by Lacey Savage
Silvana bolted upright in bed. The remnants of the dream dematerialized like smoke in the breeze. She stifled a sob and pressed a hand to her lips.
The other, she shoved between her thighs. The cotton fabric of her pajamas was soaked through at the seam, and the pungent scent of her juices filled her bedroom. She rocked against her hand, tempering the aftershocks of orgasm and rubbing her well-sated clit with the heel of her palm in distracted little circles.
"Rafael,” Silvana murmured, giving her lower lip a smooth stroke with her thumb just as he'd done. She could imagine his soft, gentle touch as vividly as though he was in the room. It felt like he'd imprinted himself on her skin. Or maybe on her psyche.
At least her mystery man now had a name, for all the good it would do her. He wasn't real. None of what she'd just experienced had been real.
"Rafael,” she repeated, finding she liked the way his name rolled from her tongue. Exotic. Rich and delectable, like the man himself.
She shivered violently as a swift early morning breeze flew in through her open window and began to dry her moist skin. Her entire body shuddered at the memory of all those wanton hands, all those thick, fabulous cocks.
But when she tried to recall specific faces or features, she could only bring to mind one man.
"Rafael.” The sound of her own voice gave her strength, and she clung to that small comfort. This was the physical world, and in her apartment, she was the one in charge. “If I ever find out you're real, you son of a bitch, I'll ... I'll..."
She paused, suddenly feeling foolish. Frankly, she didn't know what she'd do, because he wasn't real.
But on the microscopic chance that he was, she'd think of something. Something at least as cruel as the torture he inflicted upon her every night.
And if he was very lucky, maybe just as pleasurable too.
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Chapter Two
By ten a.m. the next morning, Silvana felt like she'd crawled out of her own grave. Which wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been a vampire, but for a dragon, it was worse than being shot with a dozen arrows. She knew, because only a couple of centuries earlier she'd had to perform some nifty mid-air maneuvering to avoid a volley of projectiles sent her way by a mob of angry villagers. Given the choice, she'd subject her tough hide to steel-tipped arrows any day over this utter, bone-melting exhaustion.
Her feet felt leaden, her eyelids drifted shut of their own accord, and her hands trembled each time she reached for anything resembling chocolate.
Chocolate glaze, chocolate fondant, chocolate truffles ... every delectable item made her think of rippling dark skin, sinewy muscles, and eyes as black as sin.
"Hey, lady! I ordered that éclair two minutes ago! New York traffic moves faster than this. What's wrong with ya?"
Silvana pivoted sharply, nearly twisting her ankle in the process. The tray of cinnamon buns that perched precariously on one outstretched hand wobbled, threatening to topple over. Her free hand shot out just in time to catch it from falling.
She'd reacted on instinct alone, forgetting she hadn't bothered to put on a second oven mitt before retrieving the precious pastries from the hot oven. Pain, molten hot and laden with a million pinpricks, shot through her palm.
She yelped and hurled the tray toward a nearby counter, where it landed with a loud metal thud, skidded across the slick surface, and toppled into a carton of milk. The carton overturned instantly, spilling its contents into a basket of steaming fresh baguettes she'd placed there temporarily while she dealt with the morning rush.
Nerves revved up to the max and agony flaring into a mini atomic explosion up her arm, Silvana whirled on the customer behind the counter. About a head shorter than she was, the man wore a tight leather jacket and had obviously used about half a bottle of hair gel in a feeble attempt to hide a bald spot.
"You want an éclair?” She shoved the oven mitt clad hand in the glass display and struggled to grab a fluffy pastry between thumb and mitt. She couldn't feel the delicate shell very well, and ended up squeezing it too tightly, which caused the pastry to burst. Creamy yellow filling oozed down her mitten.
She slapped her gooey hand on the guy's leather jacket, and wiped it down the middle of his shirt. “One éclair, on the house."
