Dragon VIP: Pyrochlore (7 Virgin Brides for 7 Weredragon Billionaires Book 3)

by Starla Night

  “Welcome to my place,” Pyro said.

  She pivoted in his arms and stepped into a male fantasyland. Curved, tinted windows lined the exterior walls and displayed a stunning view of the Strip. The disc was large enough to hold a restaurant or a big party but it was jam-packed full of guy things. Classic pinball and video game machines lined the walls and a soda machine blinked next to a full bar. A truly magnificent bed rested on one half of the room, its lush gray sheets rumpled.

  She let her book bag drop onto the floor. The smooth hardwood gritted with dust. Apparently, maid service didn’t extend to a detached, floating disc above their hotel.

  He opened the soda machine, took out a can, and popped the tab. “What do you think?”

  “It looks…” Cluttered, confident, utterly male. “…comfy.”

  His brows rose, and a surprised laugh emerged as if he did not expect her to say that. Like when they’d been on their first date, she’d continued to surprise him just by being herself.

  He drank half the soda, walked behind the bar, and pulled out an exotically shaped bottle. “Want a drink?”

  “I better not.”

  He cocked a brow. A devilish grin tempted her. “Doesn’t that mean you’d better?”

  Yes, she wanted to try all the drinks. Expand her horizons, guzzle sugary syrup and burning alcohol, savor the forbidden concoctions that haunted her dreams.

  But Las Vegas beckoned. Finally. Right outside!

  “I want to experience Las Vegas sober,” she said.

  His brow remained cocked. “You’re the only one.”

  She didn’t doubt it. “I want to experience it fully. I don’t want to miss a thing.”

  “You might regret it.” But he capped the bottle and offered alternate refreshments.

  She accepted sparkling lemon water and perused the rest of the apartment. Her new experiences started right here, at ground zero.

  One pinball machine in the center of the room, a knight emerging from an exploding castle titled Medieval Madness, had a massive fist-shaped dent in the glass spider-webbing outward to obscure the playing view.

  She paused. “What happened to that one?”

  “It’s my favorite.” He sipped his drink.

  She laughed. “Right.”

  “It is.” He offered no justification for its destruction.

  Worried about what she might discover if she inquired too deeply, she moved on.

  Behind a movie theater-sized TV, stairs wound around the middle column to a second floor. An empty kitchen, dining room, and giant unused fireplace lived in the family room or office. That floor looked barely lived in.

  He floated up the fireman’s pole between floors, showing off his dragon skills. “Find what you’re looking for?”

  “Sure.” She sipped her lemon water, one arm crossed and holding her elbow. “Just trying to get to know you. A man’s home says a lot about him.”

  One brow rose. “What does my lair say about me?”

  She thought of the well-used game machines, movie theater, and rumpled bed. “You like to stay entertained.”

  It heightened the mystery of why he’d suddenly proposed. Amy was the opposite of entertaining. Something didn’t add up.

  “And you haven’t even seen my games closet.”

  “You have a games closet?”

  He walked her down the stairs to an enclosed room she hadn’t noticed on her first tour. One region branched off into a palatial bath; the other led to an open closet stocked with women’s and men’s clothing. The last cabinet was filled with a thousand board games stacked four or five deep, some well-used, others still in the plastic.

  She rested her hands on the top game. “Clue! I used to love this game. I was always Miss Scarlet.” The player card made her look like a seductive temptress. “How about you?”

  “I’ve never played.”

  “We’ll have to! You ask probing questions to unravel the mystery.”

  He leaned against the door. “And what happens once you’ve unraveled the mystery?”

  “You know everything about the other players and you win.”

  His grin widened. “You like to know everything.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I became a teacher.”

  She enjoyed research but even more enjoyed revealing the research in an interesting way to students. Watching their faces light up with the ah-ha! warmed her heart and gave her a great sense of fulfillment.

  Pyro brought out a bag of small lozenges and crunched. A sulfuric scent emerged from the bag and she thought she recognized them from Sard’s candy dish.

  “Is that brimstone candy?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  Pyro tapped his chest with his fist, grimaced as though he were feeling heartburn, and belched. A small stream of flames emerged from his mouth and abruptly winked out.

  Her arms felt the heat. “Whoah! What are you doing?”

  “Males can’t make fire naturally like females.” He chewed another candy and then grabbed Clue and positioned it in front of him at arm’s length. He opened his mouth.

  She figured it out just in time and yanked the board game out of his hand just as a stronger flame erupted from his mouth.

  “Aaah! Stop!”

  The flames continued, unobstructed, to the opposite wall of the closet and burned a dark spot on the honey-colored wood.

  He tossed the remainder of her sparkling lemon water on the smoking spot. It hissed and turned to hot steam.

  Turning to her, he frowned. “Give me that.”

  “You’re going to burn it.”

  “And?”

  “No!” She clutched the box to her chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Preserving your memories.”

  “What?”

  He gestured at the box. “Destroyed, it won’t give you regrets. Your good memories are safe.”

  “You can never make new memories either! And some might be even better.”

  He shrugged. The sacred old memories were worth more than the chance to make new, better ones.

