Page 55 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
And every last one of the million dreams I’ve had—both specifically dragon-centered and generic daydreams alike—comes truein the searing heat of his mouth on mine.
The way he kisses me like he has tasted me a thousand times before. Like he already knows me so well, knows the secrets ofmy body and the key to my soul.
Everything is foolishness and fairy tales and kisses that change everything.
Everything here is meant to be, and it’s like I can see our souls twined together through time, through different bodies thatare still this, stillus.
Us.Us. Us.
I think,This is it.We’ll just incinerate each other. Everything will be over, and maybe that was his plan all along? Maybe he is my end.
But the kiss only keeps going.
It is wild and free and astonishingly carnal. It’s like flying,even with my feet firmly planted on the ground, though I try my best to twine myself around him, because this is new and this is memory andthis is it.
Something inside of me...lets go. In relief.
Finally.
His voice or mine?
Ourvoices, or something else?
I don’t care, because everything around us pulses. Magic and need. Hope and desire. And the overwhelming feeling that I’vebeen waiting centuries to feel this again. Like I once was a princess, riding a dragon who couldn’t be mine. Not in that time.
But in this one...
I can feel him pulling himself together to fly us somewhere else, and I have lost any and all resistance somewhere along theway to this marvel of a kiss—
But then something makes aslammingsound, deeper in the archives.
We both startle enough to break the kiss. To look at each other, dazed, and then look at where the sound came from.
“What was that?” I ask, trying to move toward the sound.
Azrael growls. “Ignore it.”
But clearly the archives want to tell me something. Something that isn’t in a fairy-tale book, and I can’t ignore that, nomatter how I feel on the inside.
Or you want an excuse to stop the unstoppable.
I don’t know if that’s my own voice or Azrael’s, because I see a huge leather-bound book on the floor. On the cover is a bigunfurling tree.
Then it slams open, pages flying everywhere, as if there’s a great wind in the room, though there’s not. When the hubbub stops,an ancient-looking and carefully inscribed family tree is on the open page.
I lean forward, peer at it. “A family tree. A Wilde family tree.”
“Georgina.”
I don’t like the way he says it. Sort of a warning, but a soft one. Ayou won’t like what you’re about to seewarning. He hasn’t let me go, but he hasn’t pulled me away from the book either.
If the book wants me to know, how can I look away?
Besides.
I see my name.
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