Marked By Fire (Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society Book 2)

by Meg Ripley

  I dip down to her neck, kissing the spot where I can feel her pulse fluttering, and give her tits a quick, firm squeeze. Nora gasps, arching into my touch, and I have to decide whether or not to go ahead. She’s just been attacked, and she said something about not wanting to date anyone for six months. We’re not that different, I think, coming back up to her lips to kiss her once more. I can feel my cock starting to get hard, and I know I need to make a decision—should I try and press forward, or should I back off?

  “Are you okay with this?” I pull back and look into Nora’s eyes. She’s dazed-looking and furrows her brow in confusion.

  I try and think of the words in English—obviously, she’s had a lot to drink, but I can tell she wants me. “I...continue?”

  I let my hand slide down to her hip to give her an even better idea of what I mean. Please say yes. She says something—it isn’t yes or no. “Encore?” Again?

  “I’m not sure,” she says, in French this time, and I know I can’t push forward. She’s too drunk and too vulnerable; even if she’s totally hot for me, I can’t make myself do it. If she’s not sure, I’m not going to press her.

  I start to pull away more fully, but Nora grabs at my shoulders. “What?” I look down at her in confusion.

  “Do you think…” she takes a breath and I see her eyes moving, as she considers how to say what she wants to say. “Do you think you could stay the night?”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell her. Nora looks irritable for a moment and I see her mouthing words soundlessly.

  “Would you like to stay here, but not have sex?” she presses her lips together, looking up at me with such hope and such worry in her eyes that I take a few seconds to parse through what she might mean.

  “I can do that,” I tell her, leaning in to kiss her on the lips again, just for a second.

  Nora teeters slightly in my arms and smiles. “I think that I’m too...what’s the word?”

  “Drunk?”

  Nora considers that, and nods. “I think that I’m too drunk to decide to have sex with you,” she says. “But I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I understand,” I say, brushing my lips against her forehead. She takes me by the hand and leads me through the kitchen, past the living room, and towards the bedroom of the apartment.

  When she turns the light on, the bed looks a little small to me; I think I might just barely fit on it. Nora totters slightly as she pads over to the bed, and I try to keep myself from reaching out to grab her.

  Nora starts taking her clothes off, and I wonder if she’s rethinking the issue of having sex with me. For a few seconds, I definitely have some real trouble keeping my resolution not to push forward with her as her bra comes off underneath her tee shirt, and I see her unrestrained tits against the fabric and the almost see-through lace of her panties, but then she turns to look at me.

  “You...sleep in all your clothes?”

  I give myself a shake and take off my jacket, kick off my shoes, and start on my jeans. Normally, I sleep naked, but I’m pretty sure that will be too much for Nora. I pull my feet free from my jeans and haul my tee shirt over my head. When I’m done, I can feel Nora staring at me, and I look around to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide.

  “Something wrong?”

  She blinks and then shakes her head, smiling at me shyly. “You have so many…tattoos. They’re beautiful.”

  I laugh and cross the room to the bed. “I’m a tattoo artist,” I tell her.

  “Ahh, I see,” Nora says.

  I lean down, and I can’t help myself; she looks so delicious. I kiss her lightly on the lips and then we’re moving onto the bed together, and I try to hold myself back but it’s so hard; my cock is throbbing in my shorts, and all I can think is that the tiny bed would force us to get creative with the positions.

  Finally, I make myself pull back, and I climb out of the bed. “I’ll turn off the light and we can get some sleep,” I say quickly.

  “What?”

  I repeat myself more slowly.

  “Oh! Yes, okay,” she mumbles, laying back on the bed.

  I shut off the light and find my way to the bed where she’s waiting. Nora cuddles up close to me, which just makes it that much harder for me to relax, but as I breathe in the smell of her and feel her fall asleep cradled in my arms, I finally begin to unwind.

