Page 27 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Nineteen

Saxon

R osomon astounds me in every possible way.

Even now, as she rests over my body, spent from rutting inside her, my rod stirs, as if it might soon be ready for more.

But my interest in Rosomon goes far beyond my sexual attraction. From the first moment we met in that forest, she has beguiled me like no woman before her. And instead of easing her spell, bedding her drew me further into her enchantment, so deep I fear I’ll never escape.

She’s so young, having six and ten years fewer than I do. And, as a princess who’s lived a sheltered life, she’s inexperienced in so many ways. Yet she contains great depths—layers I’m certain will build as she gains new experiences.

I brush a strand of her shorn hair off her face and look deeply into her lavender eyes, finding such wonder and adoration housed there. Adoration for me.

My chest swells, but I can’t get ahead of myself.

Her idolization isn’t love, it’s only because I’m her first. It’s only because I introduced her to sexual pleasure and unleashed her desires.

And even if there’s a chance that her feelings could grow into something deeper, something real, I can’t offer her what she deserves from a man. I can’t offer her anything.

“In what ways am I different from your previous lovers,” she asks softly.

I smile. If she were any other woman—whether lady or wench—I’d assume her question was digging for compliments, asking me to lavish praise on her beauty and tight cunt. But Rosomon genuinely wants to know the answer.

Yet, words can’t begin to scratch the surface of what I truly meant. I’m not sure I fully understand it myself. And saying too much will only give her cause to believe I can offer her things I cannot.

“Ah, ma chérie.” I brush my finger down the line of her cute nose, loving how it wrinkles when she’s curious, or trying to understand something new. “It’s difficult for me to find words to explain the ways you’ve beguiled me. Or how much pleasure you’ve given me tonight.”

Her smile further brightens her face. “You gave me great pleasure, too.” Her teeth peek out to scrape her lower lip, as if she’s recalling some of that pleasure.

My cock twitches, fighting to prove it’s ready and willing to enter her again.

“The act of love…” I pause, angry at myself for using that word.

“Do you mean copulation?” She brings things back to reality. “Sex?”

I nod. “Yes. Sex. The act, it often— most often sex feels very good.”

A heated grin burns in her eyes and brushes her lips, and I lean in to take a quick taste of her smile.

“But sometimes the act can feel bland, or empty,” I tell her.

“Really?” She’s clearly astonished, but then her eyes fill with something darker. “Like when the King of Khotor ordered his footman to drill that piss wench?”

I drape one of my legs over hers and cup her neck with my hand, stroking her throat and loving how her eyes show how much she enjoys the caress, how much she trusts me.

“What you almost saw in the woods falls into a different category of sex. Something that ought to be a crime.”

“A crime ?” Her eyes blink, her rampant curiosity clearly wanting further explanation. “Is it a crime to drill a woman from behind?”

“No. No, ma chérie.” I struggle not to laugh. I don’t want her to think I’m mocking her ignorance. “Entering from behind can be…it can be very exciting and pleasurable for both parties. But if the woman does not welcome the act.” I fight to find the right words. “If she’s penetrated by force …”

I think of the many times I’ve pulled scoundrels off wenches. And worse, the times I couldn’t be bothered to… “Being taken by force is highly painful and unpleasant for a female. When perpetrated against a wedded noble woman, by a man who is not her husband, it’s a crime called rape.”

Her body tenses, and her eyes spark with empathetic pain. “Oh, yes. I can only imagine.”

“Don’t imagine it, ma chérie.” I stroke her face. “No man of honor ever takes a woman against her will.” I wish that were true, even more than I wish I hadn’t spoiled our mood.

“I’m very glad you are honorable.” She kisses my cheek and then settles back down against the mattress. “And now I’m doubly, no triply grateful that I fled the fate my father chose for me. If that old man had tried to drill me…”

A shiver traces through her, but then her expression is replaced by steely resolve, and she shakes her head. “Had he tried to drill me, I’d be dead now. Dead because I’d have been hung for killing a king.”

My heart swells in my chest as my admiration for this young woman grows yet again. I have little doubt she would have killed King Vyktor, had he raped her. Although as her husband, he would have had every right to.

“So…” Her eyes fill with questions again. “I still don’t understand something you said earlier. How could sex—how could it ever be bland ?” Her hand traces over my back, her fingers exploring the shape of my shoulder blades. “I can’t begin to even imagine that.”

She shifts, and my cock falls against her, turning rock hard on contact.

