Page 11 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 11

J uno

My apartment feels different when I return—not just because of the new deadbolt the building maintenance installed this afternoon (a temporary measure until tomorrow’s professional security upgrade), but because of how I move within it. More freely. More purposefully.

On impulse, I spend some time rearranging the furniture slightly, opening up the space. Fresh flowers that I bought on the way home—daisies, not lilies—brighten the coffee table. I’ve watered my herbs and added a new basil plant to the collection.

In the center of the room, my easel holds the sketch I made of Dorian after our first meeting. I study it critically now, seeing both its merits and flaws. I captured something in his eyes—that enigmatic quality that seemed at odds with his playful demeanor—but missed the warmth in his smile. The proportions are slightly off, but there’s life in the lines.

It’s the first heartfelt drawing I’ve done in years. Not perfect, but a beginning.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I smile when I see his name pop up on the screen.

Just checking in. Hope you’re feeling better today.

It’s just like him. No demands or expectations. I consider my response carefully, typing and deleting several versions before settling on honesty.

Much better. Made some changes today. Would you like to come over for dinner? I’m cooking.

His response comes quickly:

I’d love to. What time?

7:30? I type back, holding my breath.

I’ll be there.

I spend the next hour preparing—marinating chicken, chopping vegetables, setting the small dining table with actual placemats instead of eating on the couch, as I usually do. I change into a soft sweater and leggings, comfortable but flattering. I leave my hair down.

At exactly 7:30, there’s a knock at my door. I check the peephole—another habit I’m keeping for safety, not fear—and see Dorian standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand.

When I open the door, his expression shifts from casual confidence to something more complex. His eyes widen slightly as he takes me in, gaze traveling from my face to the apartment behind me.

“Hi,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

“Hi.” He hands me the wine, our fingers brushing. “You look… different.”

“Good different or bad different?” I ask, closing the door behind him.

“Definitely good.” His smile is warm but tentative, as if he’s not quite sure where we stand after last night. “Something’s changed.”

“A lot of things,” I agree, leading him into the apartment. “Wine opener’s in the drawer by the fridge if you want to do the honors. Dinner’s almost ready.”

He moves toward the kitchen, then stops, noticing the sketch on the easel. “Is that…?”

“You? Yes.” I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “I drew it after we met at the coffee shop.”

He approaches the drawing slowly, studying it with an intensity that makes me nervous. “It’s good. Really good.” He turns to me. “You didn’t tell me you were an artist.”

“I used to be.” I busy myself with dinner preparations. “I’m trying to be again.”

Dorian uncorks the wine, pouring two glasses. “What stopped you?”

The question is casual, but it touches something deeper. I consider deflecting, then choose honesty instead.

“Tyler—my ex—he didn’t approve. Said it was a waste of time.” I arrange chicken and vegetables on plates. “After a while, I stopped trying.”

Dorian’s expression darkens momentarily. “The flowers last night. That was him.”

I nod, carrying plates to the table. “Yes. But I filed a police report today. And I’m getting better security installed tomorrow.”

I feel another surge of pride at taking back control of my life.

“Good.” The single word carries weight. “That’s… really good, Juno.”

Over dinner, I tell him about my day—the boundary-setting with the flirtatious customer, reconnecting with Rachel, arranging security upgrades. He listens attentively, asking questions that show he’s genuinely engaged.

“You’ve accomplished a lot in one day,” he observes, refilling our wineglasses.

“It felt like time.” I meet his eyes. “Last night was… clarifying.”

“The panic attack?”

“That, and what came after.” Heat rises to my face at the memory. “The way you handled both.”

His expression softens. “I didn’t do much.”

“You did exactly what I needed.” I set down my fork. “Tyler would have used my vulnerability against me. You just… helped without taking over.”

Something flickers in his eyes—anger, perhaps, at the mention of Tyler, though it’s not directed at me.

“I’m glad I could help.”

After dinner, we move to the couch with our wine. The same couch where last night happened, though it feels different now—a choice rather than a circumstance.

“Tell me more about your art,” he says, gesturing toward the sketch. “Why did you draw me?”

I consider the question carefully. “There was something about you I wanted to capture. Something in your eyes that seemed… older than the rest of you.” I laugh softly. “That sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

“Not strange,” he says quietly. “Perceptive.”

We fall silent, the space between us charged with unspoken questions. Finally, I set down my wineglass and turn to face him fully.