  After a few minutes, I’m fast asleep.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Nora

  When I wake up, wrapped in Jacques’ huge arms with my cheek pressed to his chest, the throbbing in my head is actually the least of my concerns. The crazy turn things took last night after the guy attacked me in my doorway comes back to me in a flash. Not only had Jacques been there to defend me with perfect timing, but when he kissed me, he’d backed off and actually asked if I wanted to keep going. Even on his best days, Ethan never asked.

  Jacques shifts in the bed, and the feeling of his hard, muscular body pressed up against mine is so appealing, that it’s making me more than a little aroused. The sight of his tattoo-decked chest, ribs and arms from the night before had shocked me, and as Jacques started waking up, I saw them again: a few words in French, detailed scrollwork, and motifs that I could recognize from ancient art. He was like a living canvas, and I longed to pore over every detail.

  “T’es réveillée?” Are you awake? he whispers.

  I blink, remembering after the fact that Jacques doesn’t really speak English. “Oui,” I confirm.

  Jacques’ big, strong hands start to move on me, and I shiver at how good he feels. I can remember—in a vague, blurry way—how they felt the night before, pawing at my breasts and drifting down to my hips. I pull myself up and kiss him hungrily, and instinctively, I’m on top of him.

  Any hesitation I might have felt the night before is completely gone now.

  I feel his hands slip up under my tee shirt, and his fingers begin twisting and rolling my nipples, sending little jolts of sensation straight to my pussy.

  “Tu l’aimes?” You like that?

  Jacques breaks away from my lips to nibble along the column of my throat, and I say the first word that comes to mind.

  “Oui.” Yes.

  I straddle his lean hips and I can feel the ridge of his erection in his boxers. It feels enormous, but surely, that’s just my imagination—or maybe some wishful thinking. I rub up against him, and Jacques moans against my neck, his fingers squeezing my nipples a little tighter, his hands kneading my breasts in a way I never would have thought I would like—until that moment.

  Jacques pulls my tee shirt up over my head, and a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes my lips. I’m so wet already, so turned on, and it’s only been a few moments since we both woke up.

  “C’est bon de faire l’amour à la réveil,” Jacques murmurs against my lips, and then something else that I can’t quite make myself translate. It’s good to make love when you wake up.

  I have to say, I can’t agree more.

  “Oui, c’est—c’est bon,” I murmur. Yes, it’s good. Jacques nips sharply at my neck and I cry out; it feels so good, so strangely right. He pushes his hips up against me, and I’m getting wetter and wetter by the moment. We stay like that for what seems like an hour, pawing, touching and rubbing against each other until I almost can’t stand it. I’ve never just made out this long with anyone—not even Ethan, who always seemed to want to get right to the main event.

  Jacques tumbled me around onto my back, and I looked up at him in surprise. “Tu aimes le cuni?” I blink in confusion—I can make the first part of the sentence out, but definitely not the second part.

  “Quoi?” What? Jacques reaches down between my legs and begins to stroke me through my thin panties.

  “Le cuni?” Jacques looks at me and flicks his tongue, then raises an eyebrow and rubs me more firmly. When I’m still confused, a look of concentration comes over his face. “How you say… ‘eat out’?” I’m not sure what shocks
me more: the sound of Jacques saying “eat out” in his thick French accent, or the fact that he’s apparently asking me if I like being gone down on.

  “Oui—oui, je l’adore,” I reply, blushing at the question itself. Yes, I love it. Ethan only ever went down on me maybe three times in our entire relationship, but of course, the asshole expected me to blow him whenever I was on my period and he wanted sex, or whenever he was ‘stressed out’ and ‘didn’t feel like going to all the trouble and fuss’ of actually having sex with me.

  Jacques hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulls them down over my hips, along my legs, and I shiver at the slightly cooler air hitting my drenched, soaking wet pussy.

  “Mmm,” Jacques murmurs, licking his lips and looking up at me. “Je pense que tu auras un minou delicieux.”

  Once more, the first part of the sentence is fairly easy for me to translate: I think you’ll have…and the last word, that I know.

