Page 65 of Single Pucking Orc

“The monitor,” she said.

“On the windowsill. Volume up. If she needs me I’ll hear her over you, and believe me, that is going to be a challenge.” He kissed the corner of her jaw. “You want to write anything down first? Terms? You usually have subheadings.”

“Shut up⁠—”

He laughed. He laughed, against her throat—that big warm helpless laugh with real delight in it—and she froze, the way she’d frozen the very first time it happened. He felt it happen and stopped.

“No,” she said, before he could ask. “No, it’s fine, keep… Do that again.”

“Which part?”

“The laughing. Don’t make it a thing.”

“You’re the one keeping records.” But he did it again, and he walked her back against the counter until the cold edge of it caught the small of her back. She gasped and he grinned and murmured sorry in a voice that was not sorry at all, and turned her. He put his hand between her shoulder blades to urge her gently down onto her folded arms on the counter as he brought his mouth to the back of her neck.

He kissed her there, open-mouthed, and she lost her breath as every inch of her body reacted. His hand slid down her spine and curled around her hip, and she felt his breath shudder as his fingers found the band of her leggings. His other hand gathered up her hair, pulling it back over her shoulder, and his mouth moved down the bared line of her throat. Slowly, so slowly, and she wanted to beg him to go faster and was almost too proud to. Almost.

“Please,” she said. “I don’t want it slow.”

“You think you don’t,” he murmured, and kissed her again, and she felt the smile against her skin. “Trust me.”

“I do.” She had no idea what she was promising. “I trust you. Hurry.”

His hands went to her waistband, his fingers hot against her skin, and he tugged the leggings down, down, and she had to lift her hips to let him. He stayed right there, both hands at her hips, and she could feel him looking. Looking at her, half-undressed, bent over the kitchen counter. Looking at her bare legs and her ass in her plain white underwear and the look was hotter than hands would have been. She gripped the edge of the counter, her fingers going white, and arched her back the smallest bit to give him a better view.

He groaned. “Fuck, Nora⁠—”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t stop.

He bent down over her, braced above her, and the sound he made was low and hungry, and his cock pressed against her bare ass through his jeans and she pushed back against it, and he swore again. One hand came between her legs, and she opened her thighs for him. He pulled her panties aside and put his fingers in her, and she was so wet that they went straight in, and she cried out.

“Quiet.” His voice was rough against her ear. “Bite your sleeve if you have to. You don’t want to wake her.”

She bit her sleeve.

He stroked her, once, twice, and she was so ready that the third time she came, clenching around his hand and the counter and her teeth in her sleeve. She was still gasping when he tugged her leggings the rest of the way off and freed his erection. “Hold on.”

She was still too shaky to obey, but he put his hands on her hips, supporting her effortlessly as he worked himself in. When he was seated deep inside her, he leaned over her and moved one hand to cover hers, lacing their fingers together on the counter. She hadn’t expected the tenderness of it, the gentle hold, the careful way he moved in her. His other hand slid beneath her, taking her weight. She could feel the smile in his voice when he said, “Ready?”

She pushed back against him and heard him gasp. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“So do you.”

He thrust into her, his enormous body curving over hers, holding her up with his hand beneath her and his cock in her and his breath hot on her neck. He moved faster now, just like she asked, driving her up and up again, and when she came this time he came with her, groaning her name. He leaned over her, still buried deep, and nuzzled her neck. “I love you, Nora.”

The monitor stayed quiet on the sill.

He didn’t move off her for a long moment, just breathed, that furnace-heat against her back, and their fingers laced together.

“For the record,” he said, muffled, “I want it noted that I had a very good morning.”

“Noted.”

“You’re not writing it down.”

“Rognar.” She was laughing, still bent over the counter, wrung out and warm and entirely undestroyed. “I’ll never need to write this one down.”