"You fuckin’ mental, lady?” The man took a step back, his eyes wild and unfocused. “I'll sue! I'll have you arrested! I'll call the fuckin’ cops on your crazy ass!"
With the numb tips of her fingers, Silvana yanked off the dirty mitten and tossed it at him. It bounced off the shiny top of his gelled head, leaving a ball of yellow cream to smear down his cheek. “Do what you gotta do. In the meantime, get the fuck out of my shop!"
The man stumbled toward the exit, a stream of obscenities drifting in his wake.
Silvana struggled to ignore him and bring her blood pressure down to normal levels. At the moment, it hovered somewhere close to nuclear.
Gritting her teeth and pasting a tight smile onto her face, she turned to her sole remaining customer, a little old lady with purple hair who stood plastered against the far end of the glass counter.
"And what can I get you?"
"N-nothing. I was ... j-just look ... look—looking,” the woman stammered before grabbing her walker and hobbling toward the exit.
Silvana cupped her burnt hand in the other and watched her go. It took the old lady close to a minute to cross the eight feet to the exit. She was nearly out the door when the phone rang.
"What?” Silvana barked into the receiver.
"I told Paul Miller all about you. He's coming to dinner tonight."
Silvana leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and smacked her head against the brick as hard as she could without passing out. “Ma! I told you I didn't want to be set up again. Do you remember Colin Jackson? Or Stan Flint? Or Wesley ... whatever his name was?"
Dana McCurdy tsked into the phone, and the sound echoed down the line reverberating like a mix between a sibilant hiss and a motherly sigh of displeasure. “What will it hurt? He's such a nice dragon. Owns his own firm, you know."
"Ma!” Silvana rubbed the bridge of her nose. The headache that had been building behind her eyes now hammered the spot just below her eyebrows, threatening to melt her eyeballs until they leaked down her cheeks. “I own my own company too. I don't need a male of any species to take care of me."
"Oh, shush. He owns a real firm. An accounting firm, like a decent dragon who still respects his tradition and cares about accumulating wealth should. Not a pastry shop in SoHo."
"There's nothing wrong with owning a pastry shop in SoHo,” Silvana heard herself say. But as her gaze flew across the store and encountered only empty space where customers should be, she knew she couldn't handle having this argument again.
Not now, when the Burnt Toast pastry shop was so close to falling into financial ruin and bringing Silvana, and her dreams, with it. “I gotta go, Ma.” She lifted the phone from her ear.
"You are coming to dinner tonight, right?"
She sighed, stared at the plastic receiver, and finally mumbled, “I'll be there,” before hanging up.
What was she supposed to do? Her family meant well. She knew that. And no matter how insufferable her mother became, Silvana understood that the mama dragon loved her daughters—all eighteen of them.
As the youngest, though, Silvana had always benefited from Dana's smothering brand of love more than anyone else. And as the only daughter who still lived in New York, she felt responsible for her aging parents. They wouldn't live forever.
Already, their one thousand, four hundred and twenty years were starting to show. Their scales weren't quite as glossy as they used to be. Their teeth not as sharp. But they still knew how to hoard treasure, which, according to Dana, was the only thing that mattered.
Another skill Silvana had never mastered. She squandered every penny that fell through her fingers. She'd barely graduated from culinary school, but while there, she'd le
arned she had a real passion for dessert. So she'd taken what little money she'd managed to save on her own and opened Burnt Toast.
Baking, she could handle. It wasn't easy, and she tossed out more raw ingredients than ended up going in the finished baked goods, but she could manage it.
Customer service, on the other hand, was a skill that clearly eluded her. The éclair asshole should thank his lucky stars she chose to throw an oven-mitt at him instead of burning him to a crisp like she'd have done in the Middle Ages.
Damn technology, forensics, and all the other crap that came with living in the twentieth century. She missed pitchforks and good, old-fashioned burnings.
