Desired by the Dragon

by Isadora Montrose

  She nodded. “Will I be warm enough?” She eyed his cock speculatively.

  “Maybe a windbreaker?” He didn’t want his bride to take a chill. “But once the sun is up, it’s going to be a scorcher.”

  He had been shifting for years. He was fast and efficient. But huge. Particularly compared to his diminutive Moira. “Stand well back, and remember, that while I would never hurt you, my tail dart is venomous.”

  “O-o-o-kay.”

  On all fours he let his dragon take over. He knew what he looked like since he had been told by his family. He was as exceptionally large in dragon, as he was as a man. Probably over twenty-six feet long with a matching wingspan. His scales were black edged with gold. His tail dart, curved horns and talons were deep red. And the spikes running down his back more bronze than gold, as were his leathery wings.

  He began to dance for his wide-eyed mate. Moira’s mouth was slightly open with shock. Her head cocked to one side. He hoped his pecker would behave itself. Or themselves. Dragons had double headed dongs. And the way he felt around Moira, he could only imagine how big they would grow if he got another whiff of her.

  He caught flashes of his red talons as he lifted his forefeet and pirouetted for her, displaying the breadth of his chest and the vigor of his hindquarters. Primitive yearning for his mate suffused him. Of course, he had never danced for any other woman. But the steps were encoded in his DNA. His mouth opened and a song of love and longing bellowed out like a hundred trumpets.

  Before his eyes his curvy woman became a little dragonette. Her scales were the same stormy gray her eyes went when she was alarmed or worried. Her stubby wings protruded from her back like baby leaves. At first they were transparent, but gradually they plumped up and took on the turquoise cast of a tropical sea. Her horn buds were too dazzling for him to be sure of their color.

  Moira pranced a little on the top of the cliff. Matching his steps, despite the incompleteness of her change. Her talons popped out, razor sharp and glittering like her horn buds. Her tail dart was just as brilliant. His mate was a diamond dragoness. As rare as fairy dust. And just as dangerous.

  Already his heart felt imperiled. Together they bowed and curvetted there on the top of the cliff, achieving perfect synchrony. Every twist of her tail, every flutter of her wings, ravished his racing heart. The sun came up and turned the gray dawn to a soft blue. He launched himself into the air and turned to look at his gorgeous little mate.

  Moira spread her wings. They were longer than they had been, but only just long enough for flight. He glanced down at the ocean and the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. But his brave mate glided out over the waves as if she had been doing this since she was born.

  Flying was such a rush. Always. He loved it. And of course he had flown with his parents and cousins. But flying with his mate was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was like being on the highest roller coaster. While having the most intense and out-of-body orgasm. His heart swelled. He had to be the luckiest dragon ever.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Moira~

  Turning into a dragon had taken her entirely by surprise. One minute she had been gazing awestruck at her scaly husband, wondering how she could be married to such a handsome and virile dragon, and the next she had been one herself. He had not prepared her for the pain. Even now that they were flying, her bones ached and her head was ready to explode.

  But the feelings of muscularity and power were something of a compensation. She was used to feeling the strength of her talent, but this robust sense of dominance was new. She could tackle anything, anyone, and win. Quinn was circling around her. She could feel his concern. And his admiration.

  He executed a perfect barrel roll, zoomed out to the channel and turned and glided back toward her, still singing. The brassy notes rolled over her assuring her of her femininity and grace. She preened for him and imitated his barrel roll. Oops, she skimmed the water with her hind legs and hastily pulled them into her body.

  Quinn saw that she had righted herself, and zipped away. He turned and shot flames into the water. The sizzle, snap and roar of those white-hot flames excited her. She gave breathing fire a shot. Her flames were nothing like as hot as his and they didn’t go as far. But breathing fire was cool.

  Thunder rumbled in the perfect blue sky. Her dragon was laughing. He wheeled in the air and headed for land. She was compelled to follow him. He landed on his hind legs and brought his tail in to curve around his haunches before he lowered his forelimbs. She imitated him. Although she wasn’t sure she matched his grace, she got the job done.

