Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

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  Love, Ruby

  But Wait, There’s More!

  Keep reading for two free chapters!

  Here comes a steamy excerpt from the full-length novel

  Landing Her Dragon,

  second in the 4-book Nordic magical realism series,

  Thor’s Sons Crave Curves, by Ruby Sirois.

  "★★★★★ FFO Paranormal, shifter, BBW audiences and people who like stories with a guaranteed happy ending ... Ragnarr's worship of Emelie's body is gloriously described, amazing!" —Cat, RedInkAndCoffee.com

  Copyright

  Landing Her Dragon, Thor’s Sons Crave Curves, #2

  This book excerpt 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2020 Ruby Sirois

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  Cover design, cover and interior illustration, book layout by Nighttime Birds Creative

  Cover copyright © 2020 Nighttime Birds Creative

  Praise for Ruby Sirois

  Landing Her Dragon: Blurb

  Every water dragon has a siren song, meant only for their mate. And his sings of her. To her.

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  Forty-something witch and single mom Linnea Eklund’s nightmares have come back worse than ever after that horrific event in the forest with her coven—until one night a mysterious figure steps into her dreams and leads her to safety and calm.

  Water dragon Aegir Thoringr is a gifted musician who swims through dreams as easily as the Baltic Sea. Long ago, an angry goddess cursed him, and ever since, Aegir has dedicated himself to his creative passions, fearing no woman would ever want him…

  But since that night when flames painted the heavens crimson, Linnea loathes all dragons. Will she turn from the one being who can help her move on from her past?

  Look what international beta readers had to say about Curvy and the Canid: A Wolf Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling:

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  “Ruby Sirois truly is an artist! I don’t know how she creates such exquisitely unique characters and builds a world so beautiful.” —Palindrome, betareader.io

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  “★★★★★ I really loved this story … it hit all the marks that I’d want in a curvy girl/shifter romance.” —Lynn Katzenmeyer, author of Bearly Camping

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  “Magical … very well-written book. It has a mystical, dream-like feeling … I loved it.”—Dinara T.

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  “★★★★★ FFO Paranormal Romance as well as well-researched Historical Romance. This is a fantastic novella, and I loved how Ruby Sirois wove realism and fantasy together. The sex was great … super-engaging and really hot :D Thumbs up!” —Begenia, betareader.io

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  “★★★★★ I loved all of it. Really well done.” —Arellskan, betareader.io

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  “★★★★½ As usual, Ruby's writing leaves me breathless … [Curvy and the Canid] shows her scope and range as a writer. The story is unusual, obviously a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, but with a modern twist. I love the way Ruby insinuates magic and myth into her stories in such a matter-of-fact way that you just accept that these things are possible. It's a well-paced, well-written, well-plotted magical book … and it is sexy. Ruby writes so well that I wish she lived in my city so I could meet with her to discuss writing—I think it would make me a better writer.” —Ivy M. Bazley, betareader.io

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  “★★★★★ Ruby's writing is fresh and crisp. She has a light, airy voice. Readers will want to cuddle up with this story. First in the [Nordic paranormal romance] genre … sweet, steamy … left me satisfied and happy!” —Mary H.

  Linnea

  I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or awake. The nightmares have come back after all these years, come back with a fury after that horrible night with the fucking dragon and his fire—but this is the first time with the water. With the music. With him.

  My throat is tight, as if I’ve been screaming, or inhaling smoke. There is cold sweat, slick and oily, on my face. The lingering scent of my own fear is acrid, animalistic in my nostrils, like a caged mammal. My body is trembling, and it’s difficult to breathe. It’s both too hot and too cold, and my hands and feet are clammy.

  I blink hard, trying to erase the traces of the dream still in my vision, desperate to know which side of the divide I’m on. I’m drowning in the murky waters of my dreams, unable to tell which way is up. I clutch at the rumpled bedclothes, as if they will lift me to the surface and away from the horrors like a lifejacket. The flavor of panic is still in my mouth and it is bitter, so bitter.

  But one thing remains clear in my mind’s eye—the outline of him. A cool, calm presence, fresh as spring rain. He made me feel so safe back there, wrapped in the mist of dream—but now, in the stillness of my bedroom, I am disquieted.

  I could not see his face, but his voice—no, his song… it still echoes in my mind, and if I hold my breath, I can almost make out the notes even now. A fluid melody, criss-crossed with odd harmonies; haunting, sorrowful, unearthly beautiful. Angels weeping in jubilation. A siren song luring sailors either to their doom, or their salvation—I don’t know which.

  It is full of a poignant longing which pulls at the parts of me I’d thought long dead and put aside as the follies of youth. I struggle to remember it, sensing its importance, desperate not to let it go—but the words of the melody are already lost. Moments later, the melody is as well.

