Page 39 of Never Feed a Dragon

His nostrils flared.

The fire in his eyes grew.

A shudder rolled his shoulders.

I bit back a groan at the surge of lust in my middle.

Damn, I wanted him.

“You can’t sit on my bed smelling like that and expect me not to fuck you, Spaghetti.” Eli’s voice was strained.

Gravelly, too.

“Heat is ridiculous,” I managed, balling my fists to keep myself from reaching toward him. He wasn’t close to me; reaching out would’ve been silly.

But it would’ve brought him closer to me.

He wouldn’t have been able to resist if I reached for him. I knew that, somehow.

“I’d want you this badly even without heat,” he said.

“You wouldn’t.”

Eli gave me a warning rumble. “I would. Keep arguing that point, and I’ll have to prove it with my mouth.”

I didn’t ask where he’d put his mouth.

We both knew.

An image flashed in my mind.

I was on my couch, while he feasted on me.

My temperature rose.

The image had come from his mind. He was remembering the night before.

Another mental picture hit me. One that hadn’t happened.

Me, bent over my apartment’s kitchen countertop. Eli’s fists were full of my bridesmaid dress, my thong pulled to the side while he drove his cock into me.

Holy hell.

I needed a fan. A really, really big fan.

A glass of water, too maybe?

A third image followed.

We were in the bathroom at Randa’s wedding reception. My back was against the door, his hands were in my hair, and our clothes were on the ground. My legs were around his hips, and his cock was buried inside me.

I choked out, “Control your thoughts, E.”

The image didn’t disappear.

Not immediately.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out. “You smell too fucking good.”

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