“About last night,” I begin.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he interjects quickly.

“I want to.” I move closer, watching his reaction. “You stopped. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

His eyes hold mine. “It didn’t seem right to take advantage of the situation.”

“And now?” I ask, heart pounding. “What about now?”

In answer, he reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away. When his hand cups my cheek, I lean into the touch.

God, I want this man so much.

“Now is different,” he says, voice low. “You’re different.”

“I’m still me,” I whisper. “Just… more me than I’ve been in a long time.”

As I say the words, I realize how true they are. It’s like I’ve turned a corner, moved past the fear that kept me locked up for so long. And somehow, I feel like this man is connected.

I find myself holding my breath as he leans in toward me, anticipation making my lips tingle. When we kiss, it’s nothing like last night’s desperate connection. This is deliberate, chosen. I’m fully present in my body, in this moment, in this decision. His lips are warm against mine, his touch respectful yet hungry.

My lord, he tastes so good.

I break the kiss to look at him, to really see him. “I want this,” I say clearly. “I want you. Not because I’m afraid or vulnerable or grateful. Because I choose to.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief mixed with desire. “I want you too. More than I can explain.”

This time when we come together, it’s equal. Reciprocal. His hands learn my body as mine explore his. I notice things I was too overwhelmed to register last night—how unusually warm his skin feels beneath my fingers, the strange golden flecks in his amber eyes when passion dilates his pupils, the way his heartbeat seems to match mine.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, my fingers trembling not from fear but anticipation.

“I want to see you,” I whisper against his mouth. “All of you.”

He helps me, lifting his arms as I pull the fabric up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest steals my breath away. I’ve felt it under my palms, but seeing it—the defined muscles, the intricate dragon tattoos that seem almost alive in the dim light—is something else entirely. There’s an artistry to his body that makes my fingers itch for a pencil to capture the way shadows play across his skin.

“Your turn?” he asks, voice husky with desire but tentative, still giving me space to dictate the pace.

I nod, lifting my arms in silent invitation. He tugs my sweater off with exquisite care, as if I’m something fragile. The cool air pebbles my skin, but I don’t feel cold—not with the heat of his gaze warming me.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes traveling over my lace-covered breasts. His fingertips trace the edge of my bra, featherlight. “May I?”

The fact that he asks—that he continues to ask despite the obvious consent in my body language—makes something swell in my chest. Something like trust.

“Please,” I breathe.

He reaches behind me, unhooking my bra. As the straps slide down my arms, I resist the urge to cover myself. Tyler always found fault—too small, too uneven—but Dorian looks at me like I’m a revelation.

“Perfect,” he says, cupping one breast in his palm. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I gasp, the sensation shooting straight to my core. “So responsive.”

I lean into his touch, arching my back as his mouth replaces his hand. The wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple makes me moan, my fingers threading through his hair to hold him close. He lavishes attention on each breast in turn, alternating between gentle suckles and teasing licks until I’m squirming beneath him.

“Dorian,” I pant. “I need—”

“Tell me,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you need, Juno.”

The command in his voice sends a thrill through me. This is nothing like the controlling demands I’ve known before. This is an invitation—a space for me to voice my desires without shame.

“I need to feel you,” I say, finding courage in the darkness of his blown pupils. “All of you. Skin to skin.”

He stands, holding my gaze as he unfastens his belt, then his jeans. There’s something almost ceremonial about the way he undresses, like he’s offering himself to me. When he steps out of his boxers, I can’t help but stare. He’s magnificently erect, larger than I expected, the head of his cock flushed dark with blood. My mouth goes dry at the thought of taking him inside me.

“Your turn,” he says again, kneeling before me.

His hands trail up my calves, behind my knees, along my thighs—an exploration that makes every nerve ending sing. He tugs off my leggings with deliberate slowness, peeling them down along with my underwear. I lift my hips to help him, and soon, I’m completely naked before him.

For a moment, he simply looks at me, his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. Then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. I shudder, my legs falling open in silent invitation.

“I’ve been thinking about tasting you again since last night,” he says, his breath warm against my most sensitive place.

“God, yes,” I manage, already trembling with anticipation.

The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out. It’s not just pleasure—though the physical sensation is overwhelming—it’s the knowledge that he wants this, wants me. That he takes clear delight in my enjoyment.