  The night air is damp and cool, scented with pine and early spring flowers. Clean Nordic seawater, dyed rich umber by iron deposits, laps gently at the rocky shore. Starlight glitters down at me, as bright and sharp as diamonds on velvet. Most birds have not yet awoken, but they will be up soon. Only one calls into the night, its lonely voice echoing, eerie, across the still waters of the island-dotted archipelago. I cross the newly-trimmed lawn down to the water’s edge, the dew icy on my toes, hugging myself tightly in my favorite fluffy bathrobe as I go. Moonlight ripples across the water, glowing as if it’s emanating from the depths down below.

  Worn boards of the little pier creak and groan beneath my bare feet. I haven’t bothered to tie back my chin-length blonde hair, only tucking it behind my ears with both hands because the air is peculiarly still. I drop my bathrobe in a heap on the weathered wood, adjust the ties on my bikini bottom, enjoy the night air kissing my bare skin… and dive.

  The shock of cold water brings me out of my head, out of the wisps of lingering nightmare, and fully into my body. This is what I wanted, what I needed. What saves me from myself every time. It is my balm, my succor.

  Shivering hard, I take stroke after stroke, concentrating on the play of the muscles in my shoulders, of my back, the kicking of my legs. The pant of my breath, loud in the quiet night, timed to my body’s movements like a machine. My only focus is to warm myself against the sharp rush of cold Baltic water flowing over me. To bring myself completely out of the nightmares, out of my head, and into the present. Into my body.

  My nightmare’s hold is unusually strong this time. They’ve been getting worse.

  I reach the far shore of the neighboring island, turn around, head back. My breathing is
loud in my ears, my heart a steady, calming drumbeat against the rhythm my arms make through the water. Cold water washes over my face, and it is a panacea. It calms me, centers me, and the panic feels dull, far away, unreal. This is the best weapon I have against the darkness.

  One lap is not enough. I do it again, warming to my task, feeling the familiar power of my limbs sluicing through the water. It is no longer icy, but refreshing, welcome, an old friend.

  When I approach my stony little beach the second time, I slow, not yet wanting to feel the cold air against wet skin. I dive under, enjoying the silence, the calm for long moments. When I pop my head up again I lay back, holding my breath to ease myself into floating on my back. One large swell washes over me, as if from the wake of a large vessel, followed by consecutively smaller ones until the water settles once more.

  My arms move softly, up and down, past my ears like wings. Only my face and the tips of my breasts, puckered tight and hard with cold, touch the night. The scars there twinge, reminding me of their presence. They do not pain me still, but they’re why I prefer to swim topless.

  I breathe deeply, slowly, feeling my body bob up and down on the undulations of gentle currents. The water laps over me, luxurious, like cold silk. The east is now kissed by dawn, a pale lemon glow illuminating the horizon above the pines. Stars sparkle yet in the dawn gloaming, but a trill of birdsong greets the new day.

  Birdsong… I hold my breath, listening hard. My ears are still underwater. No, not birdsong, but the melody I’d heard in my dreams. The one he in my dream had sung to me.

  I gasp and sit up, my toes finding the slick tide-polished stones of the archipelago’s mossy bottom. The water level is up to my shoulders, and I bounce there on my toes, hugging myself against the cold.

  “I’m sorry, näckrosen.” Water lily. He has a lilting tenor voice. “Did I frighten you? I didn’t mean to.”

  I can’t place the accent—it’s unfamiliar, almost atavistic. Maybe from way up north. But the way his syllables roll off his tongue is like an ancient ballad, and I find myself just wanting to listen to his voice.

  “Näckrosen?”

  It is too dark to see him clearly yet. He is seven or eight meters off, himself up to the chest in Coca-Cola-colored seawater.

  A wry little laugh. “You are as lovely as a water lily, floating there in the dawn-lit still waters. It was the first thing that came to mind.”

  “Very poetic.”

  I wrap my arms around myself. Excepting my bikini bottoms, I’m bare. With a typical Swedish attitude toward nudity, I am not in the habit of hiding my body, but his presence, so sudden, and the hint of music so like my dream is an odd shock that’s taken me off-guard.

  I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I tuck them into my armpits. I ball up my fingers to keep them warm.

  “Have you been spying on me?”

  My toes dig into the sandy bottom.

  “No.”

  He laughs a little, shaking drops of water from his eyes. His laughter is clear and musical as bells.

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “Same as you. Swimming. Enjoying the sea at daybreak.”

  Normally my hackles would be up, but, just as in the dream, there is something about him, an air, a melody, that speaks of calm and peace. It surprises me, but despite myself I relax. I sense on a primal level I have nothing to fear.

  Curious, yet still keeping my distance, I bob closer, my breasts bouncing lightly without breaking the water’s surface. I am overcome by a need to see his face the way I couldn’t see the one in my dream. As if I’ve been given another chance, and I can’t resist taking it.

  “Are you the new neighbor?”

  I’d heard through the neighborhood grapevine that someone had recently moved in to the house closest to mine—still about a kilometer off, but closer than most. I haven’t had a chance to go and introduce us yet.

  “I don’t know about new, but I do live in the area.”

  The sky is brighter now. His eyes catch the dawn light, reflect it in a flash of cerulean. They glow with a deep blue-green intensity like the depths of a tropical ocean. Wet with seawater, his hair looks nearly black, but there are streaks there that hint at strands of sun-bleached blond. My breath catches in my throat. His is the unearthly beauty of the melody still dancing at the edges of my memory, as if it’s been made flesh.

