Dragon Maid (12 page)

“Let me.” He undid whatever held her breeks in place. She pushed them down her hips, and they tangled in her shoes. “Hold on.” He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, walked to the far end of the room, down a short hallway, and through another door.

His bedchamber. Tall dressers made of light-colored wood graced two walls. Another computer monitor, twin to the one she’d seen in the living room, sat atop a small table with one chair. Papers were piled high on the table, but the rest of the room wasn’t cluttered. He laid her on the bed and bent to remove her shoes. Once they were out of the way, he pulled her breeks the rest of the way off. “I can’t believe how stunning you are.” He ran his hands the length of her body almost reverently.

“Ye still have your clothes on.” Her mouth was dry; it was hard to get the words out.

“So I do.” He sat on the edge of the bed, gaze never leaving her, and removed his boots. They made little clunking noises as they hit the floor. He stood, undid his breeks, and stepped out of them. His smallclothes followed.

She motioned with one hand; her mage light flared into brightness. “I would see you, all of you.”

He dropped his jacket over a chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and slid it off his shoulders. Britta had to remind herself to breathe. He had the most incredible body with dusky, golden skin that gleamed in the glow from her light. Well-muscled shoulders and legs, slender hips, and a sprinkling of dark hair around copper-colored nipples captivated her. His flat stomach was corded with muscle. Jutting out from his body, his cock twitched, hard and ready, heavy with need. He unbraided his hair. Freed, the dark strands fell halfway to his waist.

“I canna stand the distance between us.” She patted the bed next to her and pushed the covers back.

He smiled crookedly. “You still have your shirt on.”

Britta sat, tugged off her jacket, and pulled the stretchy shirt over her head. Her breasts ached, the nipples hard points of desire. “If ye doona come to me, I’ll—”

He was by her side in a trice, tracing one erect nipple with a fingertip. ”You’ll what?”

She opened her arms, too overcome with desire to speak.

Her arousal ignited his own, like tinder to flame. Not that his needed a boost. The way things were looking, he’d be lucky not to come before he even got inside her. Lavender, amber, and musk tickled his nose. The hotter she got, the more intense her scent became. It surrounded him, almost like a living creature, caressing his soul. He gazed at her, still unable to believe she was his. What a breathtaking woman. He fitted his body to hers and kissed her, tasting the single malt Scotch they’d drunk. She wove her arms around his back and buried her hands in his hair. Her body writhed beneath him as she captured one of his legs between hers and pressed the hot wetness of her core against his thigh.

Her full breasts strained against him. He sank his tongue into her mouth, and she wound her fingers tighter into his hair. He’d never kissed anyone like this before, where the only thing in the world was the taste of her lips against his, the sweet warmth of her mouth and tongue. He rolled her onto her back. She moved her legs up and back, and then circled his waist. He wanted to do so many things: kiss her, suckle her nipples, move lower and taste her musky center, but his cock had a mind of its own. Once she opened her legs, it seated itself in her opening. Still, he tried to hold back, to savor the incredible heat coursing through him, setting fire to every nerve ending.

Her hips heaved and rolled beneath him. Britta ran her hands down his back until they settled on his ass. She gripped him and pulled hard. He held fast. Once the magic that was her pussy encased him, he’d come. She broke their kiss and nipped his lower lip. “I’m going to spend. I would do so with you inside me.” Her voice was rough with passion.

Inch-by-inch, he lowered himself into her, riding a ragged edge of control. He was damned if he wouldn’t last long enough for her to come at least once. Jonathan withdrew until just his cockhead danced around her entrance. At the bottom of his third full stroke, her muscles clenched again and again. She cried out and clawed his back.

His balls snugged against his body and control fled, blown away like so much fairy dust. He balanced on his arms so he could look at her beautiful, passion-splotched face and breasts and withdrew, but not all the way. Because he couldn’t wait any longer, Jonathan drove himself into her again and again. The orgasm he’d tried to ride herd on was so close his balls ached. Finally, he couldn’t stand any more sensation and juddered hard inside her. His semen burned as it burst from his body in gouts of pleasure so intense his vision grayed at the edges.

