by Ruby Sirois
Emelie swipes at her eyes, gives me a watery smile. Gods, she is so achingly beautiful. So strong, so sweet, so resilient—so draconic.
My heart turns over in my chest. I would do anything to take away those tears, to fill her full of love, to see that she never feels doubt or pain or fear again.
I would die for her, kill for her, sacrifice all I own for her.
My arms snake around her, and I take her soft pink mouth in a searing kiss. Everything I feel for her, I express for her with the dance of my tongue, with the pressure of my lips against hers. I explore every bit of her, needing to taste her sweetness, to possess her in every way, in any way I can.
I am so hard where she is soft, so demanding where she is willing, iron where she is silk.
Her hips writhe against me, and I feel the little bursts of wetness against my thigh as her cunt makes more honey for me. Her breasts are pillowy soft, her arms smooth and warm around my neck.
Her softness makes me feel strong, her delicate moans and sighs make me feel protective, fiercely possessive.
My mating fist pulses with the pounding of my heart.
My dragon urges me on—urges me to make her mine now.
Take her. Mate her. Knot her. Hoard her.
I will, I say. But I must ready her first.
“On your back for me, lilla häxan,” I growl. “I need to taste your honey from the source. I need to prepare you for my cock. For my mating fist.”
Emelie’s lips part, her pupils dilating huge with desire. She tries to speak, but only a little moan escapes her.
I take her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face just so—then ravish her mouth one more time. My tongue duels with hers, now establishing my dominance. She melts under my ferocity, her limbs becoming languid and loose in acquiescence. She obeys, surrendering under my onslaught.
I settle her among the pillows, propping her thick hips up with one underneath to tilt them up just so. I want the perfect angle of access to taste her, to drink her honey.
She lays one leg over my shoulder, letting her soft thighs fall open for me. The perfume of her is rich and heady—feminine, luscious, full of need. I bury my face in the crease of her thigh, feeling the silky curls against my cheek as I trace the line there with the tip of my nose, with soft kisses, with my hot breath.
Emelie reaches up, grips the iron bars of the headboard and tilts her hips up again. Her body is begging me—and I do love when she begs.
She spreads her thighs just a bit more, and her pussy parts for me invitingly.
I can’t resist her invitation. I delicately trace the soft pink folds with the pointed tip of my tongue, acclimating her to the sensation before increasing my intensity.
She is wet, so very wet, and her honey already coats my lips.
I seek out her hard little clit, skirting it widely at first, then approaching in smaller circles as Emelie’s cries increase in pitch.
I know exactly what she wants, how she wants it.
You’re mine, I write. My love, my lilla häxan.
Her hips rock up to meet my messages.
Fy fan, she’s so wet, and still I’m not satisfied. I need her to come for me before I knot her. Before I hoard her.
I need to know I’ve satisfied her before I make her mine.
I dip my tongue into the wettest part of her, drinking her down in gulps. She is writhing, gasping. Her fingers lace behind my head, leaving no room to escape—as if I would ever want to. I am where I belong.
The heat of her is a forge, the scent of her a drug, the taste of her a delicacy.
Emelie is sweeter than anything else—she tastes of love, of longing, of home, of hoard.
The tiny pearl of her is at the tip of my tongue. I linger there, dance there, scrawling secret messages of love.
I adore you, lilla häxan. Come for me. I will never leave you.
She cries out as if she knows. As if she can read what I write upon her flesh.
She knows, and she obeys.
Her body tenses—she cries out—and she falls apart, wracked by spasms of orgasm.
I am rewarded with a fresh, sweet flood of her honey.
I spur her on, my tongue claiming her. I kiss her softly even as she begins to relax, to come down.
Fy fan, she’s so sweet, so soft and delicate. Her honey intoxicates me. It’s a drug tailored to me, to draw my dragon out and demand his due.
My cock strains against the bed, demanding attention. Demanding to take her.
“Please, Ragnarr,” she says.
I cannot deny her.
