't even noticed, her movements economical and sure. "Sometimes finesse works better than brute force."
The beam slides into position with embarrassing ease. I stare at it, then at her, then back at the beam.
"Shut up," I mutter, which only makes her grin wider.
"I didn't say anything."
