Chapter 6 Rhavor
Rhavor sat at the rough wooden table, staring at the bowl of freshly picked strawberries. They were still warm from the day’s heat, their skins glossy and red in the last stretch of sunlight bleeding through the kitchen window.
He should eat them.
That’s what normal people did with strawberries.
Instead, he was thinking how Sylvie’s pretty mouth would look closing around one.
He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
His dragon had been restless since she’d driven away.
It had been eight hours.
Eight.
He could survive another eight hours.
His dragon shifted behind his ribs.
Unimpressed.
“You are not driving into town,” he muttered.
Sylvie’s bright eyes flashed through his mind. The way she’d looked up at him like she wasn’t afraid of him at all.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He shoved back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the floorboards like a warning he was choosing to ignore.
This is business only.
He grabbed the bowl of strawberries and set them into a wooden crate. Then he headed down to the cellar.
He selected three cheeses: the soft chèvre rolled in herbs; the firm, aged tom with a sharp bite; and the washed rind he’d been saving for competition.
He stared at the last one for a second.
Then added it to the crate anyway.
Keep it business, he told himself.
He carried everything out to the truck.
You are promoting product.
You are not driving into town because you want to see her again.
He shut the truck door harder than necessary.
His dragon noticed the lie instantly. He was even wearing his best blue flannel shirt.
***
By the time he pulled up outside the bakery, evening had settled over Honeybay.
Heat still radiated from the cobblestones.
The sea breeze drifted in—salted, slow, and thick with the scent of damp earth.
The street was mostly quiet, the kind of silence that made a man’s pulse thrum too loudly in his own ears.
The light upstairs was on.
No curtains. No blinds. Just a raw, golden glow spilling into the dark.
He saw her silhouette moving across the flat. She was wearing something that did absolutely nothing to conceal the lush, soft reality of her body.
Does she want half the werewolves in town howling beneath her windows all night?
The thought hit him hard—sharp, irritated, and purely possessive. His jaw tightened until it ached. He knew the back entrance; he had used it a dozen times when Seth had owned the place. He supplied him with eggs and apple cider—though he wasn't sure what pastry the latter was used in.
He knocked, the sound heavy and impatient against the wood.
A moment later, he caught a soft commotion in the corridor. Then the door opened without the click of a lock turning.
Sylvie stood there, framed in moonlight and the faint amber glow of the streetlamps.
Now he saw clearly what he had only glimpsed through the glass, and whatever fragile thread of control he had left snapped.
A light robe hung loosely from her shoulders. Beneath it, a silky cami clung to every curve, the fabric skimming the swell of her hips and dipping just enough at her chest to tease him with the shadow of cleavage. Matching shorts hugged the soft fullness of her thighs.
His throat went bone-dry.
“You never ask who’s at the door?” he growled, his voice rougher than he had intended, vibrating with a territorial edge.
She leaned one shoulder against the frame, her lips curving in exactly the wrong way.
“And who am I supposed to be afraid of, exactly?” she asked, her voice a daring silk. “You?”
Her mouth did things to his imagination he didn’t appreciate. It was ridiculous; he was a dragon, and she was making him feel like a teenager with a permanent, painful ache.
“Speedy delivery,” she added brightly.
“What?” He blinked, the scent of her—vanilla, warm skin, and something floral—scrambling his senses like a radio tuned to static.
She pointed at the crate. “I only placed my order this afternoon. That’s impressive.”
“Customer service excellence,” he gritted out, though his thoughts were nowhere near professional. I want to service you—slow, thorough, and completely unrestrained. “You said you wanted to try some cheese. I brought a few.”
She leaned forward to peer into the crate, and the world narrowed to the way her breasts swayed. The robe slipped farther, revealing the unmistakable outlines of her nipples straining against the silk like happy berries.
His grip on the wood tightened until the crate creaked in protest.
“Looks delicious,” she said brightly. She reached in, her fingers closing around the ripest strawberry in the batch. She bit into it, juice glossing her lips—a messy, sweet invitation. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s good.”
Fuck, how good my cock would fit in that mouth.
The thought was a gauntlet thrown at his self-restraint. He hardened instantly, a heavy, insistent weight that made him nearly drop the crate.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked.
Yes. Fuck, yes.
He followed her into the narrow corridor, the space suddenly feeling dangerously small.
“Why is it so dark?” he managed, grateful for the shadows hiding the blatant bulge straining against his zipper.
“The bulb blew,” she said casually, waving a hand. “I bought a new one. I just need the ladder. Or a very tall, helpful neighbor.”
“You are not getting on that damn ladder again,” he growled. “Give me the bulb.”
His eyes adjusted to the dark, tracking the sway of her hips and the smooth fullness of her thighs with predatory intensity that nearly sent him walking into the wall. He swore under his breath and shoved the crate onto the kitchen worktop with more force than necessary.
He grabbed the damn thing and stepped back into the hallway, reaching up. Muscles flexed beneath his skin as he screwed it into place. Warm light flooded the space, sharp and revealing.
He turned.
She was leaning against the wall, watching him with open, dangerous curiosity.
One arm crossed over her breasts, barely covering the straining silk.
The other held another strawberry. She took a slow bite, juice catching at the corner of her mouth, her tongue sweeping it away in a deliberate, agonizing stroke.
She held his gaze the entire time.
Something inside him snapped its leash. The dragon roared, drowning out the last of his logic.
Mine.
He moved before he could talk himself out of it. He could smell her now—vanilla, sugar, and the unmistakable musk of arousal. She didn’t step back. Didn’t even blink. Every instinct screamed at him to leave—to get out before he did something reckless—but the beast was already free.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a ragged prayer.
He pulled her into his arms. One hand slid beneath her thighs, lifting her effortlessly until she was level with him. The other braced her back, his fingers digging into the silk as he claimed her mouth in a hard, possessive kiss.
She didn’t merely accept it; she met him with equal hunger.
She was fire, and he was more than willing to burn.
He pressed her against the cool plaster, her body yielding to his as his mouth moved over hers in a heated, unrestrained rhythm.
She tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something dangerously addictive.
His hands gripped her soft, lush ass, pulling her flush against his heat. Her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossing behind his back.
He groaned against her lips—a deep, guttural sound of pure need. He needed her to understand that answering the door in silk with hardened nipples was a dangerous game to play with a male who had hoarding instincts.
He rolled his hips forward, the heavy length of him pressing against the thin silk of her shorts. He wanted her to feel the cost of her teasing—the sheer magnitude of the desire she had ignited.
“Tell me to stop,” he growled against her mouth, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that shook them both.
She didn’t. Her back arched instead, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. A soft, broken moan slipped from her lips as she clung to him, her body trembling with the same wild electricity thrumming through his veins.
The bulb flickered. Once. Twice.
Mine.