The fabric parts further, revealing the gentle valley between her breasts, the delicate architecture of her collarbones. My thumbs brush against her skin as I work—an accident that makes her shiver.
"You're good at that," she says, and her voice has gone slightly dazed, unfocused in a way I've never heard before. Like I've managed to short-circuit that relentless corporate processing system she runs on.
I like it. Want to hear more of it.
"Practice," I say simply, moving to the next button.
Her expression shifts in an instant. The haze clears, replaced by something sharp and possessive that makes my pulse kick up. Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, nails pressing through the fabric of my shirt hard enough that I can feel the individual points.
"Practice?" The word comes out dangerously soft. Her eyes narrow, that keen corporate intelligence focusing on me like a spotlight. "What kind of practice? With who?"
Oh.
Oh.
She's jealous.
Orla Peace, who claims this is purely physical and temporary and means nothing beyond stress relief, is jealous at the thought of me undressing someone else.
I grin, filing away that reaction for later examination. "With other buttons. Different context." Not entirely true but close enough. I've undressed enough warriors after battle to know how fasteners work. Never cared much about being gentle before.
Care now.
The blouse falls open and my breath catches.
Human softness. Curves where orcs have hard muscle and battle scars. Skin like cream, flushed pink across her chest. A white undergarment holding her breasts that has more engineering than my entire wardrobe combined.
Beautiful.
Fragile.
Mine.
The last thought rises unbidden, primal and possessive, but it feels undeniably, fundamentally correct. As natural as breathing. As certain as an axe in my palm.
"Stop staring," she mutters, her voice carrying that particular edge of self-consciousness that humans get when they're vulnerable. Her hands move toward my shirt buttons in what I recognize as a defensive maneuver—attack to deflect attention from herself.
I catch both her hands mid-motion, wrapping my fingers around her smaller wrists. Careful. Always careful with her, even when instinct screams to just take and claim and conquer.
"No."
Her eyes snap up to mine, that corporate challenge flashing even through the haze of arousal. "No?"
"This is your reward, remember?" I bring her wrists together in one hand, holding them loosely. Testing. "I want to look at what's mine."
Her breathing stutters. "I'm not—we agreed this was just physical?—"
"You're shaking."
"Because you're—" She breaks off, flustered in a way that's completely different from her usual corporate composure. "Let go of my hands."
"Why?"
"Because I want to touch you."
I release her wrists and she immediately attacks my shirt buttons with the same focused intensity she brings to spreadsheets.
Her fingers brush my chest as she works and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.
