The Orc Boss

The Orc Boss A Monster Mafia Romance Lark Green Copyright © 2023 by Lark Green All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or persons is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For more information visit www.authorlarkgreen.com Contents Dedication Content Warning 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 Acknowledgments To my husband, Philip. Sorry to tell you hun, but I do describe an orc's penis in this (several times actually). And no, you still can't read this book. Content Warning This story is adult themed and includes strong language and detailed sexual situations. Even though this book depicts fictional characters and mythological creatures, it has undertones of heavy social themes like violence, discrimination, classism, and racism. Trigger warnings for death (non-main characters), mention of sex trafficking (not seen on page), drug addiction, and mention of a fictional illegal drug. Please read with caution. Chapter one Hey u up? I always considered myself levelheaded, especially as I barreled towards my mid-thirties at increasing speed. I often found comfort in there being very few things left in this world that could send me into a tizzy. Except for my ex-boyfriend. The text message had arrived exactly at 12:01 AM—the one minute past the hour making it an official booty-call—and had the power to send me into a full body tailspin. It had become a bimonthly self-destructive ritual: Carter would text, always after midnight, asking the same question. Too lazy to even use proper English—Hey u up? And I would always answer with a resounding yes! Then show up to his house in the middle of the night like some late-night call girl, wearing my best lingerie under my jacket. Then leaving before the crack of dawn so none of Carter’s neighbors I used to barbecue with when we were still dating could see how far I’ve fallen. The degrading sex was never worth the shame, anyway. Carter would give up eating me out before I reached the precipice of an orgasm, always blaming his TMJ, and then proceeded to thrust inside me for two violent minutes before rolling over and immediately falling asleep. I’d spend the next few weeks nursing my pride, silently vowing to myself that it would never happen again. That was the last time. But when Carter would text again next month, I’d find myself crawling back, like his dick was more addictive than the newest street drug. In my therapy session the other day, the realization that I had been ignoring finally clicked—no matter how often I slept with Carter, we were probably not getting back together. No matter how much work I put into improving myself—inside and out—it would never be enough. I had spent hours in the gym, alternating between spin and boxercise classes. I had attended enough “Women in Work” seminars that I had enough lanyards to hang myself with. I even cut my long, mousy brown hair into a face-framing bob to make my face look thinner. The only reason I had started therapy in the first place was to figure out why I was so unlovable. But every positive step I took—all the time and money spent—was immediately undone by a single text message and one question with lazy grammar. Carter hung around in the back of my mind like some dark shadow. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there, hanging out in my periphery. But tonight, I was breaking the cycle. Tonight, I was answering with a resounding no! The only problem? I was wine-drunk and very, very horny. Thank the goddess, I had a plan. I may be lacking in several areas, but at least I was always prepared. Time to take care of this. Can’t make bad decisions if I’m not horny, I thought, ignoring his message on my phone. I reached into my bedside table drawer, grabbing my vibrator—old faithful, I called him. The only man to never let me down. Still laying on my bed, I shimmied out of my pajama shorts and placed the head of the vibrator on the sweet spot between my legs. I closed my eyes, tipping my head back against my pillow. Bzzt. Bzzzzt. The vibrator gave one long, mournful sigh before it died. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I hissed, shaking the vibrator and slamming the head against my flat palm like it was the side of a vending machine that had eaten my last dollar. I clicked the on-and-off button, but to no avail. Old faithful was dead. This was a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I yanked up my shorts and marched into my kitchen. Wrenching the junk drawer open, I quickly rifled through old restaurant menus, napkins, and scotch tape. But no batteries. Why wouldn’t you buy a vibrator with a charging cable? Because the one with the cord was cheaper, I shot back to that annoying voice in my mind. With a frustrated sigh, I pulled the entire drawer off its hinges and dumped everything on the white tile. Still no batteries. So much for being prepared