Page 26 of Born in Fire

Relief and desire crash through me in equal measure. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer as I take her mouth. She tastes like sleep and something sweeter, something I want more of. Her tongue meets mine, and the kiss deepens into something hungry and frantic.

Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the contours of my chest, my belly. Her touch leaves trails of fire on my skin. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us—her breasts pressed against me, her thigh sliding between mine, her fingers tracing patterns that make my muscles jump.

“Off,” she murmurs against my mouth, tugging at my shirt.

I help her remove it, then pause to look at her—really look at her. In the dim light, with her hair tousled from sleep and her lips swollen from our kisses, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Not in the conventional way of models I’ve bedded or socialites I’ve charmed, but in some deeper, more essential way that resonates in my bones.

“What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious under my gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her simply.

Color floods her cheeks. “Smooth talker.”

“Just the truth.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb. “I’m trying something new.”

She laughs softly, then pulls me back down to her. The kiss turns molten, her body arching against mine, her need clear. I slide my hand beneath her shirt, finding warm skin and the gentle curve of her waist. She shivers under my touch, goosebumps rising in the wake of my fingers.

“Your hands are so warm,” she murmurs.

Fuck! Watch it, asshole.

Too warm. I need to be careful. My dragon is closest when I’m aroused—elevated body temperature, enhanced strength, occasionally scales if I don’t take care. I focus on moderating the heat while continuing to explore her body.

Her shirt comes off next, revealing a simple cotton bra that somehow manages to be sexier than any lace I’ve encountered. Perhaps because it’s hers. I lower my mouth to the hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips. The sound she makes—a soft, broken moan—sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock.

I take my time, exploring her body with my hands and mouth. The curve of her collarbone. The sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp. The soft swell of her breasts as I free themfrom their cotton constraints. Each discovery feels significant, like I’m learning a language meant only for me.

Her hands aren’t idle either. They roam my back, my shoulders, tangling in my hair to guide my mouth where she wants it. When I take her nipple between my lips, she arches off the couch with a cry that makes me painfully hard. I lavish attention on each breast, memorizing the sounds she makes, the way her body responds.

“Dorian,” she breathes my name, and it calls to me in ways I can’t comprehend.

I move lower, trailing kisses down her stomach. Her pants are easily removed, leaving her in simple cotton panties that match her bra. I look up. Her eyes are dark with desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Yes,” she says feverishly. “Please.”

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her underwear and slide them down her legs. She’s exposed to me now, vulnerable in a different way than last night, but no less trusting. The responsibility of that trust settles over me like a physical weight.

I’ve done this countless times with countless women, always skilled but detached, focused on performance rather than connection. This feels nothing like those encounters. Every reaction from Juno feels vital; every sound she makes echoes through me like it’s being carved into memory.

I settle between her thighs, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there. I nuzzle my face into the soft down over her mound, and she moans. So do I. Her scent is intoxicating, making my head swim. I trace the tip of my tongue along the seam of her pussy, slow, teasing, until her fingers fist in my hair.

“God, Dorian… please!” she begs. I keep up the slow torment, exploring the crevices and valleys between her thighs until she’s writhing. When I finally taste her, we both groan. She’s perfect—sweet and salt and something indefinable that calls to something primal in me.

I lose myself in pleasuring her, cataloging every response. The way her thighs tense when I use my tongue just so on her clit. The catch in her breath when I slide one finger inside her, then another. The litany of broken sounds—my name, pleas, curses—as I build her toward an orgasm that I can feel gathering within her.

Her hand finds mine where it rests on her hip, our fingers interlacing as she approaches the edge. The connection feels as intimate as what my mouth is doing to her. I lift my eyes, needing to see her face as she comes apart.

The sight nearly undoes me. Her head thrown back, throat exposed, lips parted on a silent cry. Her body tenses, then shudders as release washes over her. The pulse of her slick walls around my fingers, the way she grips my hand like an anchor—it’s almost too much.

For a moment, I feel it—the telltale heat along my spine that signals my dragon stirring too close to the surface. I glance down in alarm and see the sharp outline of scales shimmering along my forearm before I force them back.

What the fuck?

I haven’t lost control like that since I was a hatchling.

Juno doesn’t notice, lost in the aftermath of pleasure. I move up her body, gathering her against me as she trembles through aftershocks. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and soft in a way I’ve never seen them.

“My God, I… I…” she begins, then shakes her head, apparently at a loss for words.

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