Page 8 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 8

D orian

I’ve been awake for hours, watching Juno sleep against my chest. Her breathing has a rhythm that’s become as familiar as my own—deep and even, with occasional hitches when she dreams.

The weight of her body against mine feels both foreign and inevitable. Her scent—herbal shampoo, faded perfume, and something I’m now certain is rosemary—has embedded itself in my senses.

This isn’t you. You don’t do this shit.

Hundred years of existence, and I’ve never spent an entire night just holding someone. Sex, sure. Plenty of that. But this—this quiet intimacy, this protective vigil—this is uncharted territory.

Dawn hasn’t broken yet. Seattle’s perpetual cloud cover makes the night stretch longer, the faint glow of street lamps filtering through Juno’s curtains casting everything in soft focus. Her apartment reveals more of her than she’s verbally shared—watercolor paintings leaning against walls, books about art and astronomy stacked on coffee tables, herbs growing in every available window space.

My arm went numb hours ago where she’s nestled against it, but I haven’t moved. Can’t bring myself to disturb her. Not after last night. The memory of her panic—the way her body had trembled, her breathing shallow and quick, eyes wide with genuine fear—stirs something in my chest. Something that wants to hurt whoever scared her like that.

I’ll fucking kill the bastard.

Which is another thing I don’t understand. I’m possessive about territory, about clan assets, about family. Not about women I barely know.

The clock on her wall reads 4:37 a.m. I should leave before she wakes. That would be the respectful thing to do—slip away, text her later, pretend this night of vulnerability never happened. Return to the script I’ve perfected over centuries: charming pursuit, mutual pleasure, clean exit.

Moving with exaggerated care, I try to shift her weight off my chest. Her apartment is silent enough that each rustle of the blanket sounds thunderous to my ears.

“Mmm, don’t go.” Her voice, thick with sleep, stops me cold. Her fingers curl into my shirt, surprisingly strong. “Stay.”

My body responds instantly to her touch, to the sleepy command in her voice. Heat floods my veins, and I have to focus to keep my temperature normal. Another strange reaction—I never have trouble controlling my dragon traits.

“Hey,” I say softly, brushing hair from her face. “How are you feeling?”

She blinks up at me, eyes still heavy-lidded. In the dim light, with her defenses down, she looks younger, softer. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.

“I’m okay.” She stretches slightly, her body pressing against mine in ways that make it difficult to focus. “Sorry about last night.”

“Don’t apologize.” My voice comes out hoarse.

She studies my face, suddenly more awake. “You stayed.”

“I said I would.”

“Most men wouldn’t have.”

“I’m not most men.” The cliché slips out before I can stop it, but her smile tells me she doesn’t mind.

“No,” she agrees, shifting to face me more fully. “You’re not.”

Something changes in the air between us. Her heart rate increases—I can hear it, which wouldn’t be possible with human ears. Her pupils dilate, her scent shifts subtly. My body responds with immediate, almost painful intensity as my balls pull tight.

“Juno,” I begin, not sure what I’m going to say. Warn her? Ask permission? Beg?

She answers by pressing her lips to mine.

The kiss is different from our previous one—softer, yet somehow more deliberate. My hands hover at her waist, hesitating. After last night’s panic attack, is this really what she wants? Or is this some kind of reaction to fear, to vulnerability?

She pulls back slightly, reading my hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” she whispers. “I want this. I want you.”

Relief and desire crash through me in equal measure. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer as I take her mouth. She tastes like sleep and something sweeter, something I want more of. Her tongue meets mine, and the kiss deepens into something hungry and frantic.

Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the contours of my chest, my belly. Her touch leaves trails of fire on my skin. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us—her breasts pressed against me, her thigh sliding between mine, her fingers tracing patterns that make my muscles jump.

“Off,” she murmurs against my mouth, tugging at my shirt.

I help her remove it, then pause to look at her—really look at her. In the dim light, with her hair tousled from sleep and her lips swollen from our kisses, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Not in the conventional way of models I’ve bedded or socialites I’ve charmed, but in some deeper, more essential way that resonates in my bones.

“What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious under my gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her simply.

Color floods her cheeks. “Smooth talker.”

“Just the truth.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb. “I’m trying something new.”

She laughs softly, then pulls me back down to her. The kiss turns molten, her body arching against mine, her need clear. I slide my hand beneath her shirt, finding warm skin and the gentle curve of her waist. She shivers under my touch, goosebumps rising in the wake of my fingers.

“Your hands are so warm,” she murmurs.

Fuck! Watch it, asshole.

Too warm. I need to be careful. My dragon is closest when I’m aroused—elevated body temperature, enhanced strength, occasionally scales if I don’t take care. I focus on moderating the heat while continuing to explore her body.

Her shirt comes off next, revealing a simple cotton bra that somehow manages to be sexier than any lace I’ve encountered. Perhaps because it’s hers. I lower my mouth to the hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips. The sound she makes—a soft, broken moan—sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock.

