by Olivia Myers
The rich, jewel tones of the fabrics glowed against all the pale wood. And the bed was enormous.
“I like your room,” she said, yipping in surprise as he tossed her onto the center of the vast bed as if she weighed no more than a down pillow. “Though, the bed is awfully high.”
She peered over the edge, wondering if she’d ever be able to climb in and out on her own.
“Redo it.” Rhys tugged off his tie and tossed it aside. “Redo the whole damn room if you’d like.”
Her giggle faded away as he finished with his cuffs and pulled his shirt free of his slacks.
“I told you I like it.” She swallowed in an attempt to wet her dry throat. “Maybe I’d get a step stool, though.”
And then his shirt was off and she forgot about stools, and jobs, and anything except for the burnished expanse of his skin.
Rhys made short work of the rest of his clothes before crawling onto the bed, his body gorgeous and gleaming and naked and ready. Watching his sculpted muscles flex and stretch as he moved over her was enough to make her nipples throb and her pussy clench.
“Rhys!”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him, but she would have heard the pleased grin in his voice even if she had.
“Oh, little rabbit. I do love it when you look at me like that.”
Cassandra didn’t need to ask him how she was looking at him. She could feel awe and lust and admiration and affection and love all well up in her when she watched him. She knew it was painted on her face and shining from her eyes and she didn’t care. She wanted him to see it.
He hadn’t said he loved her back, but that was okay. She didn’t need him to just yet. Him saying he wanted her by his side was enough for now.
Rhys took his time. He laid her back on the bed and kissed her until she was limp and shaking beneath him, clawing at his shoulders and rocking up against him in a desperate search for friction.
But he moved away, stripping her slowly of her dress and her bra. He rained kisses down on places Cassandra didn’t think anyone had ever kissed before. The inside of her elbows, the hollow of her throat, the underside of her chin.
Not that he neglected any of her other parts.
He once again feasted on her breasts, cupping them in his big hands, kneading them, and lifting them to his eager, sucking mouth. His tongue stroked and curled around the rigid crests. His teeth bit and nipped, making her whimper and cry out.
Those big hands shaped her ribs and caressed the slight swell of her belly and the roundness of her hips, lifting her so he could mouth the delicate skin of her navel.
This time, he drew her panties off gently instead of tearing them. Cassandra would have ripped them herself, she was so aching and needy, but his dark eyes kept her pinned in place.
She could only watch as he pressed his lips to her instep and ankles, nipped her calves, and swiped his tongue through the sensitive hollow at the backs of her knees. By the time he reached her trembling thighs, Cassandra was begging.
“Please, Rhys, please. You’ve got to…I can’t…I need!”
But his big, strong hands held her hips still as he blew warm breath against the damp curls above her pussy. His eyes burned into hers.
“Let me look at you, rabbit. Let me just look.”
Cassandra felt the blood burning in her cheeks and throat, but she spread her legs wider for him and watched as his gaze slid from hers down to the wet, open slit between her thighs.
“Just like that,” he crooned in a lust rough voice.
She shivered. “Rhys…”
“Fuck, little rabbit. You’re so gorgeous. And so open. Not just here…” He slid a finger down her sensitive sex, making her gasp. His other hand stroked upward to press between her breasts. He met her eyes. “Here.”
Her breath caught as his dark eyes blazed at her.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since you set foot on the hundredth floor.”
He lowered his mouth to her pussy, his tongue lapping at her drenched folds. Cassandra fell backwards, eyes squeezing shut, unable to keep watching as pleasure consumed her like the flames Rhys breathed in his other form.
Two thick, twisting fingers drove into her tight, slick tunnel even as his lips and tongue worked her clit. Sharp, hot, pulsing lust poured through her veins, lighting up her entire nervous system. Her body shook with it.
Other men had gone down on her, but none of them had done it the way Rhys now did. His hungry mouth defined “eating out.” And then she remembered what he’d said to her that first day, and a thick chuckle poured from her throat.