31: Emelie
“Please,” I say. “I can’t wait any longer.”
I look down at him, his face shiny with my honey. His blue eyes glow with desire, with need.
Ragnarr pounces on me, possessing my mouth in a hard kiss. I taste myself on him, lap my honey from his skin: sweet and salt and musk, mixed with the cinnamon and vanilla smoke of him. It’s the most perfect pairing I’ve ever tasted.
I lap the wetness of myself from his lips, determined not to miss a drop.
I moan as he presses his lean, hard length against me. His cock is so thick, so hard, so hot. I’m still shaking with the strength of the orgasm he gave me with his tongue, but I crave more: his cock, his mating fist.
“I need to be fucked,” I beg.
My fingernails claw at him. Claw at his chest.
“I need you to make me yours.”
He growls, the heavy length of his cock like forge-heated iron against my inner thigh. I cry out, moving against him. I’m desperate for him to claim me.
“You’re mine, häxan,” Ragnarr says, his accent even thicker with need.
His cock slides along my wet cleft, the length of it nestling in my folds as if he’s been there a thousand times. As if that’s where he belongs.
I’m so very wet. His hips move against me, the hot iron ring of his mating fist stimulating my clit with every stroke. My breath catches in my throat each time.
“You feel it?” Ragnarr growls. “My need for you? How my mating fist grows for you? How it aches for you?”
All I can do is nod. Moan.
“It thickens already, but will not reach its full size until I’m deep inside you. Are you ready to take me, häxan?”
I inhale. Hold it. Another nod. Exhale.
Suddenly nervous, I ask: “Will it hurt?”
“Nej, häxan, nej,” Ragnarr says, kissing the line of my jaw, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth, softly.
So softly, so lovingly.
“It will challenge you, but my pheromones have prepared you. Nothing stands in the way of my hoarding you, of my claiming you. You can, you will accept my cock and my mating fist with pleasure.” His voice pitches lower. “With great pleasure. Don’t be frightened.”
Ragnarr’s gaze is intense, the blue of his eyes burning hot with need. He speaks without dissemblance.
The same need he feels for me smolders deep inside me. And I know what he says is true. I am ready for him, aching for him.
I offer myself up to him—everything I am, everything I have.
I arch my back, pressing my breasts against the steel of his chest. The rough mat of his chest hair scrapes against my tender skin, against my nipples.
And the length of his cock slides up along the cleft of my pussy. Teasing me, marking me.
I cry out. Wriggle my hips against him.
The tiniest bit more, and the ridge of his fist nudges my clit in the most perfect way.
I am trapped by the weight of his body, by his lust, his need.
And I never want to escape.
I’m so incredibly wet. It’s running down my thighs, down the cleft of my ass. I am ready for him, desperate for him to take me. There’s nothing more I can do to prepare for him. The time has come.
“Ragnarr,” I whisper. “Do it. Don’t make me wait any longer, please—take me. Fuck me.”
His lips part, eyes intense on mine. His hips shift, a
nd the head of his cock is—almost—right—there.
The slightest push of his hips, and he’ll be inside me.
“I love you, häxan,” Ragnarr says, his voice low and intense. His accent is transformed to a thick burr by desire. “I will hoard you, claim you.” A breath. He fixes me with his blue stare. “Is this what you truly want? To be claimed by a dragon? To be my mate from this day forward? There is no turning back.”
My nipples are so hard against his chest, the pelt of hair there chafing them just enough to stimulate without pain.
He is solid against me, and the weight of him sweet, so sweet against me.
I have no doubts. No doubts at all.
“Ja,” I say, my eyes steady, fixed on his. “I’m yours, Ragnarr Thoringr.”
A breath. My heart pounds with love for him.
“My dragon, my dear—make me your hoard.”
He growls deep in his throat. The head of his cock seats into place, ready.
He is lodged there, just there, where I want him most. I dig my fingers into his back.
Ragnarr takes my mouth in a searing kiss, pushes into me. Thrusts into me, and I gasp.
