Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“More of a one-night-stand sort of guy?”
“Being.”
“My apologies.” A small strip of embarrassment shoots through me. “Being.”
“Don’t worry, Pint-Size. I’ll guide you through the lingo on this side of The Fog.” He flashes me a soft smile. “I’ll guide you through anything you let me.”
Bond.
Um…we kind of are? That’s what is happening here.
Physically.
Look, I know I’ve done that once or twice or three times if you count that thing with the statue person in New York, but I feel like…if we can get all the other shit between us properly sorted that there might actually be something real here, so we’re gonna refrain from that whole fucking on the first date thing, okay?
Half.
Oh, don’t start that shit again.
“I guess a fair assessment of my bar days—which are long behind me—would be that I was typically a one and done was enough fun type of creature.”
Inexplicable jealousy surges through my system, yet I do my best to ignore it. “And in your CEO ones?”
Ptur leans forward, shifts a single digit into a dragon claw, and scrapes it in a slow circle, opening the top for me. The instant he’s finished, his glowing gaze meets mine. “More celibate than I care to admit.”
The previous unhappiness over the mere idea of him having been with another woman is effortlessly soothed, and the smug smirk he displays indicates he knows it.
I don’t know how he does, but it’s very clear by the grin that he does.
Half.
Not. Now.
“For the record—you know in case you’re willing to listen to me like I am you,” his smile stretches from ear to ear, “you don’t actually pour Odin’s Eye. You dip the cup in it and scoop up to drink.”
“Barbaric.” Joining him in wide-mouth grinning, I coo, “I kinda love it.”
“Shit like that lets me know you really are half-orc,” he says on a chuckle.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s the best thing,” Ptur smoothly reassures, “because it’s who you really are.”
The words hit me harder and harsher than I’m expecting.
Have I been lied to my whole life?
Did something happen and Dad felt the need to somehow stop me from seeing the magic of the world?
Is that why I’ve always been more drawn to documentaries about ancient cultures and weapons?
Is that why I have an obsession with comic books and the “unreal” creatures that star in them?
Has the so-called orc side of me been trying to pry itself out of some sort of internal prison I didn’t realize I’ve been the warden to?
Yes.
Dipping the glass into the open container isn’t an easy feat. Some finagling has to ensue just to get the damn thing in there and pulling it back out results in liquid spilling over the edges onto my bare feet. My recently painted toes wiggle from the attack while I tip the object his direction and gulp down the new contents. With the consistency of a Guinness and the flavors of an aged whiskey, the beverage overwhelms all of my senses, forcing me to shut my eyes and moan out in pleasure for a second time.
“And now I’m fucking jealous of booze.”
His playful comment receives my stare as much as my smile. “Relax, Beanstalk. You’ll get your turn.”
“Not soon enough.”
Bond.
You shh!
Ptur poorly swallows his sexual hunger prior to inquiring, “Ready to watch me grill?” I steal another gulp during his announcement. “I’ll have you know that I’m basically a pitmaster without the proper recognition.”
Another smirk slips onto my face as I challenge, “Sounds like we’re gonna have to do a cookoff to determine that.”
“You grill?”
“I do that or barbeque every weekend for me and my dad when I’m home.”
My date for the evening looks impressed; however, I’m not sure if it’s by the idea, me, or by the thought that maybe The Goddess of Fate really does know what she’s doing. “I look forward to having you cook for me.”
“Grill for you, Beanstalk.”
“Semantics, Pint-Size.”
The wink I’m shot has me burying my blushing behind another sip of the alcoholic drink.
“Ready?”
My nodding is all the encouragement he needs to finally get started. With the kabob stick off to the side, he lowers his jaw and unleashes a small stream of fire. Unlike the previous surge, this one’s color resembles that of an open flame you’d find on an actual grill. The slow spinning motions that occur during his breathing not only allows for an even cooking of all the ingredients, but also the gourmet style charring along the edges of each piece. Delicious smells flood the air, seducing my body into inching closer while the mouthwatering display of juices soaking into one another has me damn near reaching out to catch a drop on my finger. Everything is done in probably less than sixty seconds, yet my sexual hunger combined with my fascination leaves me gaping for much longer than Ptur can handle.