Rhys paused in his attentions, lifting his head. His lips glistened with her juices. He licked them.
“Something funny, little rabbit?”
Her breathing was beyond ragged, and she could barely pull a breath she was so turned on, but she nodded. “Always…worried I’d get…eaten by a dragon,” she finally managed with a wide grin.
Rhys smiled back. “Oh?” He dipped his head to lap at her clit with a wide, flat tongue. “And is it as frightening as you imagined?”
She arched against his hold, shuddering as he curled his fingers within her and rubbed.
“Terrify — oh!”
He wrapped his lips around the nub of her clit and sucked, pumping his fingers, and pushed her over the edge. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she saw swirling colors behind her lids as pleasure sparkled through her.
She called his name and his mouth was on hers, tasting of her but also of him. His own unique, smoky flavor. He stroked his hand down her side, shifting her legs and then returning to cup one heavy, soft breast.
Then he was gliding into her, her flesh still swollen, wet, and twitching with pleasure. He moved torturously slowly, working himself into the tight clutch of her body inch by incremental inch, until he was seated completely inside her.
All the while his burning dark gaze remained on her face.
He kissed her, then kissed her again, but he didn’t move.
“Rhys,” she begged.
He brushed her hair back from her face, and she saw the edge of reddish-gold in his eyes, the first hint of his change. An instinctual quiver of fear moved through her, though she knew he’d never hurt her, and his nostrils flared, the black of his eyes narrowing further.
Strange eyes stared down at her, but it was still Rhys. When he spoke, his voice was smoke and fire, but it was still him. Just, more.
“I’m keeping you,” he said. And then he began to move.
Last time, at work, they’d been a storm, crashing against each other. It had been hot and quick and tempestuous and amazing.
This time, they were like the tide. Slow and long and inevitable. Their bodies slid against each other, slick with sweat. Instead of grabbing, hands stroked and caressed and explored.
Their mouths only parted to breathe, and then only briefly. Each time he withdrew from her, she chased him, lifting her hips. He followed her back down, pressing her into the soft mattress.
Cassandra didn’t know if it was because that first thrust of his cock had come in the midst of her orgasm, or just that it was Rhys, but the pleasure never seemed to stop. It built and built, every twist of his hips and flicker of his tongue feeding the flame. Every word he whispered in her ear — sweet, filthy, tender, and dirty — added fuel to the fire.
She wrapped herself around him, twining her legs tight around his waist, pulling him into her again and again. She reveled in how he stretched her and filled her, the perfect hot slide of his flesh against hers.
“Rhys.”
She chanted his name, telling him all the things she’d been holding back since that day in her office. Earlier, really. Since they’d met.
He responded to each whispered revelation with deeper, harder thrusts and more passionate kisses. His hands stroked every inch of her, learning her by touch.
She was burning, her skin like ash, ready to crumble with pleasure.
Cassandra met Rhys’s dragon e
yes and let that winding, tightening, building pleasure spiral out and higher. Her body clenched, squeezing him with rhythmic, fluttering pulses.
She cried out, the words garbled between their lips.
His thrusts grew harder, more rapid, that familiar rumbling swelling in his throat. He rode her through the long waves of pleasure as she fell apart, and then he followed her. Cassandra felt the throb of his thick shaft, the flood of heat.
Just as he’d done when he’d come inside her at the office, Rhys roared his satisfaction.
She held him as he shook and poured himself into her, stroking shaking fingers down tense, sweat-slick flesh.
They collapsed, quiet and breathless, into a soft, warm, boneless heap.
Rhys rubbed a kiss along her jaw, his voice a bass rasp in her ear. “Don’t think I didn’t hear what you said, little rabbit.”
Cassandra smiled against his damp shoulder. She’d wondered if he would understand her whimpered confession, if he’d acknowledge it. She licked the salt from his skin, tasting smoke and sweetness and Rhys.
“Good. And do you know what else, my dragon?”
