Page 41 of The Orc’s Comfort

“She would be proud of you,” I say. “Your grandmother. That you got there.”

He looks at me for a long moment. “Yes,” he says finally. “She would.”

He raises our joined hands slowly and presses his lips to my inner wrist. Holds them there for a moment as he spears me with his gaze.

“Rhazgar.”

He reaches up and cups my face in his hand, gentle, almost reverent, the midday light warm across his features, and kisses me.

His kiss deepens, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in quiet question. I open for him eagerly, and the taste of him, spicy and clean, makes me dizzy with want. His hand slides from my cheek to tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss further.

A low rumble builds in his chest, not the growl I know, something deeper, something that resolves into a purr. The sound vibrates through me and I press closer before I’ve decided to move.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened to molten gold, and I can see what it’s costing him to hold still.

“Julia.” His voice has dropped to something I feel more than hear. “I want you to know what this means. I’ve never brought anyone here.”

He stops. His jaw works once, some careful, rehearsed continuation visibly collapsing before it reaches his mouth. A short breath escapes him, almost a laugh, entirely at his own expense.

“I had more to say than that,” he admits. “I rehearsed it, on the drive up. I don’t remember any of it now.”

“Maybe you didn’t need it,” I say.

His eyebrows lower, like that hadn’t occurred to him.

I look at him for a long moment, this careful male who planned a picnic and carried me up a mountain and just lost an entire prepared speech somewhere between the truck and this moment. That he chose to bring me here at all, unrehearsed and unsteady, matters more than anything he could have practiced saying.

“I know,” I say softly. “I think I’ve known for a while.”

Something in his expression shifts: not surprise, but the stillness of a man who has been hoping for something and is only now allowing himself to believe it.

When he pulls back, his cheek rests against mine for a moment. Neither of us speaks. The valley spreads out below us, ordinary and distant, and up here everything feels correctly sized.

Then I reach up and find the tip of one pointed ear.

He goes absolutely still. The opposite of pulling away.

I trace the shell of it, the smooth taper to the point, and feel the shudder that moves through him. The purr shifts register: not the low, contented sound I know. Something with more heat in it. It travels from his chest into mine.

His tusk grazes my cheek as he angles closer, cool ivory against my skin. I don’t flinch. I turn into it. His breath catches.

His hand slides beneath my jacket, beneath my sweater, and his palm settles against my waist. It’s blazingly hot, spanning my entire side. I gasp.

He stills, waiting.

“Don’t stop,” I say.

His thumb traces up along my ribs, and I’m reaching for him, fingers curling into his collar, pulling him closer, when his cheek drops to mine.

“Julia.” Controlled at the edges. Only just.

I shift toward him and feel exactly how not-controlled the rest of him is: hard and unmistakable against my hip. He doesn’t pull back. His jaw tightens as he lets me feel it. “We’re on a mountain,” he says.

“I noticed.”

“Your ankle.”

“Also noticed.”