Blood roared in her ears. Her temples throbbed, and her palm twitched in agony. She stared at the angry pink welt that spread from the middle knuckle all the way down to the heel of her palm. With a sigh, she ran the burn under cold water until some of the pangs of torment receded, then wrapped a bandage around her hand and turned off the ovens.
She didn't bother to remove the half-baked pastries. Whatever was in there would keep, and if they didn't, well, what was one more ruined batch in the scheme of things? She, on the other hand, was about ready to keel over.
What she really needed was eight hours of pure, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. She'd been exhausted before, but her dream lover had always allowed her a few hours of rest before morning. Last night, she hadn't been able to fall asleep after waking up screaming his name.
Silvana cradled her burnt hand in front of her as she locked up the shop. Damn her human disguise and its stupid failings. In dragon form, she had natural heat resistance. In this fleshy, pudgy body, she was a walking disaster.
She tugged on the lock, making sure it was secured properly around the bars, then turned her head in time to see the éclair jerk and two uniformed policemen heading in his direction.
The guy pointed at her, and the cops took off at a sprint.
Silvana swore under her breath and broke into a run in the opposite direction. The subway station was just two blocks away. She could make it.
She elbowed her way through early-morning New York street traffic, nearly stumbling over a stroller a woman shoved in her path, then picked up the pace as she turned the corner toward the underground station. It wasn't until she'd swiped her Metrocard at the turnstile and stood on the platform, watching the train barreling toward her, that she allowed herself to relax a fraction.
By the time she climbed onto a subway car, found a seat at the back, and watched the doors hiss closed, her heart rate had managed to return to normal.
That bit of comfort lasted for about two point four seconds, right up until she tore her gaze from the doors and the platform beyond and glanced to the row of seats across from her.
There, reading the morning's edition of the New York Times like it was the most natural thing in the world, sat the man who was at least partly to blame for what had turned out to be a very bad day.
Silvana stood, wobbling slightly on shaky legs as the train lurched into high speed, and grabbed a nearby handrail.
"Rafael!” she shouted, loud enough for her sister in Montana to hear. “You son of a bitch."
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Chapter Three
Rafael Tavarez was good at pissing off women. At least that's what his mother, six sisters, and ex-wife had all told him at one time or another.
Most of the time, though, he knew what he'd done to earn a tongue-lashing or a flying plate directed at his head. This morning, he had no clue.
To make matters worse, his head pounded like some part of his brain wanted to break through his skull and crawl to safety. His eyes felt swollen, tender, and judging by the dark shadows he'd glimpsed in the bathroom mirror when he'd briefly considered shaving before deciding he'd probably slit his throat in the process, his sleep had been anything but restful.
Again.
All that despite hitting the pillow at nine p.m. and snoozing right through the alarm. Now he was late for work.
Again.
The dreams, nightmares or blackouts—whatever they were—had gotten worse. These days, he sported a permanent, painful hard-on, and his body showed signs of having been ... used. Over the past three weeks, he'd woken up with bruises and tiny welts he could only describe as love bites. Last night, he'd been gifted with a lovely split lip.
He'd have passed out the moment the train had pulled away from the station if he hadn't been afraid of doing ... well, whatever it was he did at night. So he'd focused on today's crossword, until the angry woman across the way decided to scream at him and worsen the pounding in his head.
"Listen, lady,” he said, not looking up. “I don't know who you think I am or what you figure I've done to you, but—"
"But nothing! I want you to stay away from me, y'hear?"
Rafael sighed and raised an eyebrow at the man sitting beside him, who chuckled.
"Women, right?” the guy said.
Rafael grimaced. “Yeah. Right.” Ever since peaceful slumber became a thing of the past, women had been the last thing on his mind. All right, so that wasn't entirely true. His cock—and the rest of his body—craved release, but he'd had no time or inclination to approach anyone. Much less crazy women on trains.
His gaze darted back to the crossword puzzle. Five letter word for bizarre. My life? No. That's six letters. He had a brief glimpse of long legs encased in tight jeans coming straight for him before a slender, feminine hand yanked the paper off his lap.