He explores me thoroughly, like he’s learning a new language. His tongue traces my folds, dips inside me, circles my clit with maddening precision. His hands hold my thighs apart, thumbs occasionally stroking the crease where leg meets torso. When he sucks gently on my clit, I nearly come off the couch.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, hips bucking against his mouth. “Dorian, I—”

He hums against me, the vibration sending pleasure spiraling through my body. One hand leaves my thigh, and I feel a finger circling my entrance, gathering wetness before sliding inside. The dual sensation—his mouth on my clit, his finger curling inside me—pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching me deliciously. “Let go, Juno. I’ve got you.”

Something about those words—I’ve got you—breaks the last of my restraint. Pleasure crashes over me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He guides me through it gently, prolonging my orgasm until I’m gasping, oversensitive.

As I come down, he kisses his way up my body—hipbone, navel, ribs, the valley between my breasts, collarbone, throat, jaw. By the time he reaches my mouth, I’m ready for him again, desire rebuilding despite the lingering aftershocks.

I taste myself on his lips as we kiss, and rather than being uncomfortable, it feels profoundly intimate. I reach between us, finding his cock hard and hot in my hand. He groans into my mouth as I stroke him, learning the feel of him—the velvet softness over steel hardness, the slight ridge beneath the head that makes his breath catch when I run my thumb over it.

“I want you inside me,” I whisper against his lips. “I want to feel you.”

His eyes meet mine, searching. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” And it’s true. This doesn’t feel like my usual hesitation, the need to please that has guided too many of my past decisions. This is pure desire—my own, not borrowed or manufactured.

He nods, then pauses. “Protection?”

Another point in his favor—the fact that he asks, that it matters to him.

“Nightstand drawer,” I tell him. “I’m also on birth control.” For so long, it has felt pointless to have these precautions in my life, but right now, I’m grateful for them. So damn grateful.

While he retrieves a condom, I take a moment to appreciate the view—the play of muscles in his broad back, the firm curve of his ass.

Holy shit, he’s like some kind of god!

I have to suppress a small grin of delight at the fact that all that gorgeous manliness is mine to explore. To enjoy. Tyler may have been attractive, but Dorian is next level. Almost inhumanly perfect.

When he turns, sheathing himself with efficient movements, I drink in the sight of his rock-hard cock. The knowledge that it’s for me—because of me—is heady.

He rejoins me on the couch, but instead of covering my body with his, he pulls me onto his lap, my knees on either side of his hips. The position puts me in control—another gift, another choice he’s offering.

I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, bordering on too much, but never crossing that line. His hands grip my hips, not guiding, just steadying. His eyes are locked on mine, watching for any sign of discomfort.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes as I take him fully, sealed tight against him. “So tight. So perfect.”

I roll my hips experimentally, watching his face as pleasure washes over it. The power I feel in that moment is intoxicating—knowing I can bring him pleasure, that my body affects his as profoundly as his affects mine.

We start to move together, finding a rhythm that builds slowly. I rise and fall on his length, each downward movement sending sparks of pleasure through my body. His hands roam freely—cupping my breasts, tracing my spine, gripping my ass to pull me tighter against him. His mouth finds my neck, my ear, my lips, kissing and nipping as we rock together.

“God, Juno,” he groans, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

His words wash over me, becoming part of the sensation building within me. I’ve never felt this connected during sex, so in touch with my own body, or attuned to another person’s pleasure. Every movement, every touch, every sound feels significant.

The tension builds steadily, a coiling spring low in my belly. Dorian must sense it because one hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit. The added stimulation makes me gasp, my rhythm faltering.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his other arm wrapping around my back to support me. “I can feel how close you are. Come for me, stargazer.”

The endearment—so tender, so specific to us—pushes me over the edge. Pleasure explodes outward from my core, radiating through every cell in my body. I cry out, clenching rhythmically around him as wave after wave crashes through me.

My orgasm triggers his. With a guttural sound that’s almost a growl, he thrusts up into me, his whole body tensing beneath mine as he finds his release. I feel the pulse of him inside me, even through the condom, and it prolongs my own pleasure until I’m trembling with the intensity of it.

For long moments, we stay joined, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air. His hands stroke my back in long, soothing motions. My fingers trace patterns on his shoulders, marveling at the unusual warmth of his skin. Neither of us seems ready to break the connection.