  Wait. Did that mean he’d destroyed his favorite pinball machine to freeze his good memories in time forever?

  Did he fear regrets, mistakes, and losing his good feelings so much he destroyed the things he loved before they could hurt him?

  Pyro headed into the bathroom, washed his mouth out, and brushed his teeth.

  She followed. “Clearly you have a short-sighted view because you don’t know what you’re missing. Let’s play right now.”

  He gargled and spat. “Don’t you want to go out? Experience the town sober?”

  Oh. Yes, of course she did. She put the box back. He followed.

  “Don’t look so disappointed.” He hemmed her against the games, rested one arm over her head, and stroked her cheek with a silken, hot finger. “There are other ways we can pass the time.”

  She heated to a thousand degrees.

  He was going to kiss her again.

  She sucked in a breath.

  He leaned forward and once more his firm lips seduced her mouth.

  Yes. She melted into his embrace.

  He nibbled, sucked, teased. The dangerous, unstable brimstone flavor was barely masked by crisp, responsible wintergreen mint. And then his own male flavor overwhelmed her.

  She tried to hold on to her senses, cataloging sensations and losing track as she fought to stay conscious. His scent, masculine and proud. The gentle suction of their lips meeting, finding each other, growing hungry.

  This might be her last kiss. She needed to remember every detail so she could relive it, always.

  His fingers cupped her cheek, and the control started to slide away. His nose brushed hers. His hard body was mere inches from her taut nipples. So close, she felt the slide of fabric between them, and it was all she could do not to moan.

  A sliver of his teeth sensitized her and then came a soft thrust of his tongue.

  Oh god. It was sexy. So sexy. She throbbed, co
ming to full awareness, her feminine core slicking with readiness.

  She wanted more. So much more.

  Amy wanted—

  He pulled back and, in a slightly confused tone, he stroked her lower lip with the flat of his thumb. “Amy. Open your mouth to me.”

  She parted her lips.

  He searched her gaze, seeking an answer to a mysterious question, and then he leaned forward and deepened their kiss.

  Thank you.

  Heat and wetness flared across her soul. The entire world refocused on him. Pyro’s tongue filled her mouth and plumbed her depths. Desire throbbed need into her feminine center.

  She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t think. Everything started and ended with this fiery, chaotic, gorgeous male. Pyro. Her fantasy made real. Her male.

  He pulled back again, studying her as though to gauge the effects of his kiss.

  How could he possibly think straight?

  She rested her weight against the games case to prevent her shaking legs from dumping her on the ground.

  That was the difference between them. He was casual. Experienced. A real playboy.

  She was so shattered by one kiss she didn’t know if she’d ever recover.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, even though food was the furthest from her mind.

  He stepped away to give her breathing space, turned, and selected a plunging teal dress from the racks. “Put this on.”

  She pulled herself together and fingered the luxurious, sleek fabric. It was designed for a beautiful woman. Like a TV model. “It’ll never fit.”

  “It will fit exactly.” He leaned down and grabbed her matching five-inch heels. “And these.”

  She clutched the incredible heels. “I can’t walk in these.”

  He straightened and grinned. “Who says we’ll be walking?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Something was wrong.

  Pyro couldn’t put his finger on it, so he proceeded with his plan. He clothed Amy in the stunning threads he’d collected just for her, fitting her so perfectly she gazed at her reflection in awe. The teal augmented the green undertones in her eyes and strengthened the warmth of her auburn hair.

  “Is that me?” she whispered.

  “It’s you.” He hooked an arm around her waist and snugged her soft derriere against his ramrod hard cock.

  “I look like a model.” She rested her hands on him for balance. “I’m not even wearing makeup.”

  “I can fix that.”

  She glanced back at him, surprise and interest lighting her face. “You’re a stylist?”

  “I have connections.” He carried her out of his “comfy” home — her word, not his — and into the classiest salon in the heart of the Bellagio, stealing a bridal party’s appointment to have Amy done.

  “Not too extreme,” she requested nervously while the expert stylist fluffed her hair and talked highlights and mid tones. “Just a little lipstick is fine.”

  Pyro handed the manager his black credit card. “Do your worst.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And she had a whole bevy of stylists painting her nails and toes, massaging in facial toner and lotion, and adding a few lightening foils to bring out her “natural” highlights. When he collected her an hour later, she was getting her eyeshadow finished, chatting about reality TV.

  “But I can’t stop watching and I hate myself for wasting my brain,” she was saying. “I’m not an idiot. I know it’s all fake.”

  “It’s not all fake,” the stylist said.

  “Come on. Do you really believe all those women had no idea they were marrying convicts?”

  “Okay, the actual events are staged. But the emotion, the drama, the realization that reaching for your dreams involves risk? Striving means pain?” The stylist brandished his brush for emphasis. “That part’s real. Dreams are dangerous. Reaching for them hurts. And that’s why people keep watching.”

  She blinked and then snorted. “And here I thought I was just wasting my life.”

  “Each episode is a cautionary tale to make you feel better about vegging on your couch. It keeps you from taking the plunge and becoming … your true self.”