I cry out—he’s thick, so thick. Almost too much to take, and hot as dragonfire inside me. But it does not burn; it is the loving heat of noontime sun on my face, and I am his wildflower, turning my head up to take him deep into me.
His lips sear the tender skin of my throat, his hands slide under my ass to position me just right for him. There’s no turning back. It fills me with joy.
He grinds his hips against me, gaining ground inch by inch—acclimating my cunt to his presence. He does not mean to take me all at once.
Bit by bit, he conquers me. Overtakes me. Owns me.
He breathes into my hair, whispering words of love that I almost can’t make out.
“Lilla häxan,” he says. “You’re mine. My goddess, my treasure. My hoard. My sweetest love.”
I dig my nails into him, spurring him on.
“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please, Ragnarr.”
He growls, sensing my need. I am not yet entirely his, but not for lack of wanting.
His cock slides deeper, bit by bit, until he hits bottom. I’m filled up with him, his thickness huge and demanding inside me. My pussy is stretched so full to take him. To accommodate him.
And it’s almost too much.
“Beg me,” he says.
There’s a note of desperation there, as if he’s still not sure I’ll accept him even now.
“Beg me to hoard you.”
I can already feel the hot iron ridge of his mating fist expanding within me.
I can’t, I won’t back down now. I need him. Want him. Love him.
I scratch my nails into him, viciously. Possessively.
“Please,” I say, not begging now but demanding, every bit of desire and need and brutal passion in my voice. “I’m yours, Ragnarr. And you’re mine. Claim me now, Ragnarr. Fill me with your mating fist, with your hoarding seed. Fuck me, take me.”
He roars, and I feel the hot ring of him expanding, thickening. It feels huge—almost too much at once for me.
Suddenly, I’m close to panic—but it’s too late. He’s locked inside me now, and his mating fist is enormous.
It possesses me. Owns me. Claims me.
A tiny part of me, the old recalcitrant part of me, bucks against his dominance one last time.
“Shh,” Ragnarr says, raining kisses on my face, my throat.
His hands stroke me, calm me, bringing me back to earth with the feel of his skin against mine, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his love.
“Don’t be frightened.”
I try to relax, and at last I melt. I trust him. He won’t hurt me.
I am liquid, languid with love.
“Just relax, häxan.” His breath tickles the baby hairs by my ear. “My cock has begun to hoard you now. You feel me there? My mating fist is inside you, filling you. Claiming you. All you need to do is relax, to accept me. Soon I’ll start to fill you with my hoarding seed.”
The calm tone of his voice makes me wetter—I’m full of love, of longing, of need. Ragnarr nudges at my thighs, pushing them farther apart with the palms of his hands, urging them wider for him. I split them wide open for him, and there is no part of me that is hidden from him.
I have no secrets left.
He groans, almost in pain. The ring of his mating fist has expanded fully—at least, I think it has. It fills me, rubs hard against my spot deep inside.
I am captured, claimed. His ownership is inside me, all around me.
I am his completely.
Ragnarr grinds his hips against mine. Mine move up to meet his.
His cock is trapped behind my pubic bone, and even if I objected, there’s nothing I could do to dislodge him. I’m his, very physically his. I didn’t expect it to be so explicit, so base—but here we are, and he’s claiming me, hoarding me.
His cock, his mating fist is expanded inside me, and it’s filled me until I can take no more.
There’s no turning back. And I don’t want to.
The thought makes me wetter than I’ve ever been.
I surrender to him.
“You feel my love for you,” he says, hips thrusting deeper until there is no more space inside me to take him further in. “My beautiful goddess. My Emelie. My lilla häxan.”
I cup his ass in my hands. Dig my fingertips into him. Urge him on. Despite everything, when I relax enough I have just a bit more room for him.
“Ja,” I breathe. I am desperate, needy. “Please, Ragnarr. Harder.”
He adjusts his knees, spreads them a bit wider for balance.
