LAYLA
The light was wrong.
Too soft. Too pale. It slanted in through the thin curtains like spilled cream, hazy and golden-dusty. I could see particles hanging in the air, shifting with breath. Somewhere nearby, metal glinted — a brass-knuckled cudgel half-slung over the back of a chair, a pair of boxing gloves nailed to the wall like trophies. An Art Deco lamp with a cracked base threw a smear of amber against the plaster, crooked.
Everything about the room was hard. Scarred. Used. There was nothing delicate here. Except me.
I was still in the bed.
Still in his bed.
And he was still inside me.
Soft now, but thick enough that I felt it. The weight of him lodged deep, holding me open, like even sleep hadn’t loosened his grip. His body curved around mine from behind, heat radiating off him like a furnace, one arm slung heavy across my ribs. His tail — that strange, powerful, unnerving tail — curled around my thigh like a leash. A chain I hadn’t realized I’d let him wrap.
My breath caught.
What the hell was I doing here?
Ribbon girls didn’t stay. That was the whole point. You showed up. You smiled. You let them take what they wanted, and you vanished before the sun could burn off the glamour. Before anyone could see you for what you really were. You never stayed for daylight.
And yet I was here. Still naked, wearing only bruises and dried sweat, and worse — I felt comfortable. Like I belonged in this bed, like his arm was supposed to be around me, like his lenght was right where it should be.
Panic twisted hot in my gut. I should’ve slipped out hours ago. I should’ve run the second I could stand. But I hadn’t. I’d curled closer in my sleep, my back flush to his chest, thighs still parted, spine bowed just enough to keep him inside me.
And I wasn’t just still here. I was wet.
Gods help me, I was wet.
His cock stirred.
I froze. My whole body tensed, ready for him to take me again, rough and hungry like before. I braced for the growl, for the hands to flip me, for the slam of hips and heat and need.
But it didn’t come.
Instead — his hand moved. It slid up slowly, calloused fingers smoothing over my hip, across my belly, up to the swell of my breast. Not squeezing. Just… touching. Like he was learning me.
Then his mouth lowered.
His tusks grazed my shoulder, and his lips followed — a kiss, soft and warm, pressed to skin still tender from the bite.
I didn’t breathe.
This wasn’t the orc who’d hauled me over his shoulder and torn my dress open like paper. This wasn’t the beast who’d rutted me so deep I saw stars, who made me come until my magic burst like lightning.
His other hand slid between my thighs, slow and lazy, parting me where I was already slick again. He didn’t rush. Just stroked. Let his fingers explore the mess he’d left behind — his cum, my arousal, the mix of us soaked between my legs.
“You’re still open for me,” he rumbled against my neck, voice rough with sleep. “Still want me.”
I didn’t answer. My throat was tight. My whole body shook with restraint.
Then he shifted. Drew his hips back, just enough for his shaft to slip out — wet and heavy — before guiding me up, turning me, pulling me over him.
“Up,” he murmured. “Ride me.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve pulled away. Tell him I didn’t know what he meant. But he was already lining himself up, hands firm on my hips, guiding me down.
It was slow this time. Deliberate.
I felt every thick inch stretch me open again, my pussy still raw, still used, but desperate to be filled. He held me there, seated fully on his manhood, my thighs braced wide around his, my hands on his chest. His gaze didn’t leave mine.
He didn’t slam up into me. He didn’t growl orders. He just watched — and let me move.
Curious, I rocked my hips.
His breath hitched.
I moved again. A slow roll, then a lift, then another drop.
He exhaled hard. “Just like that.”
His hands roamed as I found rhythm — one cupping my breast, thumb flicking my nipple, the other gripping the underside of my thigh, fingers digging into the softness there. He liked the way I moved. Liked how my body swayed, how I bounced on him, how my belly shook when I slammed down harder.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Taking me so good. Like you were made for it.”
I moaned, head dropping back, my pace faltering from how deep he reached. He should’ve flipped me by now. Should’ve bent me over and rutted me through the mattress.
But he didn’t.
My thighs started to tremble.
“You’re close,” he said, breath coming shallow. “Don’t stop. Let it happen.”
I gasped — tried to hold it in — but his tail slid up again, coiling around my waist, tightening just enough to hold me steady.
I came with a cry, hips stuttering, pussy fluttering around him. My magic surged again, too raw to control — sparking across my skin, flashing gold in the slats of light between the curtains. My vision blurred.
He came with a shudder, hands gripping my waist as he spilled deep again, cock pulsing hot. He didn’t roar this time. Didn’t snarl. Just closed his eyes and let it take him, hips jerking once, twice, then still.
When I sagged forward, he caught me.
Held me there.
One hand splayed against my back, the other tangled in my hair. He was still inside me, twitching, softening. His tail coiled around my thigh again, loose this time.
He pressed a kiss to my temple. Another to my cheek. Then murmured something, low and quiet.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I blinked, barely aware, heart still hammering.
