Page 25 of The Orc’s Comfort

Without thinking, I lean closer, my hand moving to his chest. The soft fabric of his shirt does little to disguise the solid wall of muscle beneath. His heart thunders against my palm, its rhythm faster than I’ve ever felt from him.

“The direct transfer method,” I whisper, my courage surprising even me. “Shouldn’t I experience it too?”

His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there as his breathing grows more pronounced. With deliberate slowness, he takes another leaf, crushes it between his fingers, and places it on his tongue.

I understand immediately. Easing closer, I close the final distance between us.

Our lips meet, and the universe contracts to this single point of contact. The taste is extraordinary: the sharp, sweet essence of silver thistle mingling with a warmth that is uniquely Rhazgar. What begins as a tentative touch transforms instantly into something more primal as his massive arms encircle me, lifting me effortlessly. My feet leave the ground as he straightens, holding me against him, one large hand cradling the back of my head while the other spans my waist.

My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer as the kiss deepens. The herb releases its essence between us, creating an almost electric tingling wherever our lips meet. I gasp against his mouth at the sensation, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to deepen the kiss further.

The taste of him, the herb enhancing what was already intoxicating, makes my head swim. His tusks press gently against my cheeks, the smooth hardness contrasting with the surprising softness of his lips. Every difference between us becomes a point of exquisite discovery rather than separation.

My body arches instinctively, pressing even closer while he holds me as if I’m something precious and delicate. The strength in those hands, capable of lifting my massive bookcase with ease, now narrowed to the smallest motion that won’t bruise me.

When he growls, the sound reverberates through my entire body, awakening parts of me that have been dormant far too long. I respond with a soft moan that seems to drive him further, his kiss growing more urgent, more demanding.

I have no idea how long we stay locked together, but when he finally sets me down, our breathing is ragged. Only then do I realize how tightly my body had been pressed against him.

Our gazes meet, mutual shock reflected in our expressions. Whatever just happened transcended simple physical attraction. The intensity feels almost supernatural, as if the silver thistle has forged a connection beyond ordinary experience.

He releases me, easing back in evident confusion. His elbow catches the bundle of silver thistle on the counter behind him, and it skitters to the floor with a soft noise that makes us both jump.

“I… forgive me,” he stammers, bending to retrieve the thistle with hands that aren’t quite steady.

I press my fingers to my lips, which still tingle pleasantly from both the herb and his kiss. “Are you sure? Because it felt very… educational.”

His eyes widen at my teasing tone, then soften as he registers my smile. “The traditional application is somewhat less… interactive.”

“That’s disappointing,” I manage, my voice breathy.

We stare at each other across my small kitchen, the air between us alive with new awareness. The taste of silver thistle and Rhazgar lingers on my tongue, a heady combination I already crave more of.

I sway slightly, dizzy, and his hand immediately steadies my elbow, his touch gentle but firm until the spinning subsides.

“The herb,” he finally says, gesturing toward the forgotten bundle on the counter. “We should complete the preparation before its properties diminish.”

“Right,” I agree, though neither of us moves. “The healing properties.”

My body betrays me completely: pulse hammering in my throat, nipples tight against my shirt, liquid heat pooling low in my belly. Every nerve ending seems hypersensitive, aware of exactly how many inches separate us, and how desperately I want to close that distance again. I take a shaky breath, gathering courage.

“Rhazgar, was that… is this normal? Part of the healing tradition?”

His eyes hold mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “No. That was not… traditional. At least, not for healing.”

“But it is traditional for something else?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I press my thighs together, trying to contain the ache building there.

He hesitates, conflict warring across his features. For a moment, I think he’s about to say something important: his mouth opens, his gaze holds mine with desperate intensity.

“In WarmHearth culture, silver thistle is…” he stops, jaw clenching. “It’s used for healing. But also for… celebrations. Important moments. Each clan has such things; StoneWatch has their binding spice, HammerFall their ceremonial root preparations. For WarmHearth, this is ours.”

The careful answer frustrates me; he’s told me what it is, but not what it means between us, and I can see genuine turmoil in his expression. There’s something he’s not saying, something that clearly matters.

“What kind of celebrations?” I press gently.

He looks almost pained. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with cultural context you haven’t agreed to understand.”

It’s a non-answer, and we both know it. We’re closer than we were a moment ago, though neither of us moved. His scent makes my head swim.