Behind us, her friend clears her throat loudly. "So, uh, I'm gonna assume you two have worked things out? Because this is either the most romantic thing I've ever seen or I'm about to witness something that should have a privacy screen, and I'm not sure which."
Chantel pulls back slightly, laughing through her tears, and she glances over her shoulder at her friend. "We worked it out, Lexi. Thank you for the tea and the pep talk and the?—"
"Get out of here," Lexi interrupts, grinning widely. "Go home with your terrifying romantic Orc boyfriend and live your best life. I expect details later. Tasteful details. Maybe."
Chantel's cheeks flush bright pink, and she nods quickly before turning back to me. "Take me home, Faugh."
I do not need to be told twice.
The rain has not letup by the time we reach our building, and Chantel is shivering against my side despite my attempts to shield her from the worst of the downpour. I unlock thefront door with one hand, keeping her tucked firmly against me with the other, and I guide her inside and up the stairs to our apartment.
The moment I close the door behind us, shutting out the rest of the world, the atmosphere shifts.
She turns to face me, her soaked sweater clinging to her curves, her hair plastered to her face in dark, wet tangles, and the look in her eyes makes my pulse kick violently . There is heat there, raw and undisguised, and when she reaches up to push a strand of hair out of her face, her hand trembles slightly.
"I need to paint," she says suddenly, her voice breathless. "I need to—I have all this energy, all this emotion, and I need to do something with it before I explode. Will you—" She hesitates, biting her lower lip. "Will you come with me? To the studio?"
I nod slowly, understanding what she is not quite asking aloud, and I follow her down the narrow hallway to the small room she has claimed as her creative space.
She flicks on the overhead light, illuminating the chaotic explosion of color and canvas and half-finished projects scattered across every available surface. She moves immediately to her largest easel, pulling out a blank canvas and setting it up with quick, practiced movements, and then she turns back to me.
"I want to paint you," she says, her gaze roaming over my face, my shoulders, my chest. "I want to capture this moment, this feeling, before it fades. Is that okay?"
"You may do whatever you wish, Chantel," I tell her, leaning back against the doorframe and crossing my arms over my chest. "I am entirely at your disposal."
She grins at that, a flash of her usual mischief breaking through the emotional intensity, and she begins pulling out tubes of paint and arranging them on her palette with quick, decisive movements.
For several minutes, I simply watch her work, mesmerized by the focused expression on her face, the way her small hands move with confidence and purpose across the canvas. She glances up at me periodically, her gaze assessing and intense, and each time our eyes meet, the tension in the room ratchets higher.
"You're still too far away," she says finally, setting down her brush and wiping her hands absently on her already paint-covered leggings. "I need you closer. I need—" She breaks off, her cheeks flushing. "Come here, Faugh."
I push off the doorframe and cross the small space in three long strides, stopping directly in front of her. She has to tilt her head all the way back to maintain eye contact, as her pupils dilate, her breathing shifting into something faster, shallower.
"Closer," she whispers.
I step forward again, closing the remaining distance between us until I am standing so close that the toes of my boots nearly touch her paint-splattered sneakers. She places one small hand flat on me, directly over my heart, and I know she can feel the way it is pounding beneath her palm.
"Chantel, if you continue looking at me like that, I will not be responsible for what happens next."
"Good," she breathes out, and then she fists her hand in my shirt and pulls me down.
The kiss is nothing like the careful, tentative exploration from before. This is raw and hungry and desperate, her mouth opening beneath mine as I cup the back of her head and angle her exactly where I want her. She tastes like tears and tea and something uniquely her, and I devour it greedily, my other hand sliding down to grip her hip and haul her flush against me.
She makes a small, needy sound in the back of her throat, and I feel the last threads of my carefully maintained control snap entirely.
I lift her effortlessly, my hands gripping her thighs as I boost her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist with a gasp, her arms locking around my neck. I turn, pressing her back against the nearest clear section of wall, and I kiss her harder, deeper, swallowing her moans as I grind against her.
"Faugh," she gasps out when I finally pull back enough to let her breathe. "The paint. I'm going to get paint everywhere?—"
"I do not care," I growl against her throat, scraping my tusks deliberately along the sensitive skin there and feeling her shudder violently in response. "I will clean it later. Right now, I need you, Chantel. I need to feel you, to claim you properly, to make absolutely certain you understand that you are where you belong, here with me."
"Yes," she whimpers, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Yes, Faugh, please?—"
I carry her across the room, sweeping an arm across her worktable to clear a space, and I set her down on the edge. Tubes of paint clatter to the floor, brushes scattering in every direction, and neither of us pauses to care. Her hands are already yanking at my shirt, pulling it up and over my head, and I help her impatiently before reaching for the hem of her sweater.
We strip each other with frantic urgency, clothes falling away in a chaotic tangle of wet fabric and impatient hands, until she is sitting before me in nothing but her mismatched socks and flushed skin and I am gripping her thighs hard enough to leave marks.
"You are perfect," I tell her roughly, my gaze raking over every soft curve, every paint smudge, every beautiful inch of her. "Absolutely perfect, Chantel. And you are my mate."