Eventually, though, practicality wins out. He lifts me gently, slipping free of my body with a shared murmur of regret. He disposes of the condom while I stretch, feeling deliciously used in all the best ways. When he returns, he pulls me against his chest, arranging us so that we’re lying face-to-face on the couch.

“You’re incredible,” he says, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb.

The simple statement brings tears to my eyes, though I couldn’t explain exactly why. “So are you.”

He smiles, a warm, genuine expression that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Stay right here. I’ll be back.”

He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm washcloth. The tenderness with which he cleans me is almost more intimate than the sex itself. No one has ever cared for me this way afterward—taken the time to ensure my comfort without making me feel dirty or used.

When he’s done, he draws me close again, pulling a quilt from the back of the couch to cover our cooling bodies. We lie together in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm, my hand splayed across his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart.

“I don’t usually do this,” I confess softly.

“What’s that? Have mind-blowing sex on the couch?” His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious when I look up at him.

“Open up like this.” I trace the outline of one of his tattoos, following the dragon’s tail as it curls around his bicep. “Let someone in so quickly.”

His arm tightens around me. “I don’t either.”

“Really?” I can’t help the skepticism in my voice. A man who looks like him, who moves with such confidence, who knows exactly how to touch a woman—surely he’s had plenty of experience.

“Really,” he confirms. “I’ve had my share of… encounters. But this is different.”

I feel a surge of jealousy at the thought of those “encounters,” but I fight it down.

“Different how?”

He seems to consider the question carefully, as if searching for the right words.

“I’m not good at letting people get close. Never have been.” His voice grows softer. “But with you, it’s like… I don’t know. Like part of me recognizes something in you.”

The confession catches me off guard with its sincerity. “I feel that too,” I admit. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way we just… fit.”

“Strange,” he agrees. “But good.”

We fall silent again, content to exist in the shared warmth of our bodies, the shared intimacy of the moment. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony of car horns and distant sirens. Inside, there’s just us—two people who’ve found unexpected comfort in each other’s arms.

And in this moment, I feel truly at peace. Not because a man is holding me, but because I’ve chosen this connection—freely, deliberately, with full awareness of my own desires. Tyler’s shadow seems to recede further with each passing moment, each gentle touch of Dorian’s fingers on my skin.

“Stay,” I murmur, echoing his words from the night before. “Stay the night with me.”

His lips brush my forehead, and I feel his smile against my skin. “I’m not going anywhere, stargazer.”

I believe him. Whatever this is between us—this unexpected, powerful connection—I want to explore it fully. No more hiding. No more fear. Just this moment, this man, and the person I’m becoming with him.

As sleep claims me, my last thought is that something fundamental has shifted inside me. Like a key turning in a lock, opening a door to possibilities I’ve only just begun to imagine.

My night is dreamless, restful. Not filled with faceless forms who pursue me down endless corridors.

Finally, morning light wakes me, golden and warm across the bed. He must have carried me here in the night, and I find myself warmed by the thought of it. I open my eyes to find Dorian already awake, watching me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.

“You’re still here,” I observe, voice husky with sleep. I’d half-expected to wake up and realize I’d imagined it all.

“I am.” He traces my cheekbone with his thumb. “Is that okay?”

“More than okay.” I stretch, feeling none of the anxiety I would have expected at finding someone in my bed. Only contentment.

He studies me in the morning light. “You know, I don’t usually do this either.”

“What, seduce vulnerable women recovering from panic attacks?” I tease.

His laugh rumbles through his chest. “No. Stay. Feel… whatever this is.”

I meet his gaze, seeing my own confusion and wonder mirrored there. “We’re breaking our patterns.”

“Yeah. Scary, huh?” His smile softens the admission.

I reach up to touch his face, memorizing the contours for my next drawing.

“I think I like it.”

“I think I do too.” He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Though it may kill me.”

I don’t ask what he means. Some part of me already knows that whatever is happening between us is dangerous—not in the way Tyler was dangerous, but in how it threatens the careful walls we’ve both built around ourselves.

For now, it’s enough to lie here in the morning light, feeling more myself than I have in years, with a man who somehow sees me more clearly after just a few days than Tyler did in a year.

Later, I’ll deal with security installations and police reports and all the practical aspects of reclaiming my life. But right now—this moment—is about recognizing that the most important security system I’m rebuilding is my trust in my own instincts.

And right now, every instinct tells me that Dorian Craven, for all his mysteries, is exactly where I need to be.