Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
DRAKE
Her house smells like vanilla candles and cat food. Not unpleasant exactly, but homey, lived-in. A little chaotic, like her.
Fluffy tails brush up against my legs, a buzz of meows gathering in her kitchen.
“All right, I know it’s feeding time at the zoo.”
“Ladder’s in the shed out back,” she says, hobbling around the kitchen with her crutches. “But you’re not climbing up there in that getup, are you?” She points to the green paint still streaked across my cheek and the ridiculous dragon tail swishing behind me.
“Why not?” I grin, tugging at the tail. “Dragons are natural-born climbers. Wings and everything.”
Her laugh spills out, warming my chest after the swell of emotions from a moment ago when she asked about Elise, my wife.
I drift into the dining room, making my way out back. A bookshelf leans under the weight of paperbacks. Cats peer at me from framed photos on every surface, and in the centre, there’s a single wedding picture.
Ember’s parents, I recognise immediately as older versions of her and Flint. Her dad in full Class A dress uniform. Ember’s long red waves flow over a white wedding gown, her smile radiant. But the groom’s face is hidden under a glittery gold star sticker.
I step closer, frowning.
“You like my decorating?” Her voice comes from behind me. She leans on her crutches in the doorway, cheeks brighter than the paint still smudged on her skin.
“Thought maybe he was camera shy,” I mumble.
Her lips twitch, but her eyes give her away. “He’s not. Just… not worth looking at.”
I nod slowly. I don’t need the details to understand. Some wounds are better left covered.
“You’ve got the same smile as your mum,” I say instead, and the way her breath catches tells me I’ve hit something tender.
“Mum was always smiling. I guess being with my dad gave her a lot to smile about.” She clears her throat, swallowing down her emotions, and gestures vaguely towards the back door.
“Ladder’s in the shed. Try not to break your neck.
I don’t fancy explaining to Chief that I killed one of his men in this death trap. ”
“Relax, pumpkin,” I tease, brushing past her towards the garden. “I’ve fought worse than fairy lights.” I tug the dragon tail for emphasis. “And I won.”
Her laugh follows me out into the night, warm as the glow spilling from her windows. “Let me help you take off that tail.”
I drop my voice, leaning in close enough to catch the vanilla-and-cinnamon clinging to her skin. “If you want me to strip, you only have to ask.”
Her eyes go wide, a strangled sound catching in her throat. She’s so easy to fluster. Adorable.
I open the shed door before she combusts, then find the ladder and make quick work of the drooping fairy lights tangled across her gutter. It’s nothing, five minutes tops, but the way she hovers in the doorway, chewing her lip, watching me as if I’ve just slayed a dragon for her warms my chest.
She shuffles back inside, and I follow. Her living room is a mess of books, cats, and chaos. And then I spot the shelf.
Row after row of worn paperbacks. Half of them with covers of bare-chested men sprouting scales and wings. The other half cartoon monsters holding a curvy girl, most of them dragons.
A laugh rumbles in my chest before I can stop it. “Dragons, huh?”
She groans, grabbing the nearest cushion and half hiding her face. “Don’t you dare.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I pluck a book from the shelf, flipping it open. “‘When his scales brushed her skin, she knew she’d been claimed.’” I smirk at her over the top of the pages. “So this is your type?”
“Stop.” She swats at me with the cushion, cheeks blazing.
I drop the book, step closer. The air thickens between us. “What if I told you I’m better than fiction?”
Her smile falters. “Drake…”
“And this dragon has a particular craving for pumpkin.”
She swallows hard, shaking her head. “We can’t. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” I take another step, caging her against the bookcase.
“I can’t give you what you want.”
I arch a brow, playing it light because she looks ready to bolt. “Why? You secretly a nun?”
That earns me a startled laugh, and relief floods through me.
“I don’t do relationships,” she says, quieter this time, pain in her voice.
I dip my head, my eyebrows pulling inwards, wondering what that bastard in the photo did to her. “I’m not asking for forever.” My voice drops lower, my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Just a slice of pumpkin pie.”
Her breath hitches, green eyes darting to my mouth. “I’m too old for you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” I brush my lips against hers, no more than a whisper, then gaze into her eyes to check she wants this.
“I’m your daughter’s teacher.” Her wide eyes are swirling with a mix of fear and wanting.
“You’re her favourite teacher.” I dart my tongue out to wet my lips.
“Drake…” My name on her breath like a plea has my cock thickening.
“Ember.” I wait, searching her eyes for any sign that she wants this or doesn’t want this, but the green in her eyes sparkles as if giving me the green light, and I crash my lips to hers.
A moan vibrates against my lips, hers parting, allowing me to slip my tongue through the barrier.
She tastes of chili, cider and sweets. My tongue swirls around hers, licking at every corner of her mouth.
My cock, now rigid as a fire hose at full pressure, only I’m not here to put out any fires.
With the heat blazing between us, I’m here to start them.
Her costume squeaks against me as she tries to wriggle free of it.
My dragon suit tangles around my ankles, and we both fall onto the sofa.
A laugh bursts from our lips. She rolls, groaning, “I’m stuck!” and I’m no help, doubled over, tugging at her orange tights like I’m peeling a stubborn orange.
We wrestle ourselves out of polyester hell. We’re a mess—her hair wild, my dragon tail discarded, both of us breathless as I gaze down at her.
She’s laughing when I catch her face in my hands, but the second our mouths meet again, laughter turns molten. Her lips soft, but her mouth hungry.
With my costume discarded, I’m in joggers and a t-shirt, but able to move a little easier and feel the heat between her thighs as I grind my erection into her.
A moan vibrates into my mouth, and she lifts her hips, meeting my thrust despite the fabric of her tights still clinging to her.
“My foot,” she whispers.
I shift my weight above her on the sofa, making sure I’m not touching the cast around her ankle.
“We can’t do this, Drake, my foot.”
“I don’t plan on fucking your foot. Relax, you can be a pillow princess while I eat out my pumpkin.”
Paint smears, green on her cheek, orange on mine. I don’t care. All I can think is how right it feels to have this fiery, chaotic woman pressed against me.
And how badly I want more.
“My brother.” Her voice slices through the haze, body tensing.
I groan against her lips. “He never has to know.”
She jerks back, eyes wide. “No, Drake. He’s here.”