Chapter 12 Rhavor
Rhavor’s wings snapped open with violent force, air detonating beneath them as he launched into the night.
Sylvie shrieked—
—then laughed.
Her small hands locked around his biceps, nails biting into the hard, uncompromising muscle of his arms as they cleared the rooftops in a rush of wind and predatory heat.
The town dropped away beneath them.
The wind shifted midflight, turning electric and biting, carrying the metallic scent of an approaching storm rolling inland from the coast.
Thunder grumbled low and distant—like a warning he was too distracted to heed.
Rhavor adjusted his grip, his jaw tight.
Flying had never required effort before.
It was as natural as breathing, as mindless as a heartbeat.
Flying with Sylvie pressed flush against him was a different matter entirely.
Her fingers traced the rigid, tectonic lines of his abdomen.
Slowly.
Curiously.
His wingbeat faltered.
He nearly banked them straight into a soot-stained chimney stack when she wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his jaw with quick, breathless kisses.
“What are you doing?” he growled, the sound half-smothered by a rough laugh. He corrected their course with a powerful sweep of his wings. “Do you want us to fall, woman?”
“You caught me once,” she purred against his ear.
Her breath was hot.
Too hot.
His wings stuttered for a dangerous, heart-stopping second before instinct—raw and territorial—forced them steady again.
“I think I’m in good hands.”
He tightened his hold, hauling her higher against his chest, bracketed by his strength.
She wasn’t just tipsy.
She was exploratory.
Her hands wandered across the expanse of his chest.
Down the hard plane of his stomach.
Lower.
She dragged her fingers over the cold brass buckle of his belt and made a pleased little sound that hit him like a physical blow.
His wings jerked again.
“Sit still,” he warned.
She absolutely did not.
She wriggled in his arms, laughing against the pulse point of his throat, her body moving with a deliberate softness that made a precise landing statistically unlikely.
Her fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt.
The pulse in his ears pounded louder than the wind whipping past them.
It was a blessing her place was only a few blocks away.
He landed at her back door with a hard, bone-jarring thud, his boots grinding against the wet cobblestones as his wings snapped inward with a sharp final motion.
He kept her cradled against him.
He didn’t trust her balance.
Or his.
She fumbled clumsily with her keys while dangling comfortably in his arms, her scent—sweet, warm, and intoxicating—filling his head.
“My private jet,” she giggled, missing the lock twice, “needs refueling.”
“Did Myrtle give you something?” he asked, suspicion roughening his voice until it was a low vibration against her hair.
“Well…” She squinted at the lock, then rested her forehead against his jaw. “She asked if I wanted to try her drink. It was delicious.”
A soft, guilty giggle followed.
Rhavor closed his eyes for a second, fighting for air.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He carried her upstairs, his boots heavy on the wood.
She nuzzled into his neck.
Bit him lightly.
He clenched his jaw, fighting the very real, very primal urge to press her against the nearest wall and let instinct take over.
Mine.
She kept squirming in his arms, though her blinking had slowed, her lashes turning heavy and dark.
He laid her gently on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.
He removed her shoes.
Slid her jacket from her shoulders.
She watched him through half-lidded eyes, smiling as though she had just won a prize she hadn’t expected to keep.
Within moments, her body softened fully into the pillows.
Myrtle’s potions never lasted long with humans.
Whatever had loosened Sylvie’s inhibitions would burn off soon enough.
He pulled the blanket over her and tucked it carefully around her shoulders, his large hands looking out of place against the floral print.
He stayed until he heard her breathing turn deep and regular.
Only then did he force himself out of the room.
He closed the door quietly and went downstairs.
Seth’s old couches were still in the bakery. He shoved two together and dragged chairs to the end so his legs wouldn’t hang off. It was a pathetic excuse for a bed.
But when the wind began to howl and rain lashed hard against the windows, rattling the panes with sharp, metallic insistence, he was glad he’d stayed.
To keep her safe.
Sleep took him faster than expected—a heavy, dark weight.
He was halfway lost in a dream involving Sylvie’s exploratory hands and the scent of vanilla when he felt a shift of weight beside him.
For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.
Sylvie was kneeling next to him on the floor.
Thunder rolled overhead, and Rhavor woke instantly. He shoved himself up and swung his legs over the side.
“Sylvie.”
Her voice was soft in the dark—velvet and way too close for his peace of mind. “The storm woke me. I couldn’t sleep.”
He opened his mouth to tell her to go back upstairs.
She cut him off.
“Before you say anything—the potion wore off. I’m sober, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
She settled between his knees. Her fingers traced the sharp, dangerous line of his hip.
Then dipped lower.
Slow. Intentional.
“Sylvie…” His voice came out rough.
“You’re playing with fire,” he growled under his breath as she unbuckled his belt and slid her hand toward the zipper of his jeans.
She leaned closer, her scent and warmth radiating off her in waves.
“How about I want a little heat?” she whispered, her lips brushing his.
He watched her, his breath hitching as she yanked his trousers down, taking the boxers with them in one steady motion.
His cock sprang free immediately, thick and heavy, slapping against his abdomen with a meaty thud.
