Page 64 of The Dragon 2
I blinked and returned to the present, standing before the mirror once more.
Now. . .all I need to learn is. . .how to beg. . .
The thought should have disgusted me. Should have made my spine stiffen in protest.
An alpha—me—on my knees?
Pleading for a woman’s mercy; for her touch, for the heat between her thighs?
The image bloomed in my head and grew toward clarity. Me, kneeling—not because I’d been defeated, not because I wascoerced, but because Ichoseto. Because I wanted it. I saw myself with my mouth against the inside of her thigh, lips parted, and voice hoarse.
Please, Tora. . .
My cock jerked in my pants.
Hmmm. My body likes the idea of begging her?
It was hard to understand why. Granted, I would not be begging for forgiveness. Not for power. But for access. For connection. For the chance to drown in her pleasure and be nothing but a man.
A man stripped of command, of legacy, of weapons.
A man without the title of dragon.
Without the armor of blood and violence.
My cock stiffened.
Hmmm.
Some crazy part of me even. . .trusted her to be humble with my begging and to even be mindful with the power she would have over me. God help me—Itrusted herto take that power and not destroy me with it.
To own me in private while the world still feared my name.
To hold me down, not to humiliate, but to remind me I was still flesh, need, and blood beneath all the guns and fire.
My cock hardened even more, straining against my tuxedo pants and responding to the vision with a pulse that made my breath falter.
I narrowed my eyes at the mirror.
Perhaps, someday.
I stepped back from the mirror.
The silk of my shirt felt too soft against my skin; the slacks too tight around the now-rigid weight of my cock. My thoughts were getting dirtier and dirtier, twisting into scent and submission.
But that isn't where our story will begin. Not yet.
If my naughty Tiger wanted me on my knees, she'd have to understand what it meant to be there first. What it cost for the pleasure of me on my knees.
First, I’d have to teach her. Show her—not through silence or symbols but through sweat. Through erotic possession. Through the rhythm of my cock’s discipline and the deep guttural truths only found when skin met skin and control snapped like a fraying thread.
I would have to fuck it into her—not punishment, not degradation, but areminder. That even when Itrustedher with the fragile thing inside me, I was still the one who could wreck her with a thrust. Still the one who could make her forget her own name just by pressing my hand between her legs and playing with that wet pussy.
Yes. I would give her my power.
But not before Itookhers too.
Not before I gripped her hips, slammed her against the nearest flat surface, and fucked her like the world owed me a debt and her body was the final payment.