“Layla.”
He repeated it lowly.
“Layla.”
All I could feel was his hand stroking my back, his shaft still pulsing inside me, his tail still warm against my skin.
And the deep, steady rumble of his chest — purring.
A low, steady vibration in his chest, like some enormous beast trying to soothe its mate. I could feel it through his skin, through mine. It settled deep inside me, as if my bones could hum back.
His arms stayed around my waist. His mouth brushed the crown of my head like I was breakable.
I didn’t know what to do with it.
After a long moment, he shifted — slow, careful. Slipped out of me with a wet sound that made my cheeks burn all over again. I felt it immediately: his cum leaking out of me, sticky and warm on my thighs, soaking the sheets. My body still trembled, thighs too weak to close.
He rose and crossed the room — bare, broad, still somehow graceful in the way men who grew up with weapons always were. He grabbed a towel and came back to the bed. Sat behind me. Wiped me down.
Firm, sure strokes between my thighs, over the backs of my knees, across the bruise-dark bite on my shoulder.
When he was done, he pressed the cloth to my palm and wrapped my fingers around it.
“Water,” he grunted, and left again.
I blinked after him.
He returned with a glass, pressed it into my hand. I drank. Not because I meant to — I just did, like my body was obeying something I didn’t understand.
Then he was rummaging in the corner — pulling a shirt off the back of a chair. It was plain and soft and clean, but massive, the sleeves long enough to fall over my hands. He helped me into it, tugging it down over my shoulders. Buttoned two buttons, then left the rest.
“I’ll buy you another,” he muttered, half to himself, like he was still annoyed at the mess of my dress crumpled on the floor. “Hell, three.”
Like I’d be here long enough to wear them.
I stared at him, unsure what to do with that. No man ever doted on me.
I didn’t know how to take it. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t think it should look like that for a ribbon girl.
Then he looked at me, all tusks and heat and exhaustion, and said it like it was the most casual thing in the world:
“Shower. I’ll make us breakfast.”
My heart kicked hard once, then twice, then started running wild.
Breakfast.
That word shouldn’t have meant anything.
But something inside me twisted at it — deep and strange. Like a tug. Like a pull toward something dangerous. My magic curled under my skin, unsettled, tugged toward that word as if it recognized a ritual I didn’t. It scared the shit out of me.
I stared at him and all I could see was the trap of those four casual words. I’ll make us breakfast.
Like he wanted me to stay.
I didn’t answer. Just nodded, too fast, and slipped off the bed. My legs wobbled. The shirt brushed my thighs. His eyes followed me to the bathroom but he didn’t move to follow.
I closed the door behind me, turned the water on, and stood there staring at the steam.
I didn’t step in.
Instead I moved to the mirror.
The shirt swallowed me. Soft cotton, faded from wear. It hung over my frame like I was trying to disappear — but the bruises glared through. My thighs, my hips, the curve of my breast where the shirt gaped open. And the bite.
God, the bite.
His mark. Still raw at the edges, but already scabbing. My magic buzzed under it like it had sunk in deep — deeper than skin.
I touched it and flinched.
If I walked out in this shirt, if anyone saw — if anyone knew — it would be over.
Humans would sneer. Whisper that the witch had proved them right. That I was a freak, a monster-whore, something too inhuman to pretend anymore.
Elves would smirk behind polished hands. Say I’d finally fallen like all humans did. That my blood was tainted.
Dwarves would shut me out. Call me dishonorable.
And orcs? Orcs would spit. Call me a thief. Call him a traitor.
I would be ruined. Not because of what I’d done. But because of who I’d done it with.
I swallowed down the panic, turned from the mirror, and slipped the door open — water still running behind me, steam spilling out. Maybe it would cover the sound of my steps.
I padded soft down the hallway. His shirt was loose, but I gripped the hem like it could protect me. The cotton stretched across my breasts, the sleeves brushing my knuckles.
Then I saw him.
In the kitchen. Half-turned away, humming something low under his breath. Still barefoot. Just his trousers — suspenders hanging loose around his thick thighs, back bare and scarred and stupidly beautiful. Bread on the counter. Butter softening. A knife halfway through the loaf. A pan already warm on the stove.
He was making breakfast.
The tenderness of it cracked something inside me.
It was a trap.
I couldn’t breathe.
I crept past the kitchen, heart slamming in my chest, each step louder than the last. The front door opened with a soft click. The hallway was empty.
I didn’t look back.
Every footstep echoed too loud.
I kept my eyes down. Prayed no one saw me.
I had a plan. I always had a plan.
We were still inside the speakeasy building. I would hit the locker room, grab my everyday dress, and disappear.
Then I’d go straight to my handler and demand the transfer.
Because I had just burned my cover.
And I didn’t know if I was more afraid of the fallout — or the fact that part of me already wanted to go back.