  Long, elegant fingers swipe at the droplets of water gathered on wet eyelashes, brushing high cheekbones clean and combing shoulder-length hair from a high, clear brow. A musician’s fingers—strong, yet agile. His broad shoulders, strong arms, and wide chest bulge with swimmers’ muscle. There is a tattoo of a snake, or maybe a sea serpent, on his shoulder and upper chest, but I can’t make out the finer details.

  I curse the opaque water for hiding the rest of him.

  He hums a snatch of something, and my head whips up from my contemplation of the finer points of his perfect body.

  “What is that?” I demand, my voice more harsh than I intend.

  The music has taken me aback, and the scraps of dream begin to coalesce, threatening to close back in around the edges of my awareness as if I’d never left my bed. My pulse picks up. I wriggle my toes in the sand and mud, against tiny pebbles and round stones.

  He raises an eyebrow at me. He is not offended. In fact, he seems pleased over my interest.

  “Just something I wrote. Do you like it?”

  “So you are a musician.”

  “Very astute, näckrosen,” he says. “What gave it away?”

  Just the barest hint of friendly irony. He’s teasing me.

  I open my mouth to speak, to compliment the melody of his voice, the grace of his hands—but it seems too forward. I remember my nakedness.

  “What you were singing… it’s beautiful.”

  Like the rest of you, I want to add, but don’t. There’s no need to make a total fool of myself. I bounce a bit closer, enjoying the weightlessness the water lends me. I see a faint splash of freckles on his cheeks and shoulders, a negative of the stars above fading in the rising light of dawn.

  A faint breeze brings fresh, green notes of lemon and lavender, bergamot and salt and amber. His scent. My nipples tingle, and not from the cold. My pussy suddenly feels hot, swollen with desire—I haven’t felt this in ages.

  “I’m a songwriter, a lyricist, and a multi-instrumentalist,” he says.

  I’m not surprised. No wonder half of what he says is like poetry.

  “I work from my recording studios at my home and on my yacht. I have many online collaborations and commissions keeping me busy.”

  “Your yacht?”

  Now that I think of it, I have seen a yacht around lately, but it’s not an unusual sight. The waters in this area are deep and the cost of living is high.

  “I didn’t know you could even have a recording studio on a yacht. Isn’t it too damp? Or too loud?”

  I feel like I’m babbling, but the brighter it gets out, the more stunning he is. As if even the sun itself worships him. He smiles, and his teeth are white and even. The lines of his tattoo writhe with the play of the muscles underneath, almost as if it’s alive.

  My heart does a little flip-flop in my chest. I tuck the ends of my hair behind my ears, hoping I can play it cool, that I don’t seem as stunned as I feel. I’m like a teenager with her first crush, tongue-tied.

  “I don’t like being far from the water, näckrosen. So I make it work.”

  I should protest the unbidden nickname, but oddly, a larger part of me likes it. I’ve never had a nickname I liked, but from him it sounds pure and lovely—just like a water lily in the dawn, as he said.

  “I’m Linnea,” I say, although I don’t want him to stop calling me by the new name. I also don’t want to tell him that. It seems like giving too much away.

  I hug myself a little tighter. Bounce closer.

  I can see the individual spikes of his lashes, the exact oceanic shade of his eyes. I catch
myself staring. Wanting to drown in them.

  “Aegir.”

  He inclines his head politely, but a little smile playing on his soft lips gives away the game. His eyes slide over me in appreciation, as if he senses my body’s response to his.

  I realize with a thrill of pleasure that he’s flirting with me.

  Aegir

  The dawn light kisses the freckles on her nose, lighting the pale gray of her eyes to a clear blue like the sea after a storm. Her gaze on me is avid, interested, and I haven’t missed how she’s traced the lines of my arms and chest with her eyes. Hidden by the dark water, my cock grows hot and hard.

  My siren song bubbles up in me, adding a few notes in major tone to what has always been a minor melody since the very first, a thousand years gone. I cock my head to listen. It’s difficult not to sing along.

  “This is your beach?”

  The song thrills in me, wanting me to listen, trying to tell me something important. I swallow it, so that it won’t escape my lips.

  She nods. “We’ve lived here since my divorce, my two daughters and I—which was about seven years ago. By the way, I was wondering—did you swim all the way here?” she asks, glancing around. “It’s cold, and I don’t see a boat.”

  “I swim a lot—I don’t mind if it’s cold.”

  I hold still as she bobs closer. I could almost touch her if I reached out my hand for hers. Her wet hair is tucked behind her ears, framing her face and bringing out the delicate lines of her cheekbones, the tilt of her eyes, the graceful lines of her neck. The water is shallower here, and the other arm is still wrapped around her body, but the pale globes of her breasts are glowing through the umber waters. Her nipples are stiff just underneath. Deeper down, the water is too dark. It hides her curves with the grace of a queen’s gown.