by Ruby Sirois
I adjust my knees for a better angle. And with one deep thrust I bottom out inside her, my cock kissing the mouth of her womb. I can’t hold myself back any longer. I need to let myself go.
She whimpers with need as my mating fist swells inside her with each stroke. Soon, it’s expanded enough so that even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to pull out.
We are joined, and nothing can part us.
—So incredible… I love how that feels. I’ll never get enough of your mating fist.
—My hoard. My mate. My wife. I’m yours, anytime. It’s yours, anytime.
My cock throbs inside her as the ridge of it catches on her pubic bone, rubbing against her spot in just the way she loves.
“Oh—ja, move just like that. Ragnarr, I love you so much. I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I’d love nothing more. I’ll do anything to make you happy,” I murmur, planting kisses along the column of her throat. Emelie shivers, hooking her ankles around my calves, urging me on. “You know that, don’t you, häxan min?”
She nods against me, gasps turning into moans with every stroke. I cup her soft, luscious ass and angle her hips just a bit more—there. I’ve found her perfect spot.
“And I’d marry you every day if it made you happy.” My breathing is harsh, my words broken up and punctuated by the thrusting of my cock. “Cherish you. Treasure you. Prove to you every day that you’re mine. My hoard. My love. My all.”
Her moaning is growing louder, and her hips rock up to meet mine. She gasps every time my mating fist finds resistance inside her, every time it grinds against her spot.
I know just what will give her the most pleasure—what brings us both the most pleasure. And I can’t help myself, couldn’t stop myself even if I’d wanted to—and I’m filling her with hoarding come with every stroke.
It feeds and nourishes and strengthens our bond like rain in a summer garden.
My thumb finds one coral nipple, flicks across it. My tongue matches the movement as I kiss her deeply. I fuck into her, relentless, determined to feel her fall apart for me first before I find my own release, before I break to pieces inside her.
—You’re going to come for me, häxan. You don’t have a choice. You’re going to squeeze my cock tight as you come, and I’ll follow you. When you lead the way, I’ll be right there. I’ll come with you.
She moans, nods against me.
—So beautiful. You’re a sex goddess in this gemstone set. And you know it, don’t you? You gorgeous little tease.
—It makes me come so hard. Feeling it, knowing you’re enjoying it just as much.
—I told you I’d drape you in jewels from head to toe. So luscious. I’d do anything for you, my sweet witch.
My fist inside her thickens. My dragon loves the thought of her clad only in jewels, and so do I.
Emelie cries out, her fingernails digging hard crescents into my skin. She’s so close now—her body is tense and trembling. I only have to give her a little push and she’ll fall over the edge for me. With me.
“Now,” I growl. I’m out of patience. “Come for me. Now.”
She tightens around my shaft, cries out—and explodes. Her pussy is so tight, so wet, and I follow on her heels. My hips buck as my orgasm tears through me like bolts of lightning—sharp, hot, intense. There is nothing between us but gemstones, our souls laid completely bare. We flicker between worlds—now in my lair, now in the hotel room, now in the mists of a world I don’t recognize or care to name in that moment.
I forget to breathe. My heart forgets to beat. We are caught in a split second of time which stretches out to the edges of eternity.
Our love is a tangible thing, larger than the two of us combined, something greater than the sum of its parts. It is the most intense magic I’ve ever felt. The most intense orgasm I’ve ever felt. And if we’d had the foresight to direct the tantric energies we’ve summoned, there would be no limit to the power we could raise from this love.
When at last we come back to ourselves, we’re both speechless, moved so deeply by the experience that words no longer have meaning.
My skin tingles, and I’m dizzy as I feel what she does, as she feels what I do—as if our souls are mingling at the edges, blurring the border between the two-ness of us, tying us yet more tightly together as one.
It is the strangest kind of synesthesia—one I wish with all my heart will never end.
And when we fall asleep, entangled in each others’ limbs, still joined together in all the ways that matter most, I send a heartfelt prayer of thanks up to all the gods who have granted me the love of this amazing woman.
My hoard. My mate.
My beautiful wife.
Mine.
9: Emelie
After an amazing week we’re back on the train, on our way home at last. The bunk is too small, uncomfortable. The pillow is the wrong softness and the sheets chafe my skin. After hours of tossing and turning, Ragnarr climbs down from his bunk and rummages through a bag.
“Did you remember to pack everything?”
I rub my eyes. “You’re asking me this now?”
Ragnarr makes a moue with his lips.
“Hmm. Good point. Well, I’ll have him shipped back.”
“Have who shipped back?”
“The julbock.”
I am horrified.
“You forgot to pack him?”
“We were going to ride him back, remember, but you thought the saddle was a bad fit.”
Ragnarr reaches into his pocket and shrugs.
