It was similar to the way the other orcs had danced — even Bjorn and the orclings — and now that she knew it a little better, Geva found herself drawing from it, her body spinning faster, harder, her feet driving against the stone floor, meeting the drumbeats as they rose. As her arms settled light and familiar on Rathgarr’s broad shoulders, her fingers catching into his hair, her hips eagerly tilting into his touch. Into the stunning, astonishing sensation of his hand slipping around to her arse, and yanking her closer, harder, hotter. Their bodies moving almost as one, now, their hips pressing tight, rocking together again and again. And Geva was distantly but powerfully aware of the swell at the front of his too-tight trousers, the way it kept growing steadily larger, hungrier, with every touch, every sway of her hips…
And then — Geva’s breath caught — Rathgarr’s big hands snatched her up, pressed her close, just there, oh hell, there. Their eyes meeting, holding, as they ground tightly together, and it was as though the crackling shimmering hunger had shattered, suddenly, raging and reeling between them — and with one swift, purposeful movement, Rathgarr was striding off, toward the nearest bench, with Geva still clutched in his arms, clinging to him with all her strength.
He sank down onto the bench with a low hiss, his nostrils flaring, his black tongue brushing his parted lips. Because oh, she was now straddled over his lap in her shift, her knees spread wide, her body still swaying to the beat still swelling all around them. And Rathgarr’s eyes were flashing with devious, daring defiance, as his hands purposefully snapped down to his straining, bulging trousers, and began…loosening his belt.
Geva’s awareness suddenly lurched to life again, her body stilling over him, becausewait. They were — at a party. In public. And even if other people were doing similar things around them — her gaze caught on the sight of Varinn, now sprawled down the bench with tightly closed eyes, while Thrain’s hand moved in his trousers — that didn’t make this acceptable. Respectable. Did it?
“Ach, do not pretend I cannot scent you, my pretty poppet,” Rathgarr was murmuring, as he kept drawing his belt apart, and then began sliding his trousers downwards. “I ken what you wish for, ach?”
Oh, gods damn him, because the trousers were already easing lower, lower. Revealing first his lower belly, then that dense black hair. And then — Geva had to bite back her gasp — that glossy head, atop that length of ridged, hard grey flesh, more and more of it, until —
It bobbed out all on its own, springing up between them, exposing itself for the entirety of the surrounding room. Standing there long and thick and dripping, jutting up straight and swollen… and then pulsing even fuller against the light touch of Rathgarr’s easy, stroking fingers.
Geva truly could not move, because he could not be doing this, not in public, not with an audience — and yes, oh hell, there was already an audience, several orcs settling on the bench’s other side to look, several more perhaps milling about behind, their prickling gazes far too palpable on the back of her neck. While Rathgarr, the devious underhanded cheat, just kept looking at her, his eyes so warm and wicked, brimming with the blatant, brazen challenge of this moment.
“You ken you can take this, poppet?” he murmured, as his audacious hand kept stroking, pumping out a growing bead of thick, pearly white. “Can you again swallow it whole inside you?”
Geva’s whole body shuddered, her face flaming hot, her eyes locked to his, to his provocation, his audacity. And as her shocked, stilted thoughts desperately fought to regroup, there was suddenly a new awareness, a truth she’d nearly forgotten. This was her job. What he’d hired her for. A show. Play-acting. Pretending to be his sweet, eager mate.
And instead of the choked, bitter misery that so often accompanied that thought, this time, looking into Rathgarr’s wicked, provocative eyes, it almost felt like — relief. Like… permission. This was a show, a challenge, and he was damned well not going to win. Not after everything today. Not like this.
“Oh, but I don’t know if I can, love,” she heard her voice say, sounding impressively plaintive, or even uncertain, as her eyes briefly dropped to the huge, hungry sight between them. “It’s just so… big. And… messy.”
And oh, the way Rathgarr’s nostrils flared again, his sly grin leaping on his mouth. “Ach, but I have brought a rag this time,” he replied, patting with obnoxious satisfaction at his rumpled trouser pocket. “And only think of how good it shall feel, ach? Of how your tight, deep little womb longs to be filled. How it craves a good, strong, fat orc-prick to kiss and milk and seize upon.”
Oh, gods curse this outrageous menace, because Geva’s swollen, slick-feeling body was indeed clutching, seizing, gripping at nothing. Longing to be filled, damn him, and when she fought for her most vicious glare, he actually laughed, the sound rich and delighted, perhaps easier than she’d ever heard from his mouth.
