Page 104 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

Aside from us not really getting a break with ascending through these trials, maybe it was because I felt like we’d have eons to finally dive into this.

Until she just dropped on those stairs and her heart temporarily stilled.

That made me realize how precious every single moment is, and here I am, wasting it because I’m scared…of rejection because of…

Well…

I sigh, because lying to her seems impossible.

“Most can’t keep up,” I admit. “Dragon stamina is…well. Not just a myth. And I got tired of breaking people.” I mean it, every word. It’s why I spent decades hiding in the persona of the fusty old professor, why I taught and observed instead of participating.

Why I waited for something—someone—who could match me, bite for bite, burn for burn.

She considers that, then grins, and—gods—her confidence is a thing of beauty.

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right partners yet,” she says. “If we weren’t trapped in a survival maze, I’d test that theory every single day. With every single mate I could claim.”

The image she conjures—herself, and Cassius, and Atticus, and Nikolai, all of them together, all of them with me—is enough to make my vision white out for a moment.

Sharing her, mating, filling her up again and again and knowing we can never have enough…

I groan, deep and primal, and grip her hips, guiding her down.

She doesn’t rush.

She takes me in, inch by slow inch, gasping at the stretch, the fullness. I’m big—there’s no point in false modesty—but she’s greedy, and stubborn, and determined to take all of me.

When she finally bottoms out, seated flush in my lap, we both go still, just breathing together, shuddering with the force of it.

“You did it,” I whisper, awed.

She smirks.

“Of course I did. I always pass my finals.”

We laugh, the sound shared, private, a little wild at the edges.

For one perfect, impossible moment, there is no library, no Academy, no world outside the press of her body and mine.

Just us.

She’s tight. It’s not just the physical, though that alone is enough to make my eyes roll back, but the way she clamps down on me, muscles fluttering as if her body is determined to test the limits of both of us. For a second, neither of us moves.

We just sit there—me seated on the edge of the desk, Gwen straddling my lap, her forehead pressed to mine, sweat and breath and magic bleeding from every point of contact.

I run my hands up her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine, digging into her shoulders as if I could anchor myself to the world by holding her in place. She shudders, nails raking down my chest, and grinds her hips experimentally, just a small circle, but it makes both of us gasp.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice raw.

I want to say something clever, something worthy of my centuries of education, but all I can manage is, “Stars, you’re perfect.”

She barks a laugh, delighted, and then starts to move in earnest.

Slow at first—up an inch, down a half, just enough for the head of my cock to rub inside her, for her walls to clutch and pulse and make me see visions behind my eyes. Then faster, as she finds her rhythm, as her confidence burns away the last of her doubt.

She’s a quick study, my little witch. In seconds, she’s riding me with intent, using her thighs and abs and every bit of leverage she can find. The desk rocks beneath us, the floating furniture creaking with the force of it, but neither of us cares if the entire room shatters to splinters.

I grab her hips, holding her steady, guiding her with the inexorable power of my own strength. She fights me—trying to set her own pace, but I match her, thrust for thrust, meeting her halfway and then taking over when her muscles start to fail.