  He began to shift. His scaly head shrank. His two-foot-long horns withered into curly black hair. His formidable spikes melted into the smooth golden skin of a man’s back. He stood up and his huge hindquarters were Quinn’s muscular buns and sturdy legs. His arms were once again the burly human ones she was used to. Same overeager cock was pressed against the black thicket of his pubic hair.

  But he was damned if she would go through that excruciating transformation twice. Maybe her fairy powers could help. She willed herself back into her human form. It worked. She was fully dressed when she walked into her husband’s waiting arms.

  “How did you do that?” he asked, lifting her into the air for a kiss.

  She shrugged. “I willed it.”

  “Huh.”

  “I am so not going to be naked in public.”

  She didn’t know why having him pick her up as if she was his own personal plaything got her so hot. She was Fae. She ought to have more dignity. But when she was around Quinn, she didn’t care about dignity. She put her legs around his waist and returned his kiss, sucking his tongue into her mouth. Who knew flying was an aphrodisiac?

  A long time later he let her slide down over his erection. “You want to finish this outdoors?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.

  Did she? It sounded exciting and reckless. And foolish. “Nope.”

  “We’re two minutes from the house. And I have a king-sized bed.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Moira~

  She was getting used to being a dragon. The more she flew, the more connected she felt to Quinn. If she could only get rid of the constant dull throbbing in her veins and pussy, she would be able to concentrate on business. She had no idea what Ray Cornish was telling her. With an effort, she dismissed her reminiscences of last night, and gave her customer her attention.

  “I could use another couple of those three-by-four canvases, Moira. I’ll take the paint and the brushes with me, but could you bring the turpentine and the canvases on Wednesday? I got a lift into town, but Shelly caught the ferry, and I’m going to have to scrounge up a ride home, so I can’t take the heavy stuff with me.”

  “I’ll get those canvases out to you, no problem,” she replied. “I saw Ted Fisher drive past twenty minutes ago. He’s probably in the Wheel House mainlining shots of espresso.”

  Ray nodded somberly. “We’re all pretty uptight out at the colony. No one’s sleeping much. It’s agony waiting to hear what the judges will say.” He lowered his voice. “I heard that last night Whitlock was in the Tidewater dining room, giving it as his opinion that outside of a fifth-rate motel, he had never encountered such unmitigated crap as the Art Fair entries.”

  Moira’s heart sank. She knew that Adrian was in town, but she had made it her business to keep out of his path. Which wasn’t difficult, as this year she had no official connection to the Tidewater Art Fair. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Unprofessional – if it’s true,” pronounced Ray gloomily. “But the story probably has some foundation.”

  “Agreed.” Why was Adrian going out of his way to be unpleasant? He normally buffed his polished image as an affable, knowledgeable connoisseur. She had never known him to be knowingly abrasive. Was he trying to score points with the other judges? Or had he decided the function of an art critic was to ruthlessly criticize?


  “I better go see if I can find old Ted.” Ray cut into her thoughts.

  Moira rang up Ray’s sale, put his paint tubes and brushes into a small sack, and handed it to him. “I’ll be out on Wednesday, for sure.”

  “Listen, Moira,” Ray leaned forward confidentially. “You be careful of Quinn.” He paused. “He’s a hunter.”

  That made eleven separate warnings since her marriage. Although Ray was the first off-islander to caution her. She summoned a smile. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said dryly.

  She heard Ray’s hearty voice say, “Pardon me,” as he left, and then someone walked in. She looked up hopefully, even though she knew Quinn was working in his studio this morning. It was Adrian. He walked around the shop picking things up and setting them down with an air of disdain. Eventually he sauntered to the counter.

  “How’s it going, Moira? Bit of a comedown for you, isn’t it? Not that it’s not a nice little place you have here.” His voice suggested the opposite.

  She pasted her best screw-you smile to her face and responded to his words and not his intonation. “Thank you. What brings you to Mystic Bay?”

