“You feel — so good, love,” she gulped at him, between deep, desperate breaths. “Nothing has ever felt so good. I need — more of you. All of you.”
She nearly sobbed at the feel of that invading strength swelling fuller at her words, straining against her wildly clamping grip, his claws digging a little deeper into her arse — but his eyes hadn’t changed, still glinting with that danger, that greed.
“Not enough, poppet,” he told her, lazy and smug, as one of his warm hands gently slipped around, slid up her bare thigh beneath her shift. “Make me believe this as truth, my sweet. Only then I shall plough you again, and grant you the sweet seed you long for.”
Geva’s groan was guttural, broken, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her eyes fixed on his watching, enraging face. “I need it, Rathgarr,” she gasped, pleaded. “I need to feel you inside me. I need to swallow you whole, and drink your seed, and anything else you’ll give me.”
And yes, yes, his eyes were shifting again, his sharp tooth biting his lip, as that hand under her shift slipped up further, further, skating over their joined bodies, finding her pulsing, straining peak, just above where she was stretched out wide around him…
“Better,” he breathed, as his hard thumb ground against it, as his swelling heft began sinking a little deeper again. “More.”
More, oh he wanted more, just as she did, and she fervently nodded, clung tighter to his shoulders, shook all over at the feel of him moving deeper, filling her again, yes, yes. “More, Rathgarr,” she begged. “More. I need you. Need anything you’ll give me. Your seed, your hands, your gifts, your tending. Your” — she dragged in air, her body writhing all over as he finally sank all the way, skin pressing to hot skin — “your trust. Your truth. Yoursons.”
And oh, the way he groaned at that, his lashes fluttering, his teeth bared, his eyes flaring between fury and craving. While inside her, his strength viciously swelled, and then canted up sharp and deep. And a greedy, gleeful part of Geva was shouting at it, glorying in it, because oh, she had him, she’d known there was something in that, she was clutching and arching and writhing into his touch. Into his sudden hard, angry thrusts up, his hand on her arse driving her down again and again, his other hand grinding at her peak, just how she’d shown him. Swarming her with roaring raging sensation, overwhelming all else in its fierce flashing vehemence, the pleasure arching up in jagged, juddering bursts, higher and higher, until —
Geva screamed as he overcame her, as her writhing body capitulated, collapsed into surge after surge of shaking, shattering relief. Seizing at him, swallowing him, as he stilled, stiffened, cursed under his breath — and then he was shoving up harder, driving up deeper, and pouring out inside. Filling her, rewarding her, giving her all he had, all she’d ever wanted, here in swell after swell of sweet spraying heat.
Geva couldn’t have said when it stopped, when the dizzying euphoria shifted into something else. Something she could scarcely catch in his watching, blinking eyes — but there it was too, in the way his hand’s touch under her shift jerked away, as if it had been stung. As if… as if…
“Very nice, woman,” he said smoothly, as that hand rose to pat at her cheek, the touch distant and firm. “I always knew you secretly longed to beg and plead for my seed, and my sons. You women are all the same, ach? All too easy, by far.”
His tone was light, teasing, as if this was all still part of the game, the challenge — but it was almost as though that hand had slapped her across the face. As if yes, she’d gone too far with the sons, and now this was his retaliation, his vengeance.
And worst of all, he’d done it here, in front of all these watching orcs, who were obviously waiting for some kind of response. Some kind of lighthearted jest in kind, but how could Geva possibly speak with her eyes smarting like this, with the horrible betraying waver on her mouth, with his softening heat still cradled deep inside her?
“Indeed, love,” she finally managed, desperately bringing a smile to her mouth, if not her blinking, prickling eyes. “We well know what a great honour it is to earn an Ash-Kai’s true favour and affection, and to bear him hale, hearty sons.”
There were a few approving murmurs from behind her, suggesting she’d at least kept up the appearance of it, thank the gods. But she couldn’t bear to look at Rathgarr anymore, and her eyes had dropped, to his trousers, to where he’d said he’d brought the rag, this time.
And yes, he was already fishing for it, yanking it out of his pocket with a rather unsteady-looking hand. And perhaps Geva should have been caught on the fact that he’d thought to bring it, that he’d so clearly wanted this, planned this, with her — but instead, she could only seem to snatch at the rag, press it up between her thighs as she abruptly drew up and away from him. As his softened heft fell from her, slapped down wet and thick against his belly.
“Well, I’m off to clean up, then,” she gritted out, perhaps not for Rathgarr’s benefit, but for any of the orcs still listening around them. “I’ll see you after, all right?”
She didn’t wait for his answer, just turned and shuffled toward the door, unthinking, unseeing. Only needing to escape, to get away from him, from all those watching orc eyes. This was just a job, one month — three weeks — and then the sea.
But that thought only made her eyes prickle harder, a large lump now caught in her throat, and she rushed faster through the corridors, clutching awkwardly at the rag, stumbling over her shuffling feet. Until she finally reached their latrine, and staggered inside.
The cleanup was just as messy as ever, full of painfully vivid reminders of how it had gotten that way, and by the time she’d finished, she could only seem to sag back against the stone wall, her hands over her face. While her awful, traitorous thoughts just kept spinning, sinking, dragging her down in their despair.
Gods, what had she been thinking. What, Rathgarr had been kind to her for a whole single day, and suddenly she’d started to have all these delusions of this being something it so clearly wasn’t? She’d actually believed he’d be above such a petty public attack, above throwing her into that horrible position, under such high stakes, while all his clan had watched? After she’d already given him so, so much, not only in that, but all damned day? After she’d worked so hard to help him, to support him, to do her very best for him?
The first sob escaped her throat without warning, echoing through the small stone room, and suddenly the sobs were consuming her, wrenching out her throat in bitter, painful gasps. And gods, what would she do now, did she need to go back to that party? To keep smiling and lying, and perhaps thanking Rathgarr for being cruel to her, for mocking her before all his clan after she’d begged for him, and…
And suddenly something swept into the room. Something huge and dark and terrifying, looming over her with vicious, furious malice.
Geva screamed.
32
Geva’s terror was a living thing, roaring up white and raging inside her. Escaping in her wildly scrabbling hands, her staggering feet, the room spinning and wheeling — and then juddering to a skidding, horrifying halt, as something warm and familiar clapped over her mouth.
A hand. His hand.
“Poppet!” hissed a voice, Rathgarr’s voice, close and urgent in her ear. “It is me! Only me!”
Geva’s heart was thundering in her ears, her body trembling all over, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t seem to find her feet. And suddenly both Rathgarr’s warm familiar hands were on her shoulders, holding her in place, keeping her upright.
“It is me,” he said again, harder this time. “I am here. You are safe.”