“So don’t blame me. I brought you prinsesstårta, in case you get hungry. It’s from the pirates.”
He pulls it out of his pajamas pocket. It’s shaped like a heart and draped in pink marzipan. The topper is a tiny dragon.
I accept it and take a bite—but it doesn’t taste like anything. I take another bite, hoping for the best, chewing hard.
“Hmm,” I say at last. “Thanks for the thought, but… it’s not very good.”
One more bite, hoping it might taste better.
“Häxan?”
“What?”
“Why are you gnawing on the pillow?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m having fika.” A shake on my shoulder. “Stop that. Where’s the coffee? Don’t go back to that bakery, pirates are not good bakers. This is the driest prinsesstårta I’ve ever had.”
“Wake up.”
I open one eye. My pillow is as wet as my mouth is dry.
I rub my face with both hands, trying to hide the embarrassment I know is flaming on my cheeks.
“You were chewing on the pillow.”
“Was not.”
But he laughs kindly and wraps his arms around me.
And I remember we’re not on the train anymore. We’re back home after a seventeen-hour train ride, in Ragnarr’s luxurious silk-sheeted bed.
“I’m happy to order you a proper breakfast if that’s what you’re in the mood for.”
He reaches for his phone, but his voice voice is low and suggestive—and Ragnarr’s body feels so good against mine, so warm and hard in all the right places, that breakfast is the furthest thing from my mind. I’m pretty sure it’s the furthest thing from his as well.
“No,” I say, pulling him back to me.
Ragnarr slides his hands down the fullness of my curves. They cup my ass, and I remember another important thing: we’re both naked.
Nothing is between us—not even strings of sexually enchanted gemstones.
My nipples harden against his chest, emphasizing that thought.
“Maybe you’re the one who wants breakfast,” I say.
The sun is weak, but definitely up. It’s probably about nine o’clock.
“Only if you’re serving it up.”
He growls and rolls on top of me, and I let out a breath that sounds like a moan. He smiles, capturing my mouth for a kiss. I wriggle under him, wanting his body just so on top of mine.
Ragnarr obliges, adjust
ing himself, adjusting where his cock is against me. He nibbles at the skin of my throat, nips at my earlobe. I shiver with pleasure, tracing the tight, lean lines of his body with my fingertips.
“Are you going to eat me up?”
My voice is husky, still tinged with sleep and made darker by desire.
“I seem to remember something about never letting me go hungry, wife. So that’s becoming the plan, I fear.”
“Well, if the dragon demands his due…”
I try to be facetious, but the need in my tone gives me away.
He chuckles, his thickly accented voice dropping to a lower register.
“Oh, he most certainly does.”
Ragnarr’s head moves lower. His tongue finds the swell of my breast. Teases it. Traces it.
I gasp and dig my fingers into his hair when he draws my nipple into his mouth and sucks hard. I cry out, the diamond ring on my finger glittering in a beam of morning sunlight, shooting off bright sparks like burning ice. Like a love spell. Like a dream come true.
We don’t mention breakfast for a very long time.
Or even lunch, for that matter.
And I don’t mind a bit.
A Note from Ruby
Hej!
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(For fellow word nerds, that’s “hello” in Swedish—pronounced “Hey!”)
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I love staying connected with my fans.
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It would mean the world to me! Thank you!
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Vi hörs! (“Vee hursh!” Talk soon!)
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Love, Ruby
But Wait, There’s More!
Keep reading for two free chapters!
Here comes a steamy excerpt from the full-length novel
Landing Her Dragon,
second in the 4-book Nordic magical realism series,
Thor’s Sons Crave Curves, by Ruby Sirois. Coming 25 September 2020.
"★★★★★ FFO Paranormal, shifter, BBW audiences and people who like stories with a guaranteed happy ending ... Ragnarr's worship of Emelie's body is gloriously described, amazing!" —Cat, RedInkAndCoffee.com
Copyright
Landing Her Dragon, Thor’s Sons Crave Curves, #2
This book excerpt is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Copyright © 2020 Ruby Sirois
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Cover design, cover and interior illustration, book layout by Nighttime Birds Creative
Cover copyright © 2020 Nighttime Birds Creative
Praise for Ruby Sirois
Landing Her Dragon: Blurb
Every water dragon has a siren song, meant only for their mate. And his sings of her. To her.
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Forty-something witch and single mom Linnea Eklund’s nightmares have come back worse than ever after that horrific event in the forest with her coven—until one night a mysterious figure steps into her dreams and leads her to safety and calm.
Water dragon Aegir Thoringr is a gifted musician who swims through dreams as easily as the Baltic Sea. Long ago, an angry goddess cursed him, and ever since, Aegir has dedicated himself to his creative passions, fearing no woman would ever want him…
But since that night when flames painted the heavens crimson, Linnea loathes all dragons. Will she turn from the one being who can help her move on from her past?