  Adrian’s handsome face clouded. Her ignorance and indifference had jabbed his pride. “I’m one of the judges of the Art Show,” he bragged.

  “How nice,” she said.

  Something malevolent shimmered between them. On instinct, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for her cell phone. Of course, she could always escape if she had to. But it wouldn’t hurt to have backup.

  “Pity the art is such schlock,” he returned. “Strictly amateur hour. But what can you expect out here in the boonies?”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked politely. “I think we have some wonderful talent in this year’s entries.”

  “Cheesy, two-bit stuff,” he dismissed the show with a wave of his hand. “But I didn’t come in here to discuss that pedestrian junk. I came to warn you.” He bent forward.

  Waves of evil rolled over her, but she stood her ground and smiled. Even though he posed no physical threat to her, she was glad she had the width of the counter between them. The hostility she perceived in his aura beat at hers. What was he up to?

  “About what?” she asked.

  “I understand you’re sleeping with one of the artists,” he said pityingly.

  She raised her eyebrows. That was certainly none of his business.

  Her silence made Adrian’s face contort in a mini-sneer before it again smoothed out into glossy urbanity. “You know who Quinn is, don’t you?” he said as if he was sure she didn’t. “Aside from a talentless hack? Those ridiculous forest scenes are entirely derivative. Barely hot-sheet motel worthy.” He shuddered theatrically.

  Moira folded her hands on the counter. She covered her rings, even though they were invisible, shielding them from Adrian’s ill will. “Why don’t you just spit it out?”

  “He’s a Drake. One of the Seattle Drakes. As in Drake Investments. And practically a married man,” Adrian purred. “Quinn Drake is engaged to a former model. He may be willing to screw you, but rest assured he isn’t going to marry a fat fairy. You’re nowhere near his tax bracket. And the minute he finds out that you’re Fae, he’ll drop you like a hot potato.”

  “It was kind of you to stop by my little shop to tell me so,” she said. “But perhaps it’s time for you to go.”

  His smile became even more sympathetic as he sent waves of persuasion at her. “I know it’s been a shock, Moira. And I’m sorry. But I had to inform you. Can’t allow my former partner to be taken advantage of.”

  “It was kind of you to fit gossip into your busy schedule,” she returned.

  He lowered his voice but the ripples of deceit in his aura got stronger. They engulfed her and it was an effort to hold them off. “You’re going to be a laughingstock when this little village finds out about your lover. However,” he paused dramatically, “I might be persuaded to hold my tongue – even to ignore the quality of Drake’s artwork – for a consideration. Your little mid-life crisis ruined my projected income for this year. You owe me.”

  Fire. I could breathe fire and immolate the wretch. Might burn down the store, however, and that would never do. Self-control, Moi. She laughed instead of engulfing him in flames. “I don’t owe you a living,” she said. “And I don’t pay bribes or hush money.”

  He reached for her hands. “You think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back later when you’ve had a chance to think about my offer.”

  The swinging doors to the back room opened. Little Walter Babcock stepped out. His truncheon swung at his hip like a third leg. He held a small device in one hand. He spread his legs and fixed his watery eyes on Adrian. “You step away from that counter,” he said. “Get right away from Miss Moira.”

  Adrian’s grip tightened on Moira’s hands. He laughed at the shorter man. “Miss Fairchild and I are old friends. Why don’t you run along, before I teach you some manners.”

  Wally squared his shoulders and raised his arm. Adrian covered his eyes with both hands as the laser hit them. As soon as he released her, Moira stepped backward out of range. Walter, however, continued to chase Adrian’s eyes with his laser pointer.

  “Stop that, you fool,” bleated Adrian.

  “I’ll turn this off the minute you leave this store,” Wally said firmly.

  “Don’t run him off yet, Mr. Babcock,” said an amused and cultured voice. “I want to hear what it is that makes the artwork submitted to the show beneath Mr. Whitlock’s consideration.” The owner of the voice was a tall, gray-haired woman that Moira recognized as Elena Androvitch. Standing behind her was the equally famous Jasper Salinas.

