Chapter 24 Rhavor
The deadline didn’t scare him.
Failure with forging the Drakoryte didn't scare him either.
Losing her did.
That was the rot under his ribs—a cold, consuming thing that made his lungs feel two sizes too small.
The other ache beneath his ribs—sharp, stinging, and deeply humiliating—came from a wooden spatula.
“Focus, you big ox! You’re scorching the edges!”
Rhavor gritted his teeth. I’m a dragon, not a sous-chef.
His aunt was a blur of floral apron and culinary violence, smacking his side every time he let the heat climb too high.
She was determined to teach him how to cook so he could “make something nice for that sweet girl,” which apparently involved jabbing him in the kidney whenever he let the butter burn.
As if cooking for a Michelin-star baker wasn’t stressful enough. He was a seven-foot mountain of dragon blood, not delicate flips and golden-brown perfection.
But this past week had felt dangerously, devastatingly right.
Sylvie living with him.
He could feel her in every room—a haunting presence that had turned his house into a home before he had even realized the walls were softening.
Her coconut shampoo in his bathroom, rich and tropical against the scent of his own harsh soap.
Her cookbooks scattered across his shelves like colorful intruders.
The plush pillows she had thrown onto his battered leather sofa, making the dark hide look. .. welcoming.
Then there was that ridiculous pink mug—a cartoon dragon with “Hot Stuff” written on it. It sat beside his industrial coffeemaker as though it had always belonged there.
It should have irritated him. He was a man who liked his lines straight and his surfaces clear.
Instead, the sight of it quieted something that had been grinding sharp and jagged inside his chest for years.
He had spent the afternoon driving back from town after checking on the veterans’ home roof repairs. The mayor had cornered him, launching into a long-winded recounting of how storms used to roll in off the coast thirty years ago, but Rhavor hadn’t heard a word. His mind was five miles away.
He stepped through the front door, and her scent hit him immediately.
Sweet. Warm. Home.
He leaned against the kitchen doorway, the glass of whiskey he didn’t remember pouring held loosely in his hand, and just watched her.
She stood at the worktop, hands buried in dough, kneading with steady, fierce concentration that made his pulse thrum. She was wearing his favorite green dress—the one with the buttons that did absolutely nothing to hide the lush, soft curves he spent every night memorizing.
Her hips moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm as she worked the dough, a sway that did nothing to calm the territorial roar building in his blood.
The dragon shifted beneath his skin, claws digging into his psyche.
Hoard. Keep. Mine.
He couldn’t keep his hands off her. Her smile. The way her body felt as though it had been carved specifically to fit against his hard edges. It pulled at him constantly—a physical gravity he couldn’t fight.
He didn’t want to admit he was in love. The word felt too small, too flimsy for the dragon-sized weight pressing against his heart.
She glanced up, and the smile she gave him was instant, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Too tired.
He crossed the room. Seven feet of muscle, heat, and barely restrained intent.
She barely reached his chest. Small. Soft. Built to be protected.
He stepped behind her, his chest brushing the warmth of her back. His arms bracketed her, caging her against the counter.
“Are you helping or distracting?” she murmured, her voice a soft friction against his nerves.
“Which one do you prefer?”
His voice was a low growl, the kind that usually made people back away. Sylvie only leaned closer.
“I think I’m losing the battle with this dough,” she admitted, a huff of self-deprecating laughter escaping her. “I need more flour.”
He reached for the flour bag, his movements too fast, too fueled by the need to just touch her.
Thwack.
A cloud of white powder burst across his chest, dusting his black shirt in a mock snowfall.
She laughed and reached out, tugging at his flour-dusted shirt with sticky fingers, deliberately leaving wet smudges.
“You’re making a mess, Rhavor. You’d better take it off before it is beyond washable,” she said with a smirk.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped the fabric up and over his head, the cotton exposing his sculptured chest.
“Is there anywhere on you that isn’t solid?” she whispered, her finger traveling over the landscape of his torso, lingering on the faint, shimmering ridge of scales at his hips.
“There is,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers, glowing a faint, dangerous amber. “But not for long.”
He stepped behind her again, completely enveloping her. His hands closed over hers, pinning them to the floured worktop. Her ass pressed into him—soft, lush, perfect—and the dragon roared.
Mine.
He moved with her, guiding the dough between their joined hands. She leaned back, a soft sigh escaping as she surrendered to his strength.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured against her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.
His hands slid from hers, working the front buttons of her dress. He cupped her bare breasts. His thumbs began to stroke slow, agonizing circles over her nipples until they peaked into tight buds.
She gasped, her kneading faltering. “Rhavor...”
“Keep going, Sylvie,” he growled, his breath hot. “You’re so sexy when you’re kneading like that.”
He could feel her wiggling against him, her curves grinding into his mounting hardness.
“You wiggle again and you have to deal with the consequences,” he warned, his voice lower by an octave.
She did it again. On purpose.
“That’s it. Bend over.”
She laughed—that light, breathless sound he adored—and leaned over the worktop, pulling up her dress to reveal the most delectable lace-covered ass.
He freed himself quickly. His cock was thick, the ridged scales at the base glistening with his arousal. He pulled her panties down and positioned himself, one hand brushing her wet folds, the other guiding his tip.
“You’re so ready for me, little berry.”
He squeezed her lush buttcheeks and she squinted with excitement.
“Rhavor, please. I need you inside,” she breathed.
He didn't wait. He drove into her with one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt in welcoming heat.
“You’re mine,” he growled.
She cried out, arching back, taking every inch as her walls stretched around him—hot, slick, perfect. She was tight, so fucking tight, her walls gripping him like velvet fire, and he groaned at the sensation, every ridge of his cock dragging against her inner walls.
“Rhavor, please fuck me!” she begged, pushing back into him, her curves jiggling with every impact.
His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him. He started moving, sliding in and out of her, his strokes growing deeper and longer as she adjusted to his size.
“You feel that?” he grunted, leaning over her to capture her earlobe between his teeth. “Every inch of me inside you. Taking me in like that.”
“Yes... gods, yes, harder,” she moaned, pushing back to meet his thrusts, her body surrendering fully.
He gave it to her, pounding faster, the dragon’s roar echoing in his mind as he chased that peak. The pleasure built in him like a storm, her pussy fluttered around him, the slick sounds of their joining, the scent of her arousal thick in the air.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming shallow and frenzied, hips slamming against her ass. “Give it to me—let me feel you shatter.”
She did. Her climax ripped through her with a scream, her walls convulsing around his cock, pulling him deeper.
He felt every quiver, every spasm, milking him relentlessly.
The sensation snapped his control—the dragon surged, and he buried himself deep, roaring as he came, hot spurts flooding her, claiming her completely.
For a long moment, they stayed locked like that, panting, his body draped over hers, until the aftershocks faded. He nuzzled her neck, fangs grazing possessively. “Mine,” he murmured again, softer now.
“Yours,” she whispered back, facing him fully.
He held her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. He knew—with dangerous, draconic certainty—that he would burn the world to ash before he let her slip through his fingers.