"You," I manage, my fingers tangling in his perfectly neat braid and pulling it loose with zero remorse because I desperately need something to hold onto. "I want you. All of you. No more holding back."
Something shifts in his expression, something primal and possessive and utterly Orc, and he surges up to capture my mouth in another bruising kiss while his hands move to the waistband of my leggings. "No more holding back," he agrees roughly against my lips. "No more human restraint. I am going to claim you the way my people claim their mates, and you are going to take every inch of me and know that you belong to me just as completely as I belong to you."
He strips my leggings and underwear off in one smooth motion, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder without looking, and then his hands are on my thighs, pushing them apart with firm, inexorable pressure. I feel exposed and vulnerable and desperately turned on as he settles between my legs, his still-clothed body a stark reminder of how overdressed he is compared to my complete nakedness.
"Not fair," I protest weakly, my hands fisting in the expensive fabric of his shirt as I tug at it with what little coordination I still possess. "You're still completely dressed, and I'm lying here like some kind of... of buffet, and that is absolutely not—" I break off as his fingers curl inside me and my brain short-circuits entirely, my protest dissolving into a needy whimper against his neck.
"Shh." He captures both my wrists in one massive hand and pins them gently above my head, his other hand trailing down my body with agonizing slowness. "I need to prepare you properly. You are so small, and I am—" He pauses, his fingers brushing teasingly between my legs, and I nearly come off the bed. "I will not hurt you. I will make certain you are ready for me."
"I'm ready now," I gasp, my hips lifting shamelessly into his touch as his fingers explore with maddening thoroughness. "Faugh, please, I need—oh?—"
His fingers slide inside me, thick and careful and absolutely perfect, and I lose the ability to form coherent sentences as he works me open with patient, devastating skill. He watches my face intently, his eyes tracking every gasp and whimper and breathless plea, adjusting his angle and pressure based on my reactions with the same meticulous attention to detail he applies to organizing my art supplies.
"So tight," he rumbles, adding another finger and making me see stars. "So wet for me. You take my fingers so beautifully, little mate. Soon you will take all of me, and I will fill you so completely you will never doubt who you belong to."
"Yours," I whimper, my inner walls clenching around his fingers as pressure builds low in my belly. "I'm yours, Faugh, please?—"
"Not yet." He withdraws his hand, ignoring my frustrated whine, and finally releases my wrists so he can strip off his own clothes with efficient, economical movements. His shirt hits the floor, revealing the impressive expanse of his slate-green chest and the intricate tribal markings I've only glimpsed before. His pants follow, and then?—
Oh.
The word escapes me as a breathless gasp, barely audible, as I lean back against the pillows and truly, fully comprehend what I'm about to experience. My eyes go wide, genuinely, comically wide, as I take in the full, unobstructed view of him for the first time, and the sheer, undeniable reality of his size hits me.
"That's not going to fit," I blurt out before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out in a rushed, high-pitched squeak that's equal parts panic and awe. My voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, betraying just how thoroughly my nervous system isfreaking out at the logistics of this particular situation. I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks, painting them a deep, mortified red, as I realize how absurdly inadequate that statement sounds, how utterly insufficient my body suddenly feels in comparison to the sheer, monumental mass of him looming between my thighs.
His mouth curves into a predatory smile. "It will fit. I will make certain of it." He settles back between my thighs, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance with insistent pressure. "Trust me, Chantel. Trust me to take care of you."
I do trust him. That's the terrifying, wonderful truth. I trust this massive, neat-freak Orc who reorganized my spice cabinet alphabetically and threatens my terrible dates with polite violence and just confessed he's been in love with me for weeks.
"Okay," I breathe, reaching up to cup his face with both hands. "Show me. Claim me. Make me yours."
His eyes flash molten gold, and then he's pushing inside with agonizing slowness, stretching me wider than I've ever been stretched, filling me so completely I barely breathe. He pauses when I tense, his forehead pressed against mine, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Breathe," he commands roughly. "Relax for me, little mate. Let me in."
I force myself to take a shaky breath, consciously relaxing muscles I didn't realize I'd tensed, and he slides deeper with a guttural groan that vibrates through both our bodies. Inch by impossible inch, he works himself inside until finally, impossibly, he's fully seated, his hips flush against mine, his massive body covering me completely.
"Mine," he growls, the word rough and possessive and rolling through the room like distant thunder, every syllable dripping with primal ownership and ancient claim. The Orcish word that follows is guttural and rough against his tongue, "Gesh'ahn, my mate, my heart, my very soul. Mine. Forever and always."
The intensity in his golden eyes steals what little breath I have left, and I feel the declaration settle over me like a branded mark, not suffocating, but grounding. Centering. This massive, immaculate Orc is claiming me with words that sound like they come from somewhere deep and primal within him, from a part of himself he's kept locked away until this moment.
"Yours," I gasp, my voice small and breathless as my body continues its desperate adjustment to the overwhelming fullness stretching me in ways I never knew possible. The delicious, exquisite stretch sends pleasure and pressure radiating through my core, and I can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, filling me so completely that I'm not sure where I end and he begins. The sensation of being utterly claimed, pinned beneath his large body and held in place by those enormous, careful hands, is intoxicating.
"Move," I plead, my hips tilting upward in a desperate, instinctive motion. "Please, Faugh, I need you to move?—"
He does, withdrawing slowly and then pushing back in with devastating precision, hitting something deep inside that makes me cry out and dig my nails into his shoulders. He sets a relentless rhythm, powerful and primal and absolutely perfect, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave bruises while the other tangles in my hair, holding me in place for his claiming.
"Gesh'ahn," he repeats, the Orcish word rumbling from somewhere deep in his massive chest, transforming into a low, resonant chant that vibrates through the air between us. His voice takes on an ancient, primal quality, something raw and feral and utterly possessive that sends shivers cascading down my spine. With each syllable, he drives into me with escalating intensity, his movements growing harder and faster, less controlled than before. The careful restraint he's maintained all evening finally fractures completely, giving way to something far more primal and demanding. "Bal'thor. Kesh'ra. Mine. Forever.Mate." The words flow together like an incantation, each one punctuated by the force of his thrusts, and I understand instinctively that he's not just claiming my body—he's declaring something far deeper, something binding and eternal, in the guttural language of his ancestors.
The Orcish words wash over me, raw and ancient and utterly possessive. Under him. Around him. His.
"Say it," he demands, his rhythm never faltering as he angles his hips to hit that perfect spot with every thrust. "Say you are mine. Say it in my language.Gesh'ahn."
"Gesh'ahn," I gasp, the unfamiliar word feeling right on my tongue. "Yours. I'm yours, Faugh, I'm—oh god?—"
The orgasm hits me with pleasure crashing through my body in overwhelming waves as I shatter around him. He groans deep in his chest, his rhythm stuttering, and then he's following me over the edge with a roar that I'm distantly certain the entire floor can hear, his body going rigid as he spills inside me with such force that I feel it.
We collapse together in a tangle of sweaty limbs and heaving breaths, his weight pinning me to the mattress in a way that should probably be uncomfortable but instead feels safe and grounding and absolutely perfect. His face is buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin, and I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs in time with my own.