“Ach, you are so pretty when you sulk, my prim little schoolmarm,” he drawled, as his hand on that huge heft kept stroking, pumping up, squeezing out more liquid white, until it oozed down the length of him in a thick, glossy rivulet. “But I must yet needs empty myself, ach? So if you shall not offer up your womb for my filling, mayhap you shall grant me your sweet sucking mouth, or your plump, pretty rump?”
Geva’s shock wasn’t even slightly put-upon this time, especially when Rathgarr purposefully glanced down the bench. To where both Varinn and Thrain were now openly watching too, Thrain’s hand still deep inside Varinn’s trousers.
“You ought to see her rump,” Rathgarr coolly informed them, giving her arse a blatant squeeze over her shift, “after I have split it wide open upon me. As if it isbeggingto be ploughed again and again. To swallow up as many good, fat loads as I shall deign to feed it.”
Geva’s mouth fell open, but no words came out, and her shock only whirled sharper at the sight of Varinn’s lips parting, his eyes gone glassy and dazed, while Thrain shifted closer against him, his face easing into his neck. “You think that about me, Varinn?” he breathed, husky, as Varinn’s eyes squeezed shut, a pained look flashing across his face. “Want to feed me all your good seed?”
There was truly no possible answer to this, other than to glare back at Rathgarr’s smug, appalling face, to see the light and the laughter dancing in his eyes. “I ken you long for it, poppet,” he purred, his hand still on her arse guiding her closer, gently crumpling her shift in his fingers. “And in this, you shall not even need to bare yourself, ach? Now come. Sit.”
Geva’s lips were still parted, her eyes darting between his groin and his face, her thoughts distantly circling around those words. She wouldn’t need to bare herself, because yes, she was still wearing her shift, just like he’d wanted, just for this. And yes, she could just ease a little up and forward, and… and…
“Ach, my sweet,” he murmured, his eyes shifting again, flickering between the challenge, the craving, the… longing. “Sit deep upon me. Make me your own, whilst all my clan bears witness. Should… you wish.”
The last part was so low, so soft, a whispered caress just for her, beneath all the hungry watching eyes, the steady, sensual thrum of the drums. And Geva could still so easily refuse, she could easily make some petty excuse, get up, and run away…
But instead, she was holding his eyes, and giving a brief, furtive little nod. And then shifting up, closer, her legs straddling wider over his, while an unmistakable astonishment — and then a fierce blazing heat — flared across his watching eyes.
“Good, poppet,” he breathed, as his big hand came to the bottom of her shift, lifted it up just enough for him to slip that swollen, leaking cock beneath it. “Find me. Open up wide for me.”
And oh, she already was, they were finding each other, his smooth, slippery head nudging up against where she was so wet, so wide open, so exposed. So ready for him, oh gods, her hungry heat clutching at him, scattering out streams of shuddering warmth as he swelled even closer, eased a little deeper. His breath catching, his lashes fluttering, as his hand slipped out from beneath to join the other on her arse, cupping tight and firm over her shift. As if locking her in place above him, upon him, so he could…
Slide her down, as he slid in. As that slick delving hardness sank up slow and smooth inside, splitting her apart upon him, as he kept plunging deeper, deeper, deeper. And between the drive and the drums and the sheer screaming sensation of it, Geva scarcely heard her shrill, shaky cry, or his answering low, guttural growl.
But he was still watching her, his gaze glittering on her face, with something much like triumph, or perhaps even greed. “Ach, my stubborn schoolmarm,” he breathed, as his claws pricked at her arse through her shift, drawing her down even deeper. “You take my good fat Ash-Kai prick inside you. You suck it up deep, swallow it whole for me. You kiss it, and drink it, and tell me how it is all you shall ever need.”
Oh, gods, Geva couldn’t stop shuddering, gasping, her hands clutching at his shoulders, because oh, he was everywhere, filling her, consuming her. That still-driving hardness swelling even fuller, opening her even wider. Conquering the very core of her, breaking her apart, the ecstasy already near enough to taste…
“Ach, not yet,” Rathgarr hissed, his eyes glinting with command, as his hands convulsed against her arse, holding her still. “You speak this first. Use your clever words for me, and then I shall grant you relief.”
And oh, how was he doing this, flashing out so much frenzied craving that Geva felt faint, her body frantically seizing at where he’d indeed stopped moving, jutted up almost all the way inside her. Feeling so good, so perfect, his eyes, his hands, his safety…
