Dragon Lords Books 1 - 4 Box Set: Anniversary Edition

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Ualan’s breathing deepened behind her and she heard his nails scratching the furniture. Oh yeah, she had his attention.

  She made her way back upright and turned while swinging her legs to straddle his outstretched feet. She lowered herself to hover over his knees. Ualan’s hands were crossed over his chest. His eyes were transfixed on her, clearly eager to see what she would do next.

  Morrigan knew the song was nearing its end. She worked her hips in agonizing circles, moving her feet and hands in waves as she made the journey closer. His head tilted back and his hands tightened their grip on his arms. With a swing, she dipped her hips low, almost low enough to brush her ass against his legs. Ualan straightened, pulling his feet in as she wove her arms near his head.

  The music faded. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath. Seeing his passion-laden eyes, she was as seduced by her performance as he was. Slowly, she lowered her hands from near his head and stood before him.

  Blinking heavy lids, she whispered, “Is my master pleased?”

  Ualan’s answer was a growl as he grabbed her roughly and pulled her astride his lap. Instantly, he began kissing her neck. His fingers traveled her spine, forcing her forward. Morrigan grabbed his shoulders, startled by the passionate press of his body to hers. He didn’t respond to her small struggle.

  Ualan released her neck from his searing kisses. Taking her hips, he slid her forward to press into the hot, throbbing length of him. Morrigan gasped. Cotton and a G-string was no match for the fire burning in their loins. The intimate contact shot a potent spark through her body, filling her pussy with moisture and heat.

  “Do you feel how pleased I am, Rigan?” He undulated into her.

  She made a weak noise in response. Possibly her plan had worked a little too well.

  “Do you feel what you do to me, slave?”

  Morrigan panted delicately, nodding.

  His eyes flashed with golden fire. “Where did you learn to dance like that? Cordele does not teach such a thing.”

  “Zigar complex,” she answered, too far gone to think of a lie.

  Before Morrigan realized what he was doing, her top loosened and fell forward to bare her breasts. His hands pulled the studded material off her. She kept her hands on his shoulders. He gently massaged her hips. “Dance for me again.”

  Morrigan tried to stand. Ualan shook his head in denial. He waved a finger over her wrist to start the music anew.

  “Here. Dance for me here.”

  He pulled her hips forward so she was intimately pressed to his full arousal. His gaze bore into her, waiting, daring, begging.

  Slowly, she began to move her arms. Ualan nodded, pleased. His gaze devoured her, focusing on her naked breasts. Her hips circled near his waist in a slower mimicry of what she had done earlier, brushing her sex against his cock in teasing strokes.

  “Mmm,” he groaned, closing his eyes in pleasure. “You will be the death of me, woman.” His body swayed slightly beneath her, dancing with her in a private rhythm. “You make me burn, Rigan.”

  His hair fell over his shoulders. He moved as if he would take her breast in his mouth, but then held back with a bite of his lips, denying them both.

  She stopped dancing, her arms falling to his shoulders. Unable to stop herself, her body too on fire to allow her to think straight, she begged, “Make love to me, Ualan. End this torment. I can’t be denied again.”

  With a rip, he tore at her panties, opening them at both hips. He tugged them from between her thighs. She trembled at the caress. It would be so easy to lower his cotton pants and make him slide into her.

  Taking her now naked hips, he squeezed her ass and forced her to rub against him. Blocked by the barrier of cotton, he rocked her against his shaft, letting her get a feel.

  Good thing he held on to her or else she would have fallen off his lap as a small spasm of pleasure shot through her.

  “Is this what you want?” His voice left no doubt who was in charge. He gave her a tempered thrust.

  “Yes,” she panted weakly. Her heart hammered in her ears. She clutched his shoulders, letting him control her movements.

  “You want me inside of you, don’t you, Rigan?” he whispered hotly. “You want to ride me?”

  “Oh, gods, yes,” she pleaded, not completely knowing what she agreed to.

  “Then say it, Morrigan, say the words.”

  “I want you inside me,” she panted, near frenzy. “I want to ride you.”

  Ualan grinned, as if satisfied. Leaning her back, he licked her peaked nipple. Growling against her breast, he demanded, “Who am I to you, Rigan?”

  “My master.”

  “Who am I?” he insisted again, biting the solid nub slightly as punishment when she didn’t answer correctly. He licked the hurt right after with the full press of his soothing tongue.

  “My master!” she cried louder. Oh, she was close. Finally. Finally. Finally.

  He pulled her away from his arousal before she came. Morrigan blinked in confusion. Her hips strained against his strong hands but he held her firm and with little effort. Their lungs heaved for air as he denied them both.

  “I am your husband,” Ualan stated. “Say it.”

  Her lips trembled, tempted. But she shook her head in denial. She held on to her last bit of sanity.

  “Say it. Gods’ bones, Rigan, say it and end this game. Tell me I am your husband. Say you are my wife and end this. Let me have you.”

  “You,” Morrigan gulped for breath. Her body hated her before the words even got out. A tear threatened to fall. “You are my master and I am your slave.”