  Jacques slides his fingertip along my wetness and brings it up to his mouth, licking my fluids from his finger as he grins. “Ah ouais, j’avais raison.” I was right, he says.

  I blink and finally figure out what he was telling me before: that my pussy would be delicious. I figure it out just in time for Jacques to bury his face between my legs, and then I can’t figure anything out; his tongue against my inner folds, barely brushing against my clit, makes it impossible for me to even consider ever translating anything else in my life. He pins my hips and thighs down on the bed and worships me with his lips and tongue, sucking and licking me as if he’s ravenously hungry. I grab at his head, at his broad, strong shoulders, gasping and panting and crying out; it feels so good, so absolutely amazing that I can’t do anything but give into it, my hips moving and bucking, riding Jacques’ face.

  I cry out as Jacques teases me with his lips and tongue, bringing me to the edge of climax over and over again. He plunges his tongue deep inside of me, eating me like I’m some kind of overripe peach, and his arms pin me down more firmly as I lose any ability to hold myself back. I writhe and twist and Jacques’ tongue flutters against my clit until I hit my peak, moaning out nonsense in English and French alike.

  Jacques keeps going at me, riding through my orgasm, only slowing down when the spasms start to ease. He pulls back, leaving me panting and gasping for breath, and I see him lick his lips clean, grinning with satisfaction.

  “C’était bon? Tu l’as aimé?”

  I nod, somehow knowing and not knowing at the same time what he was asking. He slithers up along my body and kisses me again, and I can feel the weight and heat of his erection against my hip, the hardness of him.

  “Si tu...attends...pour quelques instants, je pourrais t’aider,” I manage to say, reaching down to brush my fingers against the bulge at the front of his boxers. If you wait for a little bit, I could help you. It’s such a clunky way to say it, but I can only hope that Jacques understands what I mean.

  “J’ai envie de te prendre en levrette,” he murmurs, and I try to think of what the last word of the sentence could mean. I want to take you…

  “En levrette?”

  Jacques nods and kisses me again, one hand sliding up between my legs. He begins to stroke me lightly, but even that’s almost too much, with my clit still so sensitive. He kisses me again and slowly maneuvers me onto my front, pulling my hips back to him.

  “En levrette.”

  Oh! I nod to show him I understand.

  I look over my shoulder and Jacques grins at me, enjoying the view of me on all fours in front of him as he pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free and all I can do for a second is stare. It’s bigger than Ethan’s, thick and already slick with precum. I almost wish I could turn around, explain to him that I want to taste it, but my head is far too distracted to think of the words.

  The bed creaks as he shifts his weight, one hand moving to my hip, the other stroking his erection, and I bite my bottom lip, closing my eyes to steel myself against the sheer size of him.

  Jacques rubs the tip of his cock along my entrance, and I moan softly, hungry for the feeling of him inside of me. He murmurs something I can’t quite make out and then he’s sliding into me, filling me up inch by inch, pushing past the resistance of my body. I moan out, shivering with pure ecstasy as I take him deeper.

  Jacques’ cock is so hot, so thick inside of me, it’s almost—for just a few heartbeats—uncomfortable, but I’m so wet from everything he’s done to me that I can take him easily. I push my hips back and Jacques thrusts deeper into me, groaning. He reaches around to my chest and I cry out as Jacques finds one of my nipples, twisting and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

  I fall into his rhythm, pushing back to meet his thrusts, lost in the pleasure. All I care about is telling Jacques how good he feels, how much I want him, but I can’t tell when I’m speaking English and speaking French, and all I can make out about what he’s saying to me is how good I am, how tight I am. I grab onto the pillows in front of me and push back harder, crying out as Jacques nibbles at my shoulder, at the back of my neck, as his hands hold me exactly where he wants me and pounds into me harder and faster.

