Page 10 of Dragon Rivals of New York

You don’t need to earn or pay back every bit of affection you’re shown. It wasn’t your fault he cheated on you.

Still… I feel responsible for them and their pleasure, guilty for taking without giving anything back.

Yeah, guess that lesson hasn’t sunk in yet.

I take a deep breath before answering. “It was great.”

My voice comes out like the squeak of a mouse. Jethro brings his lips to the side of my throat. “The most fun I’ve had since the first week I met you.”

When we first met, I was a little tipsy after lunch with Finley and Cyrus, so Jethro drove me back to my apartment. I was newly divorced. I’d only slept with one man. And I was determined to have a one-night stand. I basically threw myselfat Jethro.

To my utter disappointment, he was a perfect gentleman. He didn’t try anything, but he stayed, made sure I ate, drank water, took advil, and napped. It’s when I woke up completely sober that he more than gave in. The man destroyed me. My first one-night stand ruined me for all future attempts.

And believe me, I’ve made attempts. Finley worries that I’ve counter corrected too far from my strict conservative upbringing, concerned that I might end up going home with a serial killer or getting a STI.

Truthfully, my attempts haven’t been much more than attempts. Most of them failed, never making it to bed. A few succeeded, if success is just sex. Only one man made me come, and after Jethro, it was just… meh.

But experimenting and experiencing things—even when they aren’t so great—is what I want. For so long, my sexuality was something someone else controlled. First my parents. Then my husband. My sexuality was something that was for someone else. Pleasure was something to distrust because it led to sin. Urges were to be stuffed down and ignored, or hidden, like the way my husband hid his affair.

Now, for the first time in my life, I’m in control of my sexuality. I get to choose when I feel pleasure and with whom.

Speaking of… my gaze lifts to Kyro, who’s towering over me, still holding that glass of water.

“Drink.” His abrupt command lights up some primal part of me I don’t understand. There’s the slightest curl to the right side of his mouth when he sees me obey.

“Good girl,” Jethro whispers in my ear.

“Don’t call me that.” I say, surprised by my guttural reaction. I don’t want to be the good girl anymore. Being the good girl got me nowhere. No, that’s not true. It got me depressed, anxious, and exhausted. It’s too hard to maintain. The expectations were too high. No matter what I did, I could never reach them.

“What do you want to be, then, lovely, if not my good girl?”

I don’t know how to answer him. It’s been more than a year since I found out my husband was cheating on me, a year since I divorced him, and I still feel like I’m floundering, adrift without the tethers that used to support me, trying to figure out who I am in this new reality.

For a while, I told myself I wanted to be the bad girl. Okay, yeah, Finley was right. I counter corrected and went a little extreme. I even tried out some light degradation and having guys call me a slut, and while it was a little fun for a moment, it left me feeling kind of hollow afterwards. Especially when the guys would up and leave immediately, and I’d be left with all the negative connotations the word carried, even if I wastrying to reclaim it.

Degradation wasn’t really for me.

But I don’t want the pressure of praise and being called “good.” Good requires perpetual vigilance to keep from slipping into “not good enough.”

“Well?” Jethro hums in my ear and a shiver races the noise.

“Huh?” Oh yeah, he asked a question. “I don’t know. Just don’t call me good girl.”

“Would you rather be our dirty little slut?” Jethro’s voice is low, too quiet for anyone except me to hear. But Kyro is staring down at me with an intensity that makes me wonder if he heard the whispered words.

Heat burns my cheeks. Okay, maybe there’s some part of me that likes the idea of beinghisnaughty, slutty, wanton bad girl. It sounds different coming from him. Less derogatory and more like a challenge, or an invitation.

But ultimately, I want to be something more than just “good” or “bad.” I shake my head. “Just call me Sora.”

“Alright, lovely Sora.” He kisses my neck.

“It’s time to go,” Midas says, standing and holding out his hand to help his wife to her feet. I’d nearly forgotten they were at the table with us.

I frown. “I thought you were going to stay the night with Finley and me.”

“I was.” Jeslyn gives a little laugh. “But…”

Her husband’s possessive arm around her waist communicates what she doesn’t say. The guys showing up changes things.

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