He sifted fingers through her hair, his obsidian irises sparkling. “What’s that, rabbit?”
She kissed him, hard and sharp, her answering grin just as toothy and feral as his ever was.
“I’m keeping you, too.”
THE END
Ravished by the Dragon
Shadows streamed from behind the thatched homes, the open-air market and the barracks with its imposing, dark-walled façade, and threw wild shapes on the dirt road. A vague figure with loose hair and flying skirts tore down the street.
It would be curfew soon, and Gwythn knew that she must hurry.
She lifted her skirts and dashed through a puddle, giving a sportive toss of her head when the water splashed her knees. Fafiny trailed behind, tail wagging, mouth panting and tongue out hanging. He got caught in some bramble and hurt his leg two days ago when Gwythn went out to hunt rabbits, but no one who saw the stupefied pleasure on the dog’s face would ever guess that the creature was in pain.
“Here boy! Here boy!” Gwythn patted her knee for the dog to catch up. Fafiny took a few limping bounds and came to her side, where he was rewarded by a generous pat on the scruff.
“Gooood dog!”
The road dipped and curved to the right. Rounding the turn and splashing through another puddle, Gwythn and Fafiny fell under the enormous shadow of Dom Araf, the king’s castle. The castle was as huge as a mountain and resembled a forest of turrets stacked on top of each other. It was miles away—a day’s travel through all the traffic of the city—but despite the distance Gwythn could plainly see the decorations adorning the castle’s façade.
Hundreds of dragons, or perhaps thousands, occupied every inch of stone. The depictions of dragons were as varied as they were expertly carved. There were dragons in combat, dragons spraying fire and terrifying villages; dragons hunted and dragons slain; and even a few depictions of dragons paying homage to their human masters from the old times when dragons were noble creatures.
When the first king had commissioned the castle, artists from every corner of Gythry had answered his call. Through the years, their work continued to shine: a testament to the magnificence of human ability.
Gwythn paused to admire the castle. She thought about the words her father had told her the first time he took her to see it. “I am no master architect,” he’d claimed with his characteristic modesty. “I will never have the ability to contribute anything to so wonderful a creation. And that fills me with joy. What else is joy than being content to admire something perfect?”
There was no denying that the castle was perfection, but it was antique. In the times of the old kings, no one would have imagined that the days of dragons were numbered: that soon not only the huge dragons that roamed the wilds but also the tribes of dragon shifters would be no more.
Gwythn felt a surge of pride, but she didn’t dally long. She scrambled further down the road and into the main square. A few tradesmen and buyers remained scattered and there was one man in the stockades, hanging his head, but otherwise the place was empty.
“Well, Faffy,” Gwythn patted the shaggy, silver-grey coat of the husky and looked up at what she’d come to see.
A stage, raised about twenty feet, dominated the center. Through it protruded the torso of a massive statute, veiled with a white sheet. The statue stood about fifty feet and was, apart from the mountainous castle, the tallest thing Gwythn has ever laid her eyes on.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Fafiny, perturbed that his master had ceased petting, closed his mouth and nudged her with a soggy cold nose. But Gwythn couldn’t disguise her pride or the incredible sensation moving within her, the excitement that began in her stomach and rose to her throat, as she looked at the veiled masterpiece. Of course being the sculptor’s daughter, it was overwhelming pride that she experienced burning deep. A part of her, however small, felt a certain responsibility for the great artwork. However, most of her pride rested in the sculpture itself.
In all the kingdoms in all of Gythry, in every family in every house of Araf, not one citizen could be found who didn’t recognize the magnificent figure of King Blethen the Redeemer, even if it was veiled. Sent by Heaven to vanquish evil and its far-reaching corruption, he was the king whose lengthy and tumultuous reign ended in the destruction of every trace of the dragon infestation that had haunted and destroyed the kingdom. Neither man nor God, King Blethen was the divinity that separated them: a savior.