  I press my face against the pillows, shaking from how good it feels, and I can feel Jacques’ cock beginning to twitch inside of me as he gets closer to his orgasm. I try to hold back; after all, I’m one ahead already, but I can’t after a few minutes. I hit my second climax, moaning and crying out in pleasure, and only a few moments later, I feel Jacques tense against me, feel his hips slam against my ass as he reaches his peak, buried deep inside of me. He holds onto me as he slams into me a few more hard, fast thrusts, and then we’re both collapsing onto the bed; the weight of his heavier body against mine feels absolutely perfect.

  I doze off with Jacques on top of me, and I’m grinning in spite of the fact I’d made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t get involved with any guys for at least six months.

  If I’d known that French guys were like this… I smile to myself and drift off.

  Chapter NINE

  Jacques

  “I told you, we’re not dating. We’re just fuck buddies,” I tell Julienne as I’m cleaning up my station after working on the first client of the day.

  “You owe me five-hundred,” she says, following me as I go to the back for more of the antiseptic spray.

  “I do not,” I insist. It’s been about a week since Nora and I first hooked up, and we’d gotten together—at her place or mine—three more times since then. It definitely helps that we can see each other across the alley. I grin a bit to myself, remembering the last time we banged: I’d made one paper airplane after another and thrown them across the little alley into her apartment until she’d looked up and laughed; then, one thing led to another.

  “You like her,” Julienne says. “You like her a lot.”

  “She’s nice,” I say with a shrug. “And we like a lot of the same stuff on Netflix.”

  Christophe decides to chime in. “Is she kinky?”

  “Fuck you, Christophe!” Ever since word got out that I’d had sex with Nora, he’s been trying to get details, like whether she was open to being shared. I didn’t even have to ask her to know she wouldn’t like the idea of me just passing her off to another guy, and I didn’t like the idea either. We aren’t technically exclusively, but I don’t share my women and I’ll be damned if I start now.

  “Be careful she doesn’t run afoul of Crazy Hélène,” Julienne says as she restocks the business cards up front by the register.

  “Hélène isn’t going to be a problem,” I say. “She’s focused on Pascal right now.”

  Hélène is one of the band’s fans, and to say she’s crazy is a bit of an understatement. She’s tried to convince each one of us in turn to start things up with her, but we all know better, even me. I wouldn’t touch her if she were the last chick on Earth.

  “As soon as she sees you’re involved with someone, she’s going to be right on you again,” Julienne s
ays.

  “She’s got Pascal,” I insist. “Christophe, maybe you should join the band; play tambourine or some shit. That way she’ll fixate on you, and you can both get laid.”

  Christophe snorts. “I’d rather put my dick in a bear trap than in that crazy bitch.”

  “It wouldn’t be all that different,” Julienne points out. “I heard she poked holes in the condoms of the last dude she was with.”

  “All the more reason not to get involved with her,” Christophe says. “If she does that kind of shit, then she’s liable to have some kind of disease.”

  I shudder.

  “Well, I’m not worried about her,” I say. “Besides, Nora isn’t even coming to the show tomorrow.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” Christophe asks, furrowing his brow.

  “I don’t know. It didn’t really come up.”

  “Oh, come on, you know you want her to be there,” Julienne says.

  “It’s not like she’s my girlfriend, Boss,” I tell her.

  “Think about it: after the show, she’ll be all hot and bothered from seeing you playing onstage, and then you can talk her into anything you want,” Christophe says.

  I’m about to lay into him, but before I can, the chime for the door rings and I look up, expecting to see one of our next clients coming in; instead, it’s Nora. She’s in a pair of leggings and a long shirt, and for a second, all I can think about is how good it would be to peel those pants right off her.

  “Hey! What brings you here?” I smile ear to ear.

  Nora looks at Christophe and Julienne and then at me again.

  “I—I think that I want to get a tattoo,” Nora says, stumbling a bit over the words. But after a week of watching French TV, talking in bed the times we’ve ended up sleeping together, and just being surrounded by it, her French is coming to her a lot faster.