Page 24 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Seventeen

Rosomon

B ent over the cot, I shift my hips, shocked at the intense fire aching between my legs. I assumed I should position myself like a mare, but clearly I was wrong.

I start to straighten, but Saxon places his hands on my lower back. Then he slides them down over my bottom, and the impact triples the dampness and heat between my legs, which have now turned to jelly. I’m not sure I could stand if I tried, so I lean onto the cot.

His hands are so large, each covering one side of my backside as he strokes me there. I hope the wetness between my legs isn’t unusual. In this position, my cleft is exposed, and he can likely see the excessive moisture.

Feeling vulnerable, I consider straightening, but his other hand lands high on my back as if wanting to keep me bent forward.

“I thought this was the wrong position?” My chest is heaving, and my body is tense, coiled up and bracing for whatever might come.

“Your position isn’t wrong, per se.” His hands stroke my bottom, brushing over both sides now, and also the backs and insides of my thighs.

I quiver in response, beyond excited by his touch, loving how his large hands can cover so much of me at once. My entire body quakes—inside and out—as he strokes and kneads my flesh.

“I’m not going to take you like this,” he says, “but it’s a good way to prepare you.”

“Prepare me?” My muscles tense.

His fingers slide close to my cleft, and my back bows as it digests the heightened fluttering inside me. I’ve never felt anything so wonderful. His large hands shift their focus to my upper thighs, and his fingers tease closer and closer to my now throbbing cleft.

“Spread your legs wider.” His deep command awakens a rush of fear, and yet I obey.

His fingers sweep through my exposed cleft, sliding front to back.

I gasp. There’s no leather between us this time, and the feeling is overwhelmingly pleasurable. He repeats the action, over and over, his thick strong fingers brushing and fondling the most forbidden parts of me.

I’ve long known I was sensitive down there. The first time I touched between my legs was the night I saw the stableboy’s sausage, but the warm feeling from my own touch doesn’t compare to Saxon’s fingers stroking my dampened skin, sliding everywhere.

An edginess awakes inside me; my knees shake, my hips pump, and my back bends like an archer’s bow, as if my entire body is demanding more and more from his caresses.

Then, as if responding to my unspoken demand, his touch becomes firmer, and his fingers delve between the folds of my cleft, touching places I was taught no hand should ever touch, not even my own.

Why would Othrix forbid something that feels this good?

“You’re very wet.” His voice erupts in a low rumble, and I’m relieved that he sounds pleased. “So ready.”

One of his hands rests on my lower back, as a single thick finger strokes through my folds.

And after many luxurious long strokes, that finger stalls above the hole that releases my courses.

I tense, embarrassed and overwhelmed by shame, but he circles his fingertip there, and the slight roughness of his skin wakes even deeper feelings, washing away all negative emotions.

“Brace yourself, ma chérie.”

His other hand slides up my spine, the pressure holding me forward. And he pushes his thick finger inside me.

Sharp pain strikes. My entire body clenches at the invasion, and I grit my teeth, swallowing my urge to cry out.

“Relax, ma chérie.” His hand gently strokes my back, holding me forward as his finger stays lodged inside me. “Breathe.” Bending forward, he kisses my throat. “Easy now, easy.”

As he gently soothes me, my body unfurls like a banner released to the wind, and I start to enjoy the warm feeling of holding the tip of his finger inside me. But just as I begin to accept the intrusion, his finger slides even deeper.

I gasp again, shocked at what he’s doing and unsure how I feel about having a part of him—any part of him—inside me.

Steadily, he works his finger in deeper. Then he pulls it almost out, resting it just inside the place where I open. Slowly, he repeats his motions several more times, pushing in and pulling out, but twisting his finger now, and seeming to dig deeper each time.

“Oh, ah!” Sounds burst from where I’ve been holding them back.

“That’s it.” Saxon growls near my ear, and he kisses my throat. “That’s the way, ma chérie. Easy now, easy.”

Moving slowly, his thick digit continues to probe inside me, going so deeply that his other fingers strike the flesh of my cleft folds each time he intrudes.

And in spite of my shock and initial discomfort, as I relax, an unmistakable pleasure rises inside me. A kind of pleasure I’ve never imagined before. It’s as if I’ve discovered new worlds, arrived in the Great Beyond, or perhaps fallen into the depths of Darkness.

