Chapter 9 Sylvie
Rhavor leaned in, burying his face in the sensitive curve of her neck.
His teeth grazed her skin—a slow, predatory crawl toward her ear that made every fine hair on her body stand on end.
When his lips finally captured hers, it wasn’t a kiss; it was a total takeover.
A searing, hungry rhythm of smoke, heat, and pure, unadulterated need.
It was a physical claim that made her brain short-circuit.
He slid his hand under her loose apron, his palm cupping her breast through the thin silk of her bra. She felt the furnace-like heat of his large hands through the fabric as he squeezed gently, his thumb circling the hardening peak of her nipple. She gasped, the sound swallowed whole by his mouth.
The tip of his tail, smooth and leathery, brushed against her calves.
It trailed higher with a teasing glide, coiling lightly at her inner thigh.
The sensation was electric, a strange, ticklish friction that made her breath hitch in a jagged line.
He was now kneading her breasts with a rhythmic, almost feral reverence.
“You feel so good,” he rasped against her lips.
Sparks of pleasure radiated through her chest as he tugged on the taut flesh of her peaks. She melted, arching instinctively to press herself deeper into those massive, calloused palms.
Beneath her, his tail flicked higher, teasing the dampening lace of her panties with a restless mind of its own.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured into her mouth, his amber eyes glowing. “Tell me what you need, Sylvie.”
His fingers were already there, teasing her folds through the wet silk.
“I want your mouth on me,” she said, the words a ragged confession. The heat was blooming between her thighs, heavy, insistent, and centered entirely on the man looming over her.
She reached out and tangled her hands in his hair, her fingers brushing the base of his horns as she nudged him lower.
Rhavor didn’t hesitate; he dropped to his knees between her legs, his large hands gently opening her wide on the counter.
She could feel his hot breath on her inner thighs, tracing closer and closer to the humming center of her.
The loose apron bunched around her waist as he ducked under the hem.
He draped her legs over his broad shoulders and tossed her briefs aside.
“You’re so pretty,” he growled, the sound vibrating in her core.
His fingers brushed her flesh, and Sylvie jolted, her breath hitching as her vision blurred. Her body leaned back. The first broad stroke of his tongue made her scream—a sharp, desperate sound that echoed off the kitchen tiles. He tasted her like a starving man who had finally found his hoard.
“Fuck, you taste so good.”
Then his mouth was on her. She cried out as he flicked his tongue over her swollen clit, her body leaning back slightly to give him better access.
If his tongue is already sending me into orbit, she thought frantically, his cock is going to be a masterpiece of torture.
He pulled her closer, his hands clamping down around her thighs to hold her steady against the onslaught of his hot tongue.
“I want to live between your legs,” he muttered against her skin, the heat of his words causing a fresh wave of moisture to slick his path.
“Rhavor, please,” she whimpered.
She wanted him to shut up and work her until she forgot how wrong this was. Or how right.
He growled against her sensitive flesh, the vibration sending her flying, her body shaking as his tongue delved deep again. She wrapped her hands around his horns, pulling him closer, rocking against his face in a desperate, frantic search for more.
He gave it to her. He sucked the pulsing bud of her clit into his mouth, then traced a hot, wet line down between her folds, working his tongue into her swollen entrance before returning to the center of her nerves.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured.
His fingers dug into the full curve of her buttocks as he alternated between swirling his tongue and sucking at the throbbing knot, coiling her body tighter and tighter. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails marking the heavy muscle as she met the intensity of his strokes.
The extra pressure was the breaking point. An endless wave of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her gasping and limp against the counter. He softened his mouth, easing her down with gentle laps before finally lifting his head.
“How was it?” he asked, his voice an octave lower, his mouth wet with her.
“It was amazing,” she breathed, her lungs struggling to find air.
“You are amazing, Sylvie,” Rhavor rasped.
He leaned forward, his massive hands bracing against the counter on either side of her, caging her in with his heat and the dark protective span of his wings. She could feel her own taste on his lips as he kissed her—deep, possessive, and lingering.
The heavy bulge of him strained against his jeans, pressing into her thigh like an open furnace.