He angles his hips, tries to withdraw, tries to pull out for leverage—but the enormous knot of his fist completely resists the movement. It grinds just right against my g-spot. I cry out, writhing under him.
After three or four cycles of this I realize it’s the point: when his mating fist meets the resistance of my pelvic bone, it hits my spot just right, spurs me closer to orgasm. Each thrust brings me closer to my peak.
My knees tighten around his waist. His body is lean and tight within the embrace of my inner thighs.
“You like that, häxan?” Ragnarr says.
His voice is strained with desire, yet still confident. Still cocky.
Damn him, he knows what he does to me. He doesn’t need to ask.
“That feels amazing,” I gasp.
My honey, the honey his cock is not holding back, leaks down into my ass crack.
He fills me up, fills my senses. I feel like a goddess. Like his goddess.
Ragnarr makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like I’m the most precious of treasures, and he is my guardian. My hero, my hoard-keeper. My dragon.
I whimper, desperate for him to move again, to fuck me harder. I have no more restrictions. No more boundaries. Every last wall I’d built fades away into morning mist, burnt away by the sunlight of his love.
“You’re mine,” he says, sensing my need, his hips thrusting harder. “You’re mine, häxan. Spread your legs wider for me. That’s it. Feel that? You’re mine.”
I can only nod, only obey. He fucks into me harder, filling me to the core with the hot thickness of him. There is no part of me that is not overflowing with him.
I squeak, wriggling beneath him. The weight of him, the heat of him, makes me feel owned, claimed, more than anything else—other than his mating fist.
I’m pinned down, helpless. I gasp. I wriggle. He holds me down just right.
His hips thrust into me. His mating fist moves, hooking up under my pelvic bone with every stroke. Massages my spot with every stroke.
I gasp, cry out. I’m his.
He grunts, shudders, breathing harder.
I feel a hot, wet burst of heat—gods, he’s finally marking me with his essence. Filling me with his hoarding seed.
All I can do I take it, lie there and take it.
He’s claiming me, breeding me, marking me, owning me.
I’m his mate, his hoard.
He is huge and heavy on me now, and on base instinct, I wriggle. He presses down into me, his body the sweetest weight.
His mating fist expands a fraction more, and I cry out as it rocks again and again into my most sensitive inner spot.
“Yes, my love,” he says. “You’re mine. I’m hoarding you. Accept me, häxan. Take all of me.”
I cry out. I nod. Despite my reaction, this is what I want. What I need.
He pumps harder into me, his mating fist grinding against the spot I need him most. The hot rush of his seed never slakes, bathing my pussy in flood after flood with the thick heat of his draconic essence.
“Ragnarr!” I cry out, a sudden sharp wave of orgasm sparking through me.
I’m intimately aware of how trapped, how owned I am. That there’s no going back.
I gladly accept his dominion. I am his, and I come willingly for him. To him.
I accept his lead, accept that I am his hoard. His mate. His fate.
My pleasure spikes, as if I’ve flipped a switch by my final surrender. As if by accepting him completely, I’ve accelerated my own orgasmic response. I realize I’m not just his—he’s mine. And I ride him up to greater heights.
My hips buck of their own volition, forcing his mating fist against my spot. With every stroke, he shoots another hot spurt of hoarding seed into me.
His hands snake up, trace the lines of my face.
“Do you know what you mean to me, häxan?”
My lips part. My attention focuses on him. On his lips. On his words.
“What?” I say.
My voice is weak with need. I am worn out by passion, by the multiple orgasms I’ve already had—and yet I want more.
I am weak with wanting. With love.
And I want him to say it.
“You are my everything. You are my love.” A pause. “Do you feel it? My mating fist, my dragon claiming you?”
It pulses inside me, emphasizing his words. Another hot gush. I moan. I can’t deny him. Can’t deny him anything anymore.
I nod, relax under him, my capitulation complete.
He feels it. Roars in triumph. I feel his muscles flexing as he fucks hard into me.