I climb onto the bed, straddling his hips, and settle my weight against him. The heat of him sears through the thin barrier of his trousers, hard and insistent against my core. I brace my hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath my palms.
"Three weeks," I say softly, rolling my hips in a slow, deliberate grind that pulls a strangled sound from his throat. "Three weeks of telling myself I didn't need this. That I was better off alone, building my business, proving I could do it without anyone's help."
His hands flex against his stomach, but he keeps them where they are, not reaching for me even though I can see the effort it costs him in the tension bracketing his mouth.
"I was lying to myself," I continue, leaning down until my mouth hovers just above his. "Because the truth is, I missed you. I missed this. I missed the way you look at me like I'm the only thing in the entire world that matters."
"You are," he grits out, the words rough and urgent, breaking the no-talking rule I'd established with a firmness that makes my breath catch.
I bite his lower lip in sharp reprimand, not hard enough to draw blood but sharp enough to make my point unmistakably clear. The taste of him floods my mouth, black pepper and something distinctlyhim, and it takes everything in me not to lose the thread of what I'm doing.
"What did I say about talking?" I ask, my voice coming out breathier than I'd like, less commanding and more affectedthan the dominating tone I'm going for. I pull back just enough to meet his gaze, watching the way his jaw clenches at the withdrawal, the way his hands grip the headboard tighter.
"Sorry." The word emerges strained and barely audible, almost a whisper, and there's something devastatingly vulnerable about hearing Thrall Orkenshade—the man who runs a tech empire with brutal efficiency and answers to no one—sound so utterly undone. His chest heaves beneath me, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint, and I can feel the raw power of him coiled tight, waiting for my next move.
"Better." I soothe the bite with my tongue, then kiss him properly, deep and slow and thorough. He kisses me back with devastating focus, his mouth moving against mine like he's trying to memorize the taste of me, the shape of me, the way I fit against him.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"Hands on the headboard," I order, sitting up and looking down at him. "And keep them there."
He reaches up immediately, wrapping his large hands around the wooden slats of my headboard. The position pulls his chest taut, emphasizing every ridge and valley of muscle. He looks like some kind of fantasy come to life, all raw power and restrained strength, waiting for my instruction.
I slide backward, my hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. "Lift your hips."
He does, and I work the fabric down over his hips and thighs, taking his boxers with them. He's fully hard, thick and heavy, and the sight of him sends a pulse of pure want straight through my core.
I take my time removing his clothes completely, letting them join the pile on the floor, and then I crawl back up his body, dragging my nails lightly over his skin. He shudders beneath my touch, his knuckles whitening where they grip the headboard.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I ask, positioning myself above him, as the head of him brushes against my entrance. "How completely you've wrecked me for anyone else?"
"Romee." My name is a plea, rough and desperate.
"I'm going to take my time with you," I tell him, sinking down just enough to take the tip of him inside. The stretch is intense, and I pause, letting my body adjust to the size of him. "And you're going to stay perfectly still and let me."
His response is a low, guttural sound that might be agreement or simply wordless need.
I brace my hands on his chest and sink down another inch, slow and controlled. The feeling of him filling me, stretching me, is overwhelming in the best possible way. I take him deeper, inch by deliberate inch, until I'm fully seated against his hips.
We both freeze, breathing hard in the charged silence that settles between us like a living thing. The only sounds are the ragged gasps escaping our lungs and the faint creak of the headboard under the strain of his white-knuckled grip.
"Fuck," he grits out, his entire body rigid with the monumental effort of staying still beneath me, muscles bunched and trembling with his restraint. I can feel him vibrating with the need to move, to thrust, to take control, everything his primal Orc instincts are screaming at him to do.
"I said quiet," I murmur, leaning forward until my face is inches from his, letting him see the satisfaction in my eyes.
"Can't." His voice comes out as a low, desperate rasp, barely above a growl. "You feel too good. You're killing me, Romee. Every second of this is—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle tick beneath his green skin. "I need you to understand what you're doing to me."
I clench around him in punishment, and his hips jerk upward involuntarily, driving him impossibly deeper. The sensationtears a gasp from my throat, pleasure sparking up my spine like electricity.
"Hands stay on the headboard, Thrall," I warn, even as I start to move, lifting myself up slowly before sinking back down. "No matter what I do. No matter how much you want to touch me. They stay there."
"You're cruel."
"I'm in charge. There's a difference."
I set a rhythm, slow and deep, taking him fully with each downward stroke. His breathing turns ragged, his chest heaving beneath my palms. I can feel him fighting the urge to move, to thrust up into me, to take control the way his instincts are clearly screaming at him to do.
But he doesn't.