  The stylist turned Amy to face the mirror and whipped off the gown and revealed her finished appearance.

  Her expression blanked with shock. She rose slowly, wobbling in the heels.

  Pyro took her hand and helped her to a small, well lit viewing dais ringed by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Amy put a hand up to her face, stopped before touching her skin, and smoothed the teal gown at her thighs.

  “What do you think?” he asked, unable to read her expression. It wasn’t delighted, but something deeper.

  “I thought I looked like a model before. Now…” A smile broke through like sun cracking storm clouds. She twirled once, letting the skirt flare around her ankles. “I could almost be one of those contestants on a reality TV show.”

  “I could get you on a reality TV show,” Pyro agreed.

  She turned to the beaming stylist. “Thank you. You worked a miracle.”

  “You have good bones,” he assured her. “Lovely structure. I’ll watch for you on TV.”

  She laughed, and it was a genuine sound of natural delight. They exited the salon into the tiled portico. She smiled, excited and carefree. “Where shall we eat?”

  Pyro tugged her into his arms. “I’m hungry for you.”

  Her smile fled and a new, feminine scent of arousal flooded his nose. He pressed her close so his arousal ground against her softness.

  She … hesitated.

  He hovered over her plump mouth.

  Her lips parted and her pupils dilated. Encouraging. But she didn’t close the distance. She didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t lift her chin. She just waited, smelling like hunger and acting aloof.

  He paused a beat and then eased closer.

  She sucked in a huge breath and held it.

  What the hell? Did she feel nothing? Was her hunger all in his head?

  He eased back.

  She released her breath, blinked several times, and forced a smile. “I’m hungry for real food if that’s okay.”

  So casual. Like nothing had passed between them. Like he hadn’t been about to kiss her. Like she wasn’t, even this moment, emitting addictive, arousing pheromones.

  He couldn’t figure it out. Being around her was like stoking a roaring fire but being so numbed he couldn’t sense the heat. He wanted to stick his hands directly into the flames. Then would it burn?

  “Sure.” Even though his brain battled doubts, he knotted his fingers in hers to keep her close. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Can we eat anywhere?”

  “Anywhere,” he said, for at least the third time that night.

  “Well … I’ve always wanted to visit Paris.”

  He flew her to the top of the Eiffel Tower and they strolled into a private booth — without waiting — for an intimate meal. She accepted a small sip of his champagne, marveled over the dishes, and oohed at the view. Her eyes sparkled and her laughter popped. And every time he touched her, the sparkling gemstones in her eyes seemed to freeze and she turned to him, accepting his touch. Welcoming it.

  But she never returned his overtures. She never initiated, never teased back, never pulled him closer.

  It made him work harder than ever to figure her out. Learn about her family, her friends, her dreams, her habits. Things he never shared with anyone. Not even his own sister.

  She brought up their first “date” again. “Why did you need me to break into Sard’s warehouse? Why can’t you sue him for industrial theft?”

  “Because he’s an aristocrat.” Pyro tapped the red shell of his lobster with his tined fork. “I’m a low-class bastard with no rights.”

  “No one cares about dragon classes on Earth.”

  “Human rules apply to humans. Dragon rules apply to dragons. Even now he’s plotting somet
hing. I’ll find out what when we meet.” He stabbed the steak. “Unless I torch his building first.”

  “You should put aside your differences for the meeting.”

  His brow rose. “He’s an aristocrat. Our differences can’t be ‘put aside.’”

  “Start out neutral.”

  “You do understand our company’s going to be destroyed? And he’s going to help?”

  “Save your anger until the best moment. Start out calm. You control the conversation, not him.”

  Hmm. “Interesting theory.”

  “Basic classroom management.”

  “Torch the building after he’s stolen another of our products or kidnapped another employee?”

  “Right,” she said. “And, uh, make sure everyone’s safely out of the building first.”

  It was an idea. And the first time he’d ever talked about this issue seriously with anyone. His siblings dismissed his anger and Darcy knew it was his role to help Pyro forget. Amy was supportive. Helpful. Honest.

  Talking with her like they were friends first was so totally foreign it made him reconsider. He wanted to keep this. Even if the rest of their relationship didn’t work. He wanted her on his side believing in him.

  She licked her lips, seemingly unconscious of how luscious it made her look. “You talk about torching others’ things a great deal. But I wonder if you’re not most dangerous to yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “You have a different woman every night. You destroy the things you care about before they can betray you. You break off before you can get hurt.” She pointed her dessert spoon at him. “You can’t commit.”

  Like hell. He could commit. And he had committed.

  But they were never talking about that.

  He snorted. “Did you figure out this mystery because I joked about your board game?”

  “And your pinball machine.”

  He shook his head. She had no idea.

  “The way you talk about your family’s company. How you’d rather see it destroyed than taken away from you. And how you keep everyone away from you, even your own siblings, rather than risk getting too close. You’re afraid of losing them and so you’d rather push them away with jokes and flames. You won’t commit.”

  This was no longer funny.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, short and clear, and hardened against what was certain to be tearful fallout. “You think you’ve figured it out? You don’t know me.”