She gripped his hips and ground herself against the base of his cock. “Aye,” she moaned. “Again.” Her legs tightened around him, and he willed himself to keep moving until the tension in her muscles relaxed after a second climax ripped through her. He collapsed, murmuring endearments and covering her face and neck with kisses, overcome by the intensity they’d just shared.

Jonathan had learned to keep a firm grip on his emotions as a child. It had served him well as a survival skill because his father was so rarely available in the sense most parents probably were for their children. Britta blew the lid off his carefully crafted emotional detachment. He wanted to hold her, care for her, protect her from harm, watch her belly swell with their children…

“Och aye, and I would be wanting those things as well.” She smiled and rolled from beneath him so they lay side-by-side.

Heat rose to his face. “I guess you were inside my head.”

“Of course. Isna that what lovers do? Share each other’s innermost thoughts?”

“Sure, but I was raised in an era where we use words for that.”

She arched a brow. “Would ye prefer I stayed out of your mind, then?”

Jonathan thought about it. “No. I want just what we have.” He laid a hand on the side of her face. “I have no secrets from you.”

“Good. ’Tis the way things should be.” She snuggled deeper into his arms.

“How would you know the way things ought to be?” he teased.

“I may have been unmated, but I have eyes and ears.” Her breathing settled into a regular pattern. He cradled her against him, knowing he should sleep, too, but the wonder of the woman in his arms kept him awake. From confirmed loner to sharing his life with not just a woman but also her dragon, was quite a shift. Despite not knowing Britta for long, he couldn’t imagine not having her by his side. He looked forward to getting to know Tarika too. That dragon and woman had maintained independent personalities over their long years of linkage amazed him.

His thoughts strayed to the dangers they faced. Somehow, he didn’t believe the Morrigan or the red and black wyverns—and their dragon shifter mages—would simply roll over on their backs and say
I surrender
.

“Of course they willna do any such thing,” she said, voice fuzzed with sleep.

“Hush.” He stroked her hair back from her forehead and tangled his fingers in its silky strands. “Go back to sleep.”

“There are times for such things. Now isna one of them.” Sandwiched between their bodies, his cock stirred to life. She butted her pelvis against it. “I know I said we could wait to eat, but I would welcome a bit of a meal along with another jot of whiskey.”

His stomach growled in agreement. He laughed. “Pitched battle between body parts. My stomach wants food. My cock wants more of you.”

She slipped a hand between them and curled her fingers around his shaft. “Food for the body now. Food for our love later.”

“Looks like I’m not the only one with a poet’s soul.” He nuzzled her neck. “Can I get you a robe? I have an extra one.” She nodded; he got to his feet and plucked both bathrobes off hooks behind the door. She padded next to him, and he helped her into a soft, blue terrycloth robe before snugging the striped one around himself. “What do you feel like eating?”

Britta shrugged. “I am not familiar enough with food in this time. Anything would be fine. Bread. Cheese. Meat.”

“Soup?”

“Doona ye have to cook that for hours?”

“It comes in a can now, but you can still make it from scratch if you have time.”

She drew her blonde brows together. “What do ye mean
in a can
?”

“Come along. I’ll show you.”

He settled her at his small kitchen table, opened a can of chicken noodle soup, got bread out of the freezer, and made them tuna sandwiches while the soup heated. She turned the aluminum soup can around in her hands. “Is there other food that comes this way?”

He tapped the empty tuna can on the counter with a fingernail. “You can get most anything in tins.”

“Why doesna it spoil?”

“Good question. Early on in the canning process, people died from eating food in tins that hadn’t been adequately cooked, but it’s not a problem anymore. Basically, what’s in the can is processed with heat and pressure until all the bacteria—er, little bugs—that might make you sick are dead.”

Britta wrinkled her nose. “Ewww. It seems fresher food would still be better.”

“That’s the party line.” He set a plate and bowl in front of her. “But I’m a confirmed bachelor. We’re notorious for our poor eating habits.”

“Ye’ll have to explain
party line
. I got the other part. Ye need a mate to see ye eat better.” She took a sip of soup and frowned. “It doesna taste like much of anything.”

