"Yours," she agrees breathlessly, reaching for me. "Always yours, Faugh. Now stop talking and?—"
I do not let her finish the sentence. I pull her to the very edge of the table, position myself between her spread thighs, and Iclaim her in one long, deep stroke that makes her cry out and arch back against the paint-splattered surface.
The angle is perfect, the height of the table putting her exactly where I need her, and I set a relentless pace immediately, driving into her with strong force that the table scrapes loudly against the floor. She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into the small of my back, and she meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my shoulders.
"More," she demands breathlessly, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. "Harder, Faugh, I need?—"
I lean forward, bracing one hand on the table beside her head, and I give her exactly what she asks for, pounding into her with such a big force that the entire table shudders beneath us. My free hand slides up her body, cupping her breast, teasing her nipple, before moving higher to wrap gently around her throat.
She gasps at the possessive gesture, her eyes flying open to meet mine, and the trust I see there, the complete surrender, nearly undoes me entirely.
"Mine," I growl, tightening my grip just enough to feel her pulse fluttering wildly beneath my palm. "Say it, Chantel. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours," she gasps out, her voice ragged. "I'm yours, Faugh. Only yours. Always—oh god?—"
Her entire body goes taut, her inner walls clamping down around me with devastating force, and I feel her shatter beneath me with a sharp cry that echoes off the studio walls. She’s coming undone, the feel of her pulsing around me, the sound of my name on her lips, drives me over the edge immediately after, and I bury myself as deep as I can go, roaring her name as I fill her completely.
For a long moment, we simply stay locked together, both of us gasping for air, our bodies slick with sweat and streaked with paint from where we pressed against the table. Chantel's handscome up to cup my face, and she pulls me down for a slow, tender kiss that feels like a promise.
"I love you," she whispers against my lips. "I love you so much it terrifies me, Faugh."
"Good," I murmur back, pressing my forehead to hers. "Then we are evenly matched, because you terrify me as well, Chantel. In the very best way."
She laughs softly, the sound bright and joyful, and I carefully pull back, lifting her off the table and cradling her against my chest as I survey the absolute destruction we have wrought on her studio.
There is paint everywhere, vibrant streaks of blue and gold and crimson smeared across the table, the floor, our skin. Her carefully organized palette has been knocked over, tubes crushed and leaking, and several canvases have toppled from their easels in the chaos.
Chantel follows my gaze and winces. "I made a mess."
"We made a mess," I correct her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And I will clean every inch of it later. But first, we are going to shower, and then I am going to feed you, and then I am going to take you to bed properly and remind you exactly why you agreed to be mine."
She grins up at me, exhausted and happy and absolutely radiant. "That sounds perfect."
Three weeks later,I stand in the doorway of her studio, watching her work. She is completely absorbed in the canvas before her, her brush moving in quick, confident strokes, adding layer after layer of color to the abstract piece she has been building for days. Sunlight streams through the window, catching in her hair and painting her skin gold, and I take a moment to simply appreciate her in her element.
She is humming softly under her breath, something cheerful and off-key, and there is a smudge of cerulean blue across her cheekbone that she has not noticed yet.
In my pocket, the small black velvet box feels simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy.
I had the ring commissioned two weeks ago from a jeweler who specializes in custom work, providing exact specifications for something that would suit Chantel perfectly. It is delicate and unique, a thin band of hammered gold set with a small, irregular opal that shifts through a dozen different colors depending on the light. It is nothing like the traditional Orcish betrothal bands, which are thick and brutally practical, but it is absolutely right for her.
I step into the studio, and she glances up immediately, her face breaking into the warm, open smile that never fails to make my chest tighten.
"Hey," she says brightly, setting down her brush. "I didn't hear you come in. What do you think?" She gestures to the canvas. "I'm trying something new with the layering technique, and I think it's actually working, but I—" She stops abruptly, her gaze sharpening as she takes in my expression. "Faugh? What's wrong? You look, are you nervous?"
I cross the room slowly, pulling the small box from my pocket, as her eyes go wide, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
"Chantel," I begin. "I have a question to ask you."
CHANTEL
Igander at the small velvet box in Faugh's massive hand, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it . My brain immediately spirals into a hundred different directions at once because that is what my brain does when confronted with emotionally significant moments, and oh god, this is happening, this is actually happening right now in the middle of my paint-splattered studio on a random Thursday afternoon when I am wearing my rattiest overalls and haven't washed my hair in two days.
"Faugh," I manage to squeak out, my voice coming out approximately three octaves higher than normal. "Is that—are you?—"
"Breathe, Chantel," he says gently, and there is something so tender in his expression that I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. He takes another step closer, closing the distance between us, and carefully opens the box.
I blink down at it, my mind grinding to an absolute standstill as the initial shock of the moment collides with reality. For a fraction of a second, maybe less, my scattered, overactive brain had conjured up the entire narrative: the proposal, the wedding,the carefully curated Pinterest board I definitely have not been secretly maintaining since month three of knowing Faugh. But then clarity cuts through the haze of anticipation, and I realize what I'm actually looking at.