  Adrian lost his debonair assurance. He stammered something and marched to the door and directly into Quinn. Quinn looked ferocious. Huge and implacable. He filled the doorway and blocked Adrian’s retreat.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Adrian sputtered. “I’m going to report that man to the police for assaulting me.”

  “That does it,” said Wally. “Mr. Whitlock, you are under arrest.” Walter pulled out a sheet and began to read Whitlock his Miranda rights.

  Adrian looked stunned. Apparently he had missed Wally’s deputy badge which hung from his belt.

  “If you will just hold onto him, Quinn, I’ll get these cuffs on him.” Walter produced a pair of plastic wrist restraints and briskly secured Adrian’s arms behind him.

  “What am I charged with?” demanded Adrian.

  “Uttering threats, bribery, battery, and I’ll think up a few more when I get to the jail,” Walter Babcock said firmly.

  “I think we can work this out, Mr. Babcock,” interrupted Elena Androvitch. “Without putting the town of Mystic Bay to the trouble of providing room and board for Mr. Whitlock.” She turned to Salinas. “What do you say, Jasper? Did you know that Mr. Whitlock is disappointed that an emergency prevents him from continuing as a juror at the Tidewater Art Fair?”

  Salinas gave a barking laugh. “Damned shame. He hardly has time to pack before he has to return to Seattle. What about it Whitlock? Jail or resigning from the jury?”

  Adrian’s face was a mask of rage, but he nodded.

  “Speak up,” Salinas said curtly.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay with releasing Mr. Whitlock if he gets on the next ferry?” Salinas courteously asked Wally.

  “Yes, sir. He and I are going to take a walk back to the inn to get his stuff right this minute. Next ferry leaves in twenty-two minutes. But we got time. If we hurry. You coming, Quinn?”

  Moira could see her husband was of two minds as to whether or not he wished to provide backup to a rabbit shifter, but what he said was, “I’d be honored. I owe you one, Babcock.”

  Walter nodded and snipped the wrist restraints with his pocket knife. He and Quinn escorted Adrian from the store. Moira muttered a quick spell to dissipate the evil Adrian left in his wake. She turned off her phone, which was still connected to Quinn’s.

&nb
sp; “Sorry about that, Ms. Androvitch,” she held out her hand to the older woman.

  “You know my colleague, Jasper Salinas?”

  “I do, and it’s an honor to have you in my store.” Moira shook hands with Salinas.

  “Mr. Babcock said you wouldn’t mind if we cut through your stock room to Main Street,” Salinas said in a voice roughened by too many cigarettes. “We didn’t expect to find that tasteless wonder harassing you. Although I am delighted to have him off the jury. His negativity was poisoning the atmosphere.”

  “It was indeed,” Elena agreed. “This is a very different enterprise than your galleries, Ms. Fairchild. When you closed the Fairchild Galleries, a great many promising artists lost a place to show their work and a chance to be discovered.”

  “I couldn’t continue in business with Adrian,” Moira explained.

  “I can see why,” Salinas said dryly. “But this island could use a proper gallery. No disrespect to the Greene Gallery. But it is more of a souvenir shop than a true art gallery. It’s certainly not a suitable showplace for artists of the caliber we are judging. You should employ your talents to provide a venue for the winners of the Art Fair.”

  “Their work will go on sale, as soon as the prizes have been awarded,” Moira said. “The art sale is part of the festivities. And I did help the committee with the hanging.”

  “But what about when the Fourth is over, and the Art Fair closes?” continued Salinas. “If the art colony is going to be taken seriously, collectors need to know that if they trek to West Haven – and picturesque as the island and town are, it’s a trek – that they will be able to buy art without having to negotiate with individual artists.”

  “Nothing puts buyers off more than dealing with artists,” Elena said wryly. “I think we get too intense, or too shy, or something. But I’ve never managed to sell a piece on my own.”

  Moira nodded. She had advised many new clients to keep their mouths shut and smile – no matter what buyers said. “I don’t know if I am the one to provide that service in Mystic Bay,” she demurred.