Chapter 22 Rhavor
Dragons didn’t share.
They guarded their hoards with ruthless devotion. They protected what they decided was theirs. It wasn’t a choice—it was instinct written into bone, blood, and ancient scale.
The second Rhavor saw that man lean in—too close, his hand lifting as though he actually had the right to touch Sylvie—the dragon in his veins didn’t merely stir; it rose and bared its teeth. His ancestors would have bitten the man’s head off before he’d finished his sentence.
But Rhavor was more civilized. Mostly. Besides, Sylvie had spent weeks perfecting the aesthetic of this little bakery. He didn’t want to ruin the décor with a shade of arterial crimson that wouldn’t wash out of the floorboards.
Still, claiming his mate was the ultimate declaration. The final word.
He’d waited long enough, pretending patience while his blood simmered. He’d watched. He’d guarded. He’d let her choose him freely. But the dragon inside him was done with “freely.” It wanted completely.
He crossed the room in three long, predatory strides and scooped her up without a word of warning.
Sylvie squealed as he hoisted her, throwing her over his shoulder with a suddenness that sent her laughter bubbling out—a bright, silver sound that made his chest ache.
“Rhavor!” she chirped, her small fists wiggling against the expanse of his back. “People will see!”
“Let them,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through her rib cage. He wanted the whole damn world to smell his scent on her skin.
“Rhavor, put me down,” she protested, though her voice carried more delight than demand.
“Not a chance,” he growled. His tail flicked behind him, wings twitching.
“What special recipe, exactly, did you want to discuss?” she asked, her voice trailing off into a gasp as he gave her a firm, possessive smack on her delectable ass.
“A very private one,” he rumbled. “I tried to be a gentleman. I’m done.”
“Good,” she whispered into the small of his back, “because your ‘gentleman’ routine was starting to make me want to throw a rolling pin at your head.”
“Careful, little berry. You’ve finally got my attention. Now you have to deal with the consequences.”
On his way past the prep station, he snagged a piping bag filled with whipped vanilla cream.
A good start, he thought. He climbed the narrow stairs to her flat two at a time, the piping bag dangling from his hand like a trophy.
He kicked the door open—gently, for a dragon—and strode inside, nudging it shut with a final, echoing thud.
“Bed,” he ordered.
He lowered her onto the mattress, and she didn’t hesitate. She flung her apron aside and tugged her top off with a frantic energy that made his pupils slit into thin, black lines. Her bra and skirt were gone in seconds.
“Now your turn,” she breathed.
Rhavor climbed over her, flinging his shirt into the corner. He took in the sight of her—flushed, panting, and entirely his.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. He leaned down to nuzzle one breast, his forked tongue flicking out to taste the salt and sugar on her skin. “Fuck, you’re so pretty. Let me take care of you.”
He reached for the piping bag.
“Let’s do this properly.”
He traced lazy, decadent circles of cream around her nipples.
“Rhavor… that’s cold,” she shivered, her toes curling into the sheets.
“Shh,” he murmured, lowering his head.
His tongue was broad and slightly rough—draconic—and he lapped up the cream in long, deliberate strokes. He sucked gently, drawing her nipple into his mouth, feeling it harden against the texture of his tongue. The sweetness of the cream was nothing compared to the taste of her.
Sylvie moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He could feel her pulse racing—a frantic, lovely rhythm. He licked every trace clean until her breasts were flushed and dark from his mouth. Then he trailed the bag lower, circling her belly button with a dollop of cream.
“Gods, you taste better than any dessert,” he rumbled against her skin, his breath hot.
She laughed breathlessly, her head tossing back. “Flatterer.”
His tail caught the waistband of her briefs. He let it slowly drag the lace over her hips, revealing the neat thatch of curls. He then flung her panties aside without looking.
He parted her legs—thighs thick and soft—and hooked them over his broad shoulders. Her folds were already slick and swollen, weeping for him.
“Finally where I belong,” he growled.
He squeezed the piping bag, a line of cream landing along her slit, melting instantly against her heat. She shivered, her eyes hooded and desperate.
“Rhavor, you’re insane.”
“Only for you, my little berry.”
He dove in. His tongue was flat and heavy, licking from her entrance up to her clit in one slow, rhythmic drag. The cream mixed with her own arousal—vanilla, salt, and pure, unadulterated Sylvie. He lapped deeper, probing her folds until she bucked against his mouth.
He devoured her, the ridges on his tongue catching her sensitive spots and building the tension until she was sobbing his name. Her walls fluttered, tightening—and then she shattered.
Climax ripped through her with a cry. Her thighs clamped around his head, her juices flooding his mouth. Rhavor drank her down, a low growl vibrating through his chest as his own need throbbed painfully.
He positioned himself between her legs. The tip of his cock nudged her entrance, slick and ridged, heavy with his own draconic weight.
“I need you, my little berry. Are you ready for me?”
She looked up at him, eyes dark.
“Yes. Fuck. Please.”
Take it slow, he reminded himself. Don’t break her.
He pushed in inch by inch. She was so tight, so perfect. The ridges of his shaft caught deliciously against her walls, stretching her around his girth. The heat of her enveloped him—velvet and fire.
“You are such a good girl, taking me in like that.”
He sank in, pausing when she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes… perfect.” She smiled, her eyes wide and dazed.
He groaned, sinking the rest of the way until he was buried to the hilt. The fullness was exquisite. Her pussy clenched around him, and he nearly lost it.
“Fuck… you feel perfect. So full of me.”
He tried to hold his thrusts to a shallow, gentle rhythm, but his hips were already pumping harder, faster—driven by the mating bond screaming in his blood.
The bed creaked, his balls slapping against her ass with each heavy plunge. She met him eagerly, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. Sweat slicked their skin and the air filled with the scent of smoke and vanilla.
“You’re mine,” he snarled, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair. “My mate. Say it.”
“Yours, Rhavor,” she gasped. “Claim me!”
The words undid him. He thrust harder, the slow burn igniting into an inferno. He pounded into her, the ridges along his length striking that perfect spot inside until she screamed. Climax crashed over her, her walls convulsing, milking him relentlessly.
He followed her with a roar. His wings flared wide, casting a great, jagged shadow over the bed as he spilled inside her—hot, thick jets of seed flooding her depths. Wave after wave shuddered through him, the mating bond sealing deep in his soul.
He collapsed gently against her, making sure he wouldn’t crush her with his weight, still buried deep.
“Mine,” he whispered.
“Yours,” she echoed, her fingers tracing the shimmering scales along his back.