I take my time, exploring her body with my hands and mouth. The curve of her collarbone. The sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp. The soft swell of her breasts as I free them from their cotton constraints. Each discovery feels significant, like I’m learning a language meant only for me.

Her hands aren’t idle either. They roam my back, my shoulders, tangling in my hair to guide my mouth where she wants it. When I take her nipple between my lips, she arches off the couch with a cry that makes me painfully hard. I lavish attention on each breast, memorizing the sounds she makes, the way her body responds.

“Dorian,” she breathes my name, and it calls to me in ways I can’t comprehend.

I move lower, trailing kisses down her stomach. Her pants are easily removed, leaving her in simple cotton panties that match her bra. I look up. Her eyes are dark with desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Yes,” she says feverishly. “Please.”

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her underwear and slide them down her legs. She’s exposed to me now, vulnerable in a different way than last night, but no less trusting. The responsibility of that trust settles over me like a physical weight.

I’ve done this countless times with countless women, always skilled but detached, focused on performance rather than connection. This feels nothing like those encounters. Every reaction from Juno feels vital; every sound she makes echoes through me like it’s being carved into memory.

I settle between her thighs, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there. I nuzzle my face into the soft down over her mound, and she moans. So do I. Her scent is intoxicating, making my head swim. I trace the tip of my tongue along the seam of her pussy, slow, teasing, until her fingers fist in my hair.

“God, Dorian… please!” she begs. I keep up the slow torment, exploring the crevices and valleys between her thighs until she’s writhing. When I finally taste her, we both groan. She’s perfect— sweet and salt and something indefinable that calls to something primal in me.

I lose myself in pleasuring her, cataloging every response. The way her thighs tense when I use my tongue just so on her clit. The catch in her breath when I slide one finger inside her, then another. The litany of broken sounds—my name, pleas, curses—as I build her toward an orgasm that I can feel gathering within her.

Her hand finds mine where it rests on her hip, our fingers interlacing as she approaches the edge. The connection feels as intimate as what my mouth is doing to her. I lift my eyes, needing to see her face as she comes apart.

The sight nearly undoes me. Her head thrown back, throat exposed, lips parted on a silent cry. Her body tenses, then shudders as release washes over her. The pulse of her slick walls around my fingers, the way she grips my hand like an anchor—it’s almost too much.

For a moment, I feel it—the telltale heat along my spine that signals my dragon stirring too close to the surface. I glance down in alarm and see the sharp outline of scales shimmering along my forearm before I force them back.

What the fuck?

I haven’t lost control like that since I was a hatchling.

Juno doesn’t notice, lost in the aftermath of pleasure. I move up her body, gathering her against me as she trembles through aftershocks. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and soft in a way I’ve never seen them.

“My God, I… I…” she begins, then shakes her head, apparently at a loss for words.

“Shhh,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She reaches for the button of my jeans, but I gently catch her wrist.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she insists.

“I know.” I kiss her softly. “But tonight was about you.”

She studies my face, confusion giving way to something like wonder.

“You’re full of surprises, Dorian Craven.”

“So I’ve been told.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, marveling at the softness of her skin.

We lie tangled together as her breathing evens out, her body relaxing against mine once more. Contentment washes over me—a feeling that should probably alarm me more than it does. I’ve never felt this… peaceful after intimacy. Usually, I’m already planning my exit, checking messages, mentally moving on to the next conquest or business matter.

But right now, there’s nowhere else I want to be.

As Juno drifts back toward sleep, I make a decision.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I murmur. “More comfortable than this couch.”

She mumbles something unintelligible as I scoop her into my arms, her body warm and pliant against my chest. The trust implicit in her relaxed state does something strange to my insides—a twisting, melting sensation I can’t name.

Her bedroom is visible through a partially open door—a space I’ve deliberately avoided entering until now. It feels like crossing a threshold, not just physically but symbolically. I nudge the door wider with my foot and carry her to the bed, laying her down with more care than I’ve shown anything in recent memory.

She immediately curls on her side, reaching for me even in her half-asleep state. “Don’t go,” she murmurs again.

Every instinct in my body screams to crawl in beside her, to wrap myself around her and guard her sleep until morning. But something stops me—a sense that we’ve already crossed enough lines for one night. That she might regret this vulnerability in the harsh light of day.

“Sleep well, stargazer,” I whisper, pulling the covers over her.

I retrieve my shirt from the living room and let myself out, locking the door behind me. Dawn is breaking as I step onto the street, the city coming alive around me. I inhale deeply, but all I can smell is her—on my skin, my clothes, lingering on my tongue.

My phone has seventeen missed calls from Caleb. The real world intrudes, demanding attention. But as I walk toward my car, my mind remains in that apartment, with the woman who somehow managed to crack open parts of me I didn’t know existed.

I touch my lips, still tasting her. What the hell is happening to me?

Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want it to stop.