“The act can become routine,” I tell her. “If the man or woman—or both—are…disinterested.”

Her nose wrinkles, shifting her tiny pink freckles. “Disinterested, but still willing.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t imagine that.” Her hand traces my abdomen, and her gaze flicks down as if seeking my rod.

“Would you like to touch it?” I ask her.

Her eyes open wider. “Very much.” Her tiny pink tongue escapes her lush lips. “May I?”

I nod, and my cock pounds, even before her fingers make contact.

She shifts slightly to make more room between us, and I wrap one arm around her back, so she won’t fall off the cot. She looks down to study my stiff member, and then tentatively touches its tip.

I nearly buck us both off the cot.

“Oh.” She looks up at me. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I shake my head. “It’s very sensitive, that’s all. Especially at the tip. Especially after drilling so long in your luscious depths. The head of my rod is sensitive, much as you are very sensitive, here.” I flick her button and her pelvis twitches.

I press the hard nub, but then pull my hand away so she won’t get distracted. Her fingers slide lightly down my shaft, and I groan.

“My hand feels good,” she says without question in her voice. And then her small fingers continue to explore, tracing my veins and ridges, and driving me wild with desire.

“It’s softer than I expected,” she says, looking down at my hardness, still stroking me. “So soft for something that’s also so hard—so solid. And it’s warm. Almost hot.”

And it’s getting hotter by the second.

My life juices refill my stones, making me fear they’ll soon burst, and blood rushes into my cock. My cock’s harder than seems possible after being so well used already tonight. Sweat beads on my forehead as she continues to stroke me, and I struggle to contain my raging need.

Her touch becomes less tentative. Her hand glides up and down, the remnants of her juices and my own, acting as lubrication. My head snaps back, my teeth clenching so hard they’ll surely break.

“Too much,” I cry out. Then I shift my head to face her again.

Our gazes meet, and I nearly shoot my seed onto her belly and chest. It’s impossible to process everything I see in her eyes—contrasting innocence and wisdom; courage and uncertainty—and the raging lust she may not yet fully recognize in herself.

“Should I stop?” she asks.

Her grip has loosened; her touch is gentler. And for a moment, I have no idea how to answer, because if I’m honest, I never want her to stop.

“If you touch me much longer,” I say with as much control as I can muster, “my seed will shoot onto your body.”

“You have seed ?” Her hand stills, but her thumb strokes the hard ridge of my underside.

Gritting my teeth, I fight to contain myself as I nod.

She looks down again, then back up with renewed wonder in her eyes. “Is that your seed beading at the tip of your rod?”

“It is.”

“And there’s more of it inside?”

I nod again.

“Do you need to keep it contained?” she asks. “Is that why I should stop?”

Her fingers softly draw up my shaft, and suddenly I have no idea why I’ve been holding back.

“No, ma chérie. It is meant to come out. Keep touching me. Touch me however you want, and I’ll warn you when my seed is about to erupt.”

My breaths come heavier and heavier, as do hers, and I don’t even try to control my sounds as I groan and grunt under her touch.

“Grip me more tightly,” I instruct her, and she does, her small hand circling to cover more surface as it glides up and down my shaft. It’s as if she’s done this hundreds of times before, although I know that she hasn’t.

“Holy thrix, Rosomon. My eruption. It’s coming.”

She looks up into my eyes, just as my seed explodes, and when she feels it strike her body, she looks down. Her hand stalls for a moment, but then she continues to stroke me, and I shoot again, painting her skin. Spent, I reach down to remove her hand from my softening rod.

Thrix, if she doesn’t look even more beautiful painted in my juices, like she’s been marked forever as mine. I wish.

Her fingers trace through the thick fluid on her belly, then she lifts a finger to smell and then taste it. “Salty,” she declares.

“Earlier.” She tips her head to the side. “The other times…Did your seed shoot inside me?” Her eyes are unbelievably wide now.

I nod, and then slowly push myself up to sit. I reach for my chemise, quickly putting it on.

“Is it time for me to leave?” She slides to sit at the edge of the cot, clear disappointment in her eyes.

Standing, I cup her chin. “Not just yet, ma chérie. Your question has reminded me that I must give you some tea.”

“Tea?” Her nose wrinkles. “I don’t much enjoy tea.”

“It’s a very special type of tea. Courtesan’s tea.”

She grimaces. “Is that what I am now? A courtesan?” It’s clear that she knows the word’s negative connotations, even if she might not fully understand what it means.

“No. But the tea will ensure my seed doesn’t take root inside of you.”