It stood rigid, erected from his dreamy fantasy.
The shaft was a deep amber gold, scaled in places that caught the dim light, tapering to a pointed tip that flared wide at the head.
It was already glistening. The veins ran prominent, pulsing in time with his heart, and those draconic ridges spiraled along the length—designed to lock and pleasure.
In the dark, Rhavor could see her expression—a delicious mix of awe and hunger.
“Gods, you’re… magnificent,” she murmured, her voice husky and low. Her full lips parted.
He watched as she settled between his knees. The move made his balls tighten, heavy and full.
He reached out, cupping the back of her head, his fingers threading through those thick, silk waves.
“Sylvie, if you start this…” His words trailed off into a rumble, a deep, predatory sound that echoed the thunder outside.
“Then finish it with me,” she challenged.
The first wet swipe made him buck, a jagged bolt of electricity straight to his core.
“Easy, big boy,” she teased, her voice vibrating against his sensitive skin as she licked a slow, agonizing path along one ridge.
Her hand wrapped around the base, fingers barely meeting around his massive girth. She gave a firm squeeze, stroking upward until more precum welled at the tip.
Her tongue traced the flared tip, lapping up that drop of precum. The sensation was electric. Her warm mouth sent jolts through his entire body, making his wings twitch involuntarily.
She didn’t hesitate. Her lips parted, sliding over the head and sucking lightly as her tongue swirled around the sensitive slit.
Rhavor groaned, his grip tightening in her hair.
He guided her without force, just enough to feel the weight of her head bobbing.
Her curves pressed against his thigh, her heavy breasts brushing his leg as she shifted closer, taking more of him in.
The ridges caught on her tongue first, and she moaned around him. The vibration hummed through the entire length of his cock, making his balls tighten. She worked her way down, inch by inch, her mouth stretching to accommodate him.
“Fuck, your mouth… so wet, so tight. Perfect,” he rasped. His hips bucked slightly—a primal reflex—but he held back, letting her set the torturous pace.
She pulled back with a pop, gasping for air, strings of spit connecting her lips to his throbbing shaft.
“Taste like smoke and spice,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I hope you like it,” he breathed. “Please don’t stop.”
She dove back in. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder as her hand pumped the base, twisting over the scaled section until his vision began to blur.
Lightning illuminated her delectable curves, her ass raised as she knelt between his legs.
He tugged her hair, urging her deeper, and she took it, her throat relaxing around the flared head. The storm howled outside, but the wet sounds of her mouth working him drowned it out.
“That’s it, take your dragon,” he growled, his free hand clawing the sheets, shredding the fabric. She hummed in response, the vibration pushing him closer to the edge, her tongue flicking relentlessly over those ridges.
Her teasing licks along the underside were followed by fast bobs that had him thrusting shallowly into her mouth. Her eyes watered, but she didn’t stop. Her hand cupped his heavy sack, rolling the orbs gently, feeling the weight there.
She sucked the tip again, hard and insistent.
And that sent him over the edge.
He couldn’t hold back. His grip fisted in her hair, holding her steady as he came, a roar tearing from his throat that rivaled the thunder.
Thick ropes flooded her mouth—hot and copious.
She took it all, swallowing greedily, her throat working around him until he was spent, shuddering in the heavy aftermath.
She pulled off slowly, licking her lips with a satisfied smirk before crawling back up his body. Her curves pressed into him—soft and perfect.
“Woman, you’re going to be the death of me,” Rhavor panted, pulling her close.
She curled to him on the makeshift bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
He lay there still, eyes wide open, listening to her steady breath.
His dragon purred—satisfied and calm.
Morning came pale and quiet.
Sylvie slept beside him, one arm flung across his stomach, her head resting against his chest. Her breathing brushed softly against his skin.
He could smell her shampoo. Sweet and exotic.
For a long moment he lay still just breathing her scent, the dragon inside him curled and purring with satisfaction.
He shifted his weight, carefully gathering her into his chest. She stirred against him, a soft exhale brushing his skin, but didn’t wake.
He carried her upstairs, feeling the lingering warmth of her body against his, reluctant to let go of her.
After tucking her into bed, he pressed a slow kiss to her temple and slipped out into the gray light of dawn.
The air smelled fresh and sharp with rain-washed earth.
He needed to check the farm. The storm had been violent.
When he reached the farm he checked for any damage but there was nothing major except a couple of loose boards. A stretch of fencing down.
Nothing he couldn’t fix.
Physical labor helped.
It burned off excess fire.
Cleared his head.
He fed the animals, repaired what he could, and wiped sweat from his brow with a cloth.
He was just heading back to the house when the sound of a car engine cut through the quiet.
Rhavor stepped forward as the vehicle crested the dirt road, rolling to a dusty stop. It wasn’t a local car. The engine cut off with a metallic click that sounded too loud in the morning air.
The driver’s door opened.
Storm-dark curls spilled over a leather jacket.
His eyes narrowed.
Ronda.
She stepped out slowly, her white shoes sinking slightly into the damp dirt.
“Well, hello,” she said lightly, her gaze sweeping over him.
It seemed last night’s storm had been nothing compared to the one that had just arrived this morning.