Look what international beta readers had to say about Curvy and the Canid: A Wolf Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling:
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“Ruby Sirois truly is an artist! I don’t know how she creates such exquisitely unique characters and builds a world so beautiful.” —Palindrome, betareader.io
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“★★★★★ I really loved this story … it hit all the marks that I’d want in a curvy girl/shifter romance.” —Lynn Katzenmeyer, author of Bearly Camping
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“Magical … very well-written book. It has a mystical, dream-like feeling … I loved it.”—Dinara T.
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“★★★★★ FFO Paranormal Romance as well as well-researched Historical Romance. This is a fantastic novella, and I loved how Ruby Sirois wove realism and fantasy together. The sex was great … super-engaging and really hot :D Thumbs up!” —Begenia, betareader.io
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“★★★★★ I loved all of it. Really well done.” —Arellskan, betareader.io
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“★★★★½ As usual, Ruby's writing leaves me breathless … [Curvy and the Canid] shows her scope and range as a writer. The story is unusual, obviously a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, but with a modern twist. I love the way Ruby insinuates magic and myth into her stories in such a matter-of-fact way that you just accept that these things are possible. It's a well-paced, well-written, well-plotted magical book … and it is sexy. Ruby writes so well that I wish she lived in my city so I could meet with her to discuss writing—I think it would make me a better writer.” —Ivy M. Bazley, betareader.io
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“★★★★★ Ruby's writing is fresh and crisp. She has a light, airy voice. Readers will want to cuddle up with this story. First in the [Nordic paranormal romance] genre … sweet, steamy … left me satisfied and happy!” —Mary H.
Linnea
I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or awake. The nightmares have come back after all these years, come back with a fury after that horrible night with the fucking dragon and his fire—but this is the first time with the water. With the music. With him.
My throat is tight, as if I’ve been screaming, or inhaling smoke. There is cold sweat, slick and oily, on my face. The lingering scent of my own fear is acrid, animalistic in my nostrils, like a caged mammal. My body is trembling, and it’s difficult to breathe. It’s both too hot and too cold, and my hands and feet are clammy.
I blink hard, trying to erase the traces of the dream still in my vision, desperate to know which side of the divide I’m on. I’m drowning in the murky waters of my dreams, unable to tell which way is up. I clutch at the rumpled bedclothes, as if they will lift me to the surface and away from the horrors like a lifejacket. The flavor of panic is still in my mouth and it is bitter, so bitter.
But one thing remains clear in my mind’s eye—the outline of him. A cool, calm presence, fresh as spring rain. He made me feel so safe back there, wrapped in the mist of dream—but now, in the stillness of my bedroom, I am disquieted.
I could not see his face, but his voice—no, his song… it still echoes in my mind, and if I hold my breath, I can almost make out the notes even now. A fluid melody, criss-crossed with odd harmonies; haunting, sorrowful, unearthly beautiful. Angels weeping in jubilation. A siren song luring sailors either to their doom, or their salvation—I don’t know which.
It is full of a poignant longing which pulls at the parts of me I’d thought long dead and put aside as the follies of youth. I struggle to remember it, sensing its importance, desperate not to let it go—but the words of the melody are already lost. Moments later, the melody is as well.
The night air is damp and
cool, scented with pine and early spring flowers. Clean Nordic seawater, dyed rich umber by iron deposits, laps gently at the rocky shore. Starlight glitters down at me, as bright and sharp as diamonds on velvet. Most birds have not yet awoken, but they will be up soon. Only one calls into the night, its lonely voice echoing, eerie, across the still waters of the island-dotted archipelago. I cross the newly-trimmed lawn down to the water’s edge, the dew icy on my toes, hugging myself tightly in my favorite fluffy bathrobe as I go. Moonlight ripples across the water, glowing as if it’s emanating from the depths down below.
Worn boards of the little pier creak and groan beneath my bare feet. I haven’t bothered to tie back my chin-length blonde hair, only tucking it behind my ears with both hands because the air is peculiarly still. I drop my bathrobe in a heap on the weathered wood, adjust the ties on my bikini bottom, enjoy the night air kissing my bare skin… and dive.
The shock of cold water brings me out of my head, out of the wisps of lingering nightmare, and fully into my body. This is what I wanted, what I needed. What saves me from myself every time. It is my balm, my succor.
Shivering hard, I take stroke after stroke, concentrating on the play of the muscles in my shoulders, of my back, the kicking of my legs. The pant of my breath, loud in the quiet night, timed to my body’s movements like a machine. My only focus is to warm myself against the sharp rush of cold Baltic water flowing over me. To bring myself completely out of the nightmares, out of my head, and into the present. Into my body.