Concern smote him. His slipshod eating habits might not work for Britta. He hovered halfway between counter and table, his own dishes in hand. “Would you like to get dressed and go out? We can find something better?”

“Nay.” She took a bite of sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “I appreciate ye made me a meal. Now, if we could chase it with a bit of spirits, all would be well.”

“Is the scotch all right or would you prefer ale?”

“Scotch.”

He poured the liquor, added a bit of water to his, and sat across from Britta where he could drink her in. “It’s such a wonder to have you at my table, to share a meal with you…” His voice trailed off. He felt awkward, like an adolescent on his first date.

“I feel the same way.” She lifted her glass. “To us.”

He clinked glasses. “To us. And to victory so we have long lives to enjoy each other.”

“Aye. I’ll drink to that as well.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. It felt companionable, domestic, things he’d never expected to find for himself. “I know enough about the Morrigan. Maybe you could tell me about the black and red dragons. All I know is they’re dragon shifters like you and Lachlan.”

She met his gaze, golden eyes serious. “Aye. Rhukon is the black wyvern’s mage.”

“His dragon’s name?”

“Malik.” She hesitated. “His defection is hard for me since he and Tarika were egg mates millennia ago.”

Jonathan racked his brain for what he knew about dragons, which wasn’t much. “Do you mean they came from the same clutch?”

“Aye. They shared a mother but obviously had different fathers. ’Tis why Tarika is called First Born, while he is not. Tarika’s father was one of the first dragons to be formed deep in the maw of Fire Mountain.”

“So not just different colors but different bloodlines,” Jonathan murmured. Britta nodded. “How long have Rhukon and Malik been bonded?”

She cocked her head to one side. “I’m not entirely certain, only that it happened after Tarika and I chose one another.”

“And the red wyvern?”

“Aye. The mage is named Connor and the dragon Preki.” Responding to the question in his eyes for more information, she shook her head. “I doona know much of either. Connor’s magic isna particularly strong. ’Twas a surprise to all of us when he bonded with a dragon at all.”

Jonathan grappled for food on his plate and realized he’d finished his sandwich. “I’m going to make myself another. Would you like more?”

Britta raked her hair away from her face and pushed it over her shoulders. “Doona think me ungrateful, but have ye aught that isna in a tin?”

He grinned. “How about a toasted cheese sandwich?”

“Hot cheese and bread?”

“Yup.”

“I can make it if ye show me where things are.”

He held up a hand. “Nah. Even my limited culinary arts can turn out toasted cheese sandwiches.” He rustled in the refrigerator, found a chunk of cheddar, and pulled a cast iron skillet from a cupboard.

She sipped her scotch and watched him. “What happened to the serving classes who used to take care of house care and cooking?”

“People who have lots of money still employ domestic help. The rest of us make do.” He flipped a sandwich onto a fresh plate and walked it to her. Because it looked better than a second go-round with tuna and mayonnaise, he made himself one as well. She was half done with hers before he got back to the table. He grinned. “Better?”

“Aye.” She grinned back. “Much. At least this bears a passing resemblance to food.”

He took a bite, savoring the melted cheese and crisp bread. “Do you know how the Morrigan and the two wyverns got together?”

“That I do.” She poured another half finger of scotch into her glass. “’Twas during one of those interminable battles that peppered the old country in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds. The Morrigan was in her element; she solicited recruits to help manage the dead.”

“Er, this may be a stupid question, but why wouldn’t she have teamed up with Arawn, Celtic god of the dead?”

“She did, until Arawn grew sick of her. What I meant to say was she got Rhukon and Connor to talk people into changing sides afore they’d actually died.” Britta rolled her shoulders. Jonathan jumped to his feet, came around behind her, and massaged the sides of her neck. “Och, but your touch feels heavenly.” She leaned into his hands.

“Originally, you said
manage the dead
.”

“So I did. See, it dinna matter which side the poor sods fought on. Most of them died anyway. But it helped the Morrigan’s cause if the proper side was victorious because it meant war would continue.” She laid her hands atop his. “Finish your meal while ’tis still warm.”