The light in Gwythn’s eyes was fiery and bright. Not the enthusiasm some feel for great leaders and great reformers, but the brilliance of a fervent, religious conviction burnt there. For Gwythn, King Blethen was everything, every man: King, Redeemer, Savior, Protector, second father. Or, she sometimes thought in a moment of fancy, her true father. A man whose example, if she could follow it, would open to her the gates of salvation and paradise.
Tears streamed down her face as she gazed at her ruler. Her thoughts swirled. She thought about tomorrow, about King Blethen’s visit to her city all the way from the capital to see her father’s work. She tried to imagine the look on his glorious face and grew so happy at the thought that a smile blossomed, turning her cheeks into little apples. Then, her thoughts turned, and in her mind she was a young girl again. Young and frightened.
She was four, maybe five, and it was her first time in Araf. She had been with her father, destitute and living in a hovel that smelled of piss and cabbage. In her mouth she tossed around like a chicken bone that uncomfortable word home, wondering how she would ever learn to apply it to the muddy, cold city. She turned to her father who held her in his arms, warming her, and asked when she will see her mother again. Her father said nothing, but bowed his head. A moment later, she felt him sobbing.
She learned all the details about the raid years later; that not just her mother but most of the village had died in the attack. She learned that the village was burnt to the ground and that even the stones were pulverized to dust, and that she was indescribably lucky to escape. She learned the name of the attackers—Tribe wyt Dune, famous for their cruelty—and for the first time in her young life she learned the word dragon, and she knew at once just how cruel and devilish the creatures were.
Fresh from the massacre, deprived of her mother, her friends and her home, and given only the name of her enemy, Gwythn vowed revenge. She swore that she would always hate dragons and daily curse their name, and that if ever she met a member of Tribe wyt Dune, nothing except death would stop her from sticking a knife into his guts. But her vows turned out to be unnecessary.
Less than five years after the attack, the mighty Tribe wyt Dune was reduced to a few scattered marauders. King Blethen’s campaign against dragons was at its strongest, and it had acquired the ability to vanquish an entire tribe in less than a few years.
Gwythn first heard the news in a kind of stupo
r. What kind of man or king was this, whose justice was so swift and so perfect? At her tender age, she knew nothing about King Blethen’s divinity, yet by his acts alone she knew that his powers were beyond a normal man’s. She recognized at once his strength, his justice, and his greatness, and from the moment she learned his name she determined that her life would be spent trying to pay him back for the debt he’d settled.
The man in the stockades next to the stage groaned and tried to move his arms, but they hung limply like cracked branches, stiff from the cold. It was not an uncommon sight in the city to see a man punished as he was. In the last ten years of King Blethen’s campaign, the reform of ‘Fugitives’ was introduced to the purpose of rooting out all dragon shifters trying to disguise themselves as regular humans.
Fugitives were like a weed that, untended, would soon grow to choke all life out of the garden. Their eradication could not be more important. Nothing frightened Gwythn more than the idea that a dragon might be lurking around town without ever being noticed. The reform gave her comfort, even though it had led to so many false claims of people being shifters that King Blethen declared the charge of ‘False Fugitive’ a capital offense punished in the severest manner possible.
‘Severest’ in King Blethen’s reign was no idle threat, now that his campaign was officially over. Talk of dragons was vilified in order to make sure that their unwelcome history was forgotten as soon as possible, and it was looked upon as a kind of treason to introduce the topic unless one was making a valid claim against a Fugitive. But the man in the stockade had not made a valid claim. He’d tried to convince the Watch that his landlord was really a disguised Tribe leader, but his evidence had been weak and the trial had determined in the favor of his neighbor.
In two days he would lose his head.
It never crossed Gwythn’s mind that these measures might be considered excessive. Much worse was the possibility that dragons would be as they once were, unbound, unchecked, and free to terrorize. Justice was bloody, and righteousness must be ruthless if it was to persist. King Blethen’s campaign had ingrained these laws into the canon of common knowledge.