The woman bunched up the newspaper, and tossed it on the floor of the train before stabbing the tip of a finger into Rafael's chest. “I bet you think this is funny, don't you? Some colossal cosmic joke."
Such a lovely hand. Smooth, porcelain-pale skin, neatly trimmed nails. If not for the bandage wrapped around the heel of the palm, he'd have thought it flawless.
He could think of all kinds of uses for that hand. It would feel wonderful stroking his cock, fingers dipping beneath his balls to tickle the sensitive skin while she flicked her fingernails along the taut strip of flesh leading to his ass.
A wave of dizziness slammed into his head as his cock jerked forward in sudden agreement. God, what was wrong with him? His thoughts never ran off on tangents about unknown women with beautiful hands, especially if those women also happened to be yelling at him at the time.
It had to be the lack of quality sleep that was messing with his good sense. This had gone on long enough. He'd take the day off work and go see a doctor, one who'd prescribe medication. A handful of pills would knock him right out, and keep him from doing whatever crazy things he did when he should have been asleep, like normal people.
At the end of his rope, last night he'd even cuffed himself to the headboard of his bed. In the morning he'd felt like a fool, his arms had ached, yet he still didn't feel any more rested than he had before hitting the sack. Obviously, sleepwalking wasn't his problem. So what was?
"I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said at last. With the paper gone, he couldn't formulate another good reason to keep from looking at her.
Which meant he had to pull his scattered, horny thoughts together long enough to carry through a conversation. One that would, hopefully, not end up with her sexy little fingernails scraping skin off his face.
Rafael pasted the most sincere smile he could summon onto his features and looked up. “I assure you, this is all a big misunder—"
He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence because the moment their eyes met, recognition slammed a fist into his gut. He gaped like a fish out of water. Someone had sucked all the air out of the train.
Images flashed across his field of vision, each more erotic than the last. This woman, on her back, knees splayed open while he feasted on her ripe, dewy pussy. Her again, braced against a wall while his cock slid in and out of her and a long line of men waited their turn. The pictures came in rapid succession now. In one, she knelt before him. In another, she hung over the edge of
a giant Jacuzzi, holding her ass cheeks open for his intimate inspection.
And finally, he saw her strapped to a table before a flood of harsh neon light, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as her body quaked under the strain of sudden release.
Rafael's heart squeezed. He sucked in a painful breath between clenched teeth as raw need pounded through his veins. He remembered watching her, wishing he could be the only one to touch, taste, and delight in her delectable body. He could vividly recall the way her eyes glistened, moist with tears. He'd kissed her then, and she'd ... she'd—
His hand flew to his aching lip. “It was you.” He bolted upright and grabbed her upper arms, pulling her to him. “What's happening to me? What did you do?"
The moment he touched her, he knew he'd made a mistake. The imprint of her feminine shape against his body filled him with raw lust so hot it bordered on incendiary. His nostrils flared at the scent of her. Cinnamon and fresh baked bread. His cock juiced at the first whiff, swelled to near bursting and pressed against his zipper.
Rafael gritted his teeth. God, if he'd known the aroma of baked goods would have made him harder than a steel rod, he'd have spent more time in pastry shops.
But no, it wasn't just the smell of bread. It was the woman herself, the combination of innocent red curls and full cheeks contrasted against breasts to die for and wide, sexy hips. The woman was a walking contradiction. A smoldering vixen in disguise.
He leaned closer, powerless to stop the rush of heat tightening his groin. He desperately wanted to kiss her again, to bring a vague memory into sumptuous reality.
"Let me go,” she whispered.
"Never,” he murmured, and at that moment he knew he meant that simple word more than he'd ever meant anything in his entire life.
With his lips mere inches away from hers, the woman's light blue eyes widened. Heat rushed into her heart-shaped face, painting twin streaks of deep red blush across both cheeks. The skin of her arms started to burn like he'd dipped his hands in a blazing flame.