“What about you?” she asked, her pulse thudding in her throat.
“I can handle it,” he growled, though his body was trembling with the sheer force of his restraint.
“Let me,” she breathed, her entire body still humming from the release.
She reached down and grabbed his brass belt buckle.
It took her a few clumsy, agonizing seconds to work it free, her pulse roaring in her ears.
His trousers were already stretched tight, proof of how far gone he was.
When the buckle finally gave, Rhavor shuddered, his jaw tightening until the bone stood out.
“You don’t have to,” he said hoarsely.
“I want to see you,” she whispered, her fingers grazing the waistband of his boxers.
She was just about to slide her hand inside when a bright, rhythmic voice trilled from the front of the shop.
“Oh, dear! Is anyone home?”
Then came the sound of clacking hooves—fast and cheerful—echoing down the corridor.
Sylvie scrambled off the counter, nearly losing her footing. She yanked her skirt back into place just as Rhavor swore a dark, guttural oath under his breath and fumbled with his trousers.
God. She was still wearing his shirt.
She couldn’t take it off because beneath the apron she was wearing only a lace bra.
Thinking fast, she dragged the heavy cotton down and tied the hem into a loose, jaunty knot at her hips. Intentional. Fashionably oversized. Definitely not “recently manhandled by a dragon.”
She shoved the far-too-long sleeves up her arms, retied her apron, and smoothed the chocolate-colored fabric with brisk, decisive strokes.
“I’m here!” she called, forcing brightness into her voice that sounded like a cracked bell.
The kitchen door swung open with a cheerful creak. Julian strode in, waving a sheet of paper like a victory flag.
“I’ve got my CV—”
He stopped short.
A low, appreciative whistle escaped him as he took in the scene.
Rhavor stood at the counter, his massive, broad back turned to the room. He was wearing only a fitted tank that clung indecently well to every ripple of muscle, his attention focused on the egg crates with the intensity of a man performing open-heart surgery.
His frame seemed to dominate every square inch of the kitchen.
“Quite warm in here,” Julian observed mildly, glancing at the cold ovens. “And rather… steamy.”
The faun’s eyes swept over Sylvie—taking in the suspiciously large, worn shirt, Rhavor’s bare arms, and the spectacular mess of his hair—before his gaze dropped to her waist.
She followed his look.
And froze.
White streaks stood out boldly across her dark apron like a neon confession.
For one second she considered blurting that it was icing from the cake she decorated earlier. But Julian’s expression said he had already written the entire scandal in his head—in bold, capitalized letters.
She inhaled. Exhaled.
Get it together, Sylvie.
“Nice to see you again,” she said, forcing a composure she absolutely did not feel. “That’s Rhavor,” she added, gesturing vaguely toward the man currently hunching over the crates. “He’s supplying the bakery. Mostly sex—I mean, eggs!”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship.
Was there a larger shovel I could possibly use to dig this hole? she asked herself, wishing a meteorite would just land to turn the attention from her.
Julian’s brows climbed steadily higher, his smirk deepening into something delighted and merciless.
“Well,” he said lightly, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored jacket. “Your kingdom, dear. You do what you like. I only serve coffee.”
He turned toward Rhavor and extended a hand with a theatrical flourish.
“Julian.”
Rhavor muttered his name in return, refusing to turn fully around. He grabbed the empty crates and held them strategically low against his fly, his jaw tight enough to crack stone.
“Time for me,” he rumbled, finally catching Sylvie’s gaze.
The look was dark, heated, and full of a very specific, unfinished promise. Then he disappeared out the back door, leaving behind the faint, haunting scent of woodsmoke and masculine spice.
Julian turned back to Sylvie, his expression bright and entirely too knowing.
“All right, dear,” he said briskly, snapping his CV against his palm. “I’ve got work to do. I didn’t come for gossip.”
“Yes. Of course.” Sylvie nodded, her face still radiating enough heat to brown a meringue.
Julian’s gaze drifted once more to her apron before he broke into a slow, delighted grin.
“I’m going to love working here,” he declared, his hooves clacking rhythmically as he headed toward the storefront. “I’m really going to love working here.”