I don’t care. Even if what he’s doing to me is wicked, even if Othrix will cast me into the Darkness as punishment for it, I want more and more from Saxon’s finger.

My body moves, rocking back against his plunging finger, wanting him deeper, and I’ve never felt so wild, so fully myself even though I barely recognize who I’ve become.

Then, just as I get used to the pleasure, his finger slows, and he draws it right out.

My arms collapse onto the cot, and I rest my forehead against it. Is it over?

“Hmmm,” he says. “No blood.”

Was he expecting me to be on my courses?

“Perhaps because you ride your horse astride.”

I’m about to ask what he means, but his finger re-enters my body, and my back and pelvis undulate, stealing my ability to form words.

“My rod is unusually thick,” he says. “And you are very tight.”

I clench around his finger. A reaction over which I have no control.

“I’m going to use a second finger to stretch you, before taking you with my cock.”

I nod against the blanket, in case he was asking my permission, and then two of his fingers slide inside me at once.

All the air vacates my lungs.

He leaves his fingers still inside me, as his other hand strokes my back and my throat.

He’s trying to calm me. And it’s working.

Because, while the thicker intrusion hurt at first, it now feels even more welcome than his single finger became, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude as he starts to work his two fingers deeply inside me.

I push back against their plunder, wanting more and more from his fingers as they probe and twist inside me.

“Holy thrix, Rosomon.” He growls. “You are as wild as an unbroken colt. I can’t wait to have your pent-up excitement housing my cock.”

I can’t wait for that either, but don’t get a chance to say it aloud. His fingers accelerate, the duo pumping harder and deeper than the single digit moved, and I can no longer breathe.

He bends over me, his hand on my shoulder to keep me from sliding forward with the force of his thrusts as his fingers rapidly impale me.

Deep inside me, a tightness builds, an unbridled force over which I have no control, and it’s driving me mad with desire.

A desire for more and more and more of whatever pleasure Saxon has on offer.

I feel like I’m climbing high on a mountain, like I’m soaring above the clouds.

And I both dread and crave what is sure to be an uncontrolled descent.

“Thrix, Rosomon,” he growls next to my ear. “Fuck! What you do to me. I can’t wait any longer.”

In an instant, his fingers withdraw. He flips me onto my back and lands atop me, his hands planted either side of my head on the cot.

Saxon’s face is unrecognizable, wild and ferocious, his skin red and sweating, and the blacks of his eyes are so wide they nearly wipe out the brown.

One of his hands moves away for a moment, and when it returns something thick and hard presses against my entrance. I can see both his arms so it can’t be his fingers. For a moment, I’m afraid. Afraid of his rod. Afraid of him. Afraid of what he might do.

“Forgive me,” he says, and his hips thrust.

Pain steals both my breath and my thoughts.

His eyes tightly close, his face in a grimace above me.

Clearly this hurts him as much as it’s hurting me.

But, as he holds his thickness inside me, my pain starts to lessen.

It’s more like discomfort at the unexpected stretching and fullness.

I can bear this pain, but his face is still twisted in a grimace, veins pulsing over his temples, and my only thought is to ease his obvious agony.

Reaching up, I stroke his face. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “Relax. Just breathe.”

Saxon’s eyes open, looking into mine, and a smile washes over his face. “You are a miracle.”

I take my own advice, and his invasion becomes even less painful. The intense burning turns to a warm throbbing that spreads out inside me, almost as if my body knows how to adjust to his thick intrusion.

I stroke the stubble on his chin, loving how it feels against my palm, and how I can see his desire for me in his eyes. Being stabbed by a man—copulation, sex, as he called it—was painful at first, but holding him inside me now, makes me feel close to him, like he’s now part of me.

I’m sad to know that this can only happen once, but I’m glad that it has happened with Saxon. I thread my fingers into his hair, finding it soft and luxurious.

“Are you ready?” he asks softly.

“For what?” Ready for it to end? I hope that’s not what he means.

“Ready for me to ride you,” he says. “Because once I start…” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want your first time to be a good memory, but I’ve never felt so wildly out of control.”

Confusion rushes through me, but also pride and happiness as I absorb his words along with this rod. `

But before I can ask for an explanation, he starts to move. His rod slides deeper, as his fingers did. But this is so, so much more. His hips pump over me, driving him further and further each time he pushes forward. I thought I felt full and stretched before. It turns out his fingers were nothing.