Dragon Desire. Lisette Ashton
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his erection back and forth against her nether lips. It was a languid motion that had him torn between wanting to push into her and desperate to revel at the hand of her masterful taunting.
‘Do you want me?’ she asked.
‘You know I want you.’
‘Say it.’
‘I want you.’
Her fingers squeezed around him. She held him over the moist centre of her sex, her dewy lips lightly kissing the end of his length. ‘Say it as though you mean it,’ she insisted.
‘I want you,’ he repeated. He wasn’t sure how else he could say the words without sounding stupid.
‘Louder,’ she demanded.
‘I WANT YOU!’
At the same moment he cried out, she bucked her hips forward. There was one moment when it felt as though she was squeezing hard around him with a grip that was unbearably tight and painful. Then his length was filling her and her warm, sultry wetness sheathed his hardness as he pushed all the way into her moist and welcoming confines.
They cried out together.
It took Owain a tremendous effort not to release his climax into her with that first thrust. She was tight. She was simultaneously slippery and heated and he thought it was like having his erection caressed by the perfect embrace of an angel. His chest was pressed against her exposed breasts. Her lips were at his neck, whispering encouragement and telling him that his size was massive and impressive and unbearable and divine. And he wanted to savour the pleasure of simply allowing his length to pulse and thrust and pump into the haven of her dark confines.
But, more than that selfish impulse to simply take what he could from the experience, he wanted to make the rutting pleasurable for the woman beneath him.
Resisting the urge to give in to his climax he savoured the pleasure of having her appreciation made manifest in the words she poured into his ear. Resisting the urge to give in to his climax, Owain rode himself slowly back and forth and in and out of her wetness.
The redhead groaned.
It was a throaty moan of approval. It was a sound borne from absolute bliss.
He quickened his pace, relishing the sultry friction of her muscles clutching at him as he ploughed in and out. He maintained the same languid pace and discovered that she was raising and lowering her pelvis in an adopted rhythm that perfectly matched his.
Each time he pushed himself into her wetness, the redhead urged her hips upwards to meet the thrust of his penetration. She stroked at his nipples, pinching them lightly with the tips of her gaily painted nails. In retaliation, he trapped the buds of her nipples between the calloused knuckles of his fists.
As she raised one leg to encircle him, he found himself shifting a leg to get closer to her.
The change in position allowed him to slide deeper into her sex.
The fresh sensations had them both sighing in unison.
‘You’ve done this before,’ she laughed softly. Her words were carried by breathless grunts of approval. ‘You must be a guildsman in this art. Is that your profession, sire? Do they call you the Owain the fucker?’
He smiled at the idea of being known as Owain the fucker. The smile hardened to an expression of self-reproach when he realised he didn’t know her name. He had either never bothered learning what she was called, or, if she had told him her name, he had forgotten it in the urgent desire to get between her legs. It was not the first time he had ended up rutting with a woman whose name he did not know. But knowing that he had fallen into this habit repeatedly did not make Owain feel better about himself.
‘I’m not a guildsman between a woman’s thighs,’ he grumbled apologetically. ‘I just happen to be a gifted amateur.’
She reached behind him and clutched at his backside. ‘I’d say you were a very gifted amateur,’ she conceded. Pulling him deep into herself she rubbed her hips vigorously up and down until they were both gasping with the choking need for release.
When the thrill of his climax finally struck, Owain knew the release was only coming in defence against the rush of satisfaction that she was enjoying.
The redhead pressed and squeezed at his length with a furious grip from the inner muscles of her sex. Her fingernails raked at his backside as she clutched him in her embrace. Her body convulsed with paroxysms of animalistic satisfaction.
And Owain groaned as the pleasure was wrenched from his body.
His erection throbbed as it pumped his thick seed into her. Each pulse was powerful and driven by a vigorous force. The muscles at the base of his shaft clenched hard and tight with each spasm of his ejaculation. The force of the climax was so powerful it was almost painful.
Spent, Owain and the redhead collapsed together on the hay.
They lay side by side, basking in the aftermath of pure satisfaction that was being expelled from their bodies by exhausted sighs.
Behind them, from the confines of her cage, Drusilla purred with soft approval.
Owain could hear other sounds beyond the walls of the stable where they lay.
He could hear the conversations of those untroubled by the care of dragons, the falseness of circumstantial fealty or the need for vengeance. He could hear the sounds of guards in chain mail marching noisily around the castellum and he figured he was listening to the powerful presence of the castellan’s dark knights.
The castellan’s Order of Dark Knights were the heavily armed protectors of Blackheath. Their presence was imposing and, Owain knew, the dark knights of Blackheath were one of two reasons why High Laird Gethin ap Cadwallon was approaching this mission with diplomacy and tact rather than his usual application of brute force and ignorance. The other reason, Owain believed, had something to do with a mage in the castellan’s employ.
The redhead nuzzled against Owain’s chest. She placed a gentle kiss against his nipple and absently suckled against him. The familiarity was instantaneously warming and comforting. It was also wholly disheartening because she wasn’t Carys.
Even though the sex he had just enjoyed had been superlative, the redhead had not been Carys. The experience had been great for him. It had clearly been good for the redhead. At the back of his mind he suspected what he had just enjoyed would be galling for the man who had placed the ring on the redhead’s finger. But that wasn’t something he would think about. It was enough to acknowledge, even though the experience had been satisfying for the participants, it had not been an experience he was sharing with Carys.
He pulled himself away from the redhead’s kisses.
She didn’t seem to notice that his mood had swung toward impatience.
‘Are all the men in the West Ridings as well-equipped as you?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t lain with all of them,’ he said. ‘Are all the maids in Blackheath as welcoming as you?’
She considered the question and then nodded. ‘Yes, we are. Especially, it seems, once we’ve been able to stroke a dragon.’
He considered pulling on his hosen and trying to find where his sword and tunic had been discarded. A sliver of moonlight glanced against her bare breasts. Despite the suggestion of melancholy he had suffered a moment earlier, the need to experience the woman by his side again struck him with sudden and unexpected force.
‘Would you like to stroke my dragon again?’ he asked coyly.
She reached for his spent shaft. Her fingers slid against the slippery meld of her juices and his own spent climax as she teased him back to erection.
‘I’d rather stroke this until it was ready to fill me again,’ she said earnestly.
And that was all it took.
This time, when he entered her,