  “Oh, but you are a stubborn woman!” Ualan tossed her off his lap onto the couch. His entire length shook and he balled his hands into fists. “Why start this again without the intent of staying with me? You are cruel to torment us both.”

  “Me?” Morrigan screeched in anger. Heat filled her flushed features. She tried to cover herself from view, but her hands were not very effective blockades. Denied passion made her quicker to yell. “You’re the one who can’t take no for an answer. You are not my husband. We are not married. Why can’t you understand that, Ualan? I know your ego is hurt, but it shouldn’t be. I don’t want to be married to anyone. It has nothing to do with you. It’s not my fault you don’t finish what you start. Not in the tent. Not here. Not in the bath. Not in the shower. You just tease and pull away leaving me ready to implode and take this entire planet with me. Have you heard of the Jagranst? Their planet exploded and I’m pretty sure it must have been because some poor woman was tortured by a caveman like you.”

  “Nothing to do with me? It has everything to do with me. I am your husband,” he yelled.

  “No, you’re not. You are a lunatic who can’t seem to understand when he’s being dumped. I want to break this off Ualan. I want to go home.” Her voice grew louder.

  So did his. “This is your home, Rigan. Resign yourself to it.”

  “But I don’t love you.”

  His gold-filled eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.

  “Then what is this between us?” Ualan asked with a suddenly deceptive softness. He gestured to the couch. “Tell me you didn’t feel it. Try to deny it.”

  “That’s just lust, Ualan. Pure lust. That’s all. Don’t confuse it for something it’s not.”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him. Part of her wanted to take the words back, to say she was sorry, to say she was his wife and to beg him to please just make love to her.

  His mouth opened and nothing came out. Whipping around, he stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

  Morrigan dropped wearily to her knees. Realizing that her maid outfit was locked up with Ualan in the bathroom, and that she was standing in the front hall shivering and naked, she quickly ran up the stairs to his room. Going to the closet, she began reaching for her bag when she spied Ualan’s large cotton shirts and pants neatly folded on a shelf. Knowing it would cover her better than an
y nightgown she owned, she slid them over her body. They smelled like him and part of her thought she deserved the torture.

  When she hurried back downstairs, tying the drawstring at her waist, Ualan was waiting for her to come down.

  “Ualan?” she began, never knowing what she might say to him at such a time. The anger had faded as fast as it rose, leaving her sad and lonely. Maybe it was the smell of him on the clothes. Or maybe it was the feelings that refused to die in her stomach and chest.

  Apparently, his anger had yet to wane. He snarled at her, brushing past her to go to the stairs the second she came off them.

  “You wish to remain a slave.” He changed his mind and stormed back down the stairs.

  Morrigan swallowed nervously. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “You make it like this.” He studied her face for a long time.

  Morrigan saw he was hurting. Now was not the time to make any important decisions. She needed to clear her head. She needed distance.

  “You will cook for me tomorrow, slave,” he said at last. “Mirox will tell you what to do.”

  It was another punishment.

  With that he stormed away from her and this time he did not come back down.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning when Morrigan awoke from her troubled dreams, Ualan was gone. She was glad for it. But, like he promised, Mirox came to her bright and early to show her how to prepare a traditional Qurilixen dish.

  Well, saying he was showing her would have been too generous. The man sat in a chair watching her as he gave instructions, like a culinary sergeant from hell.

  “Add more honey,” Mirox said from his chair.

  Morrigan wrinkled her nose and made a sour face he couldn’t see. She slammed down her hand towel and grabbed the honey, not bothering to hide her furious mood. Her arms ached. She felt she had been kneading the dark blue dough for at least an hour. It stuck to her fingers, to the honey container, to the towel. As she squirted honey into the bread mixture, she grimaced. Now this was slave work.

  Morrigan worked the honey into the dough a few times before stopping. She lifted dough-covered hands over the bowl and wiggled her fingers to try and get the sticky stuff off. Blue clumps splatted on the clean floor.

  Mirox frowned. Sitting forward, he took a towel from the counter and swiped up her newest mess.

  “This is fine,” she grumbled. The bread started to puff up so she poked the elementary picture of a face into it before punching that face with her balled fist to get the whole mixture to go back down.

  Morrigan was hurt. Her body ached, her mind was overtired and she felt as if she was on fire all the time. One thought of her strong-willed master caused her cheeks to flush and her legs to weaken like she was some kind of simpering female.

  Morrigan Blake was not a simpering female.

  She remembered begging him to fuck her and punched the dough with renewed vigor.

  Every time. Every blasted time! she thought, more than a little upset that he hadn’t finished what he started—again.

  Make love to me, her head mocked. How pathetic was she? She had actually begged him.

  Become the master, Morrigan silently ridiculed herself further, her mouth moving to unconsciously mouth the words to the countertop. Luckily, Mirox was turned from her. Make him the slave. Then you will make a deal for your freedom.

  Not bloody likely!

  “Either mix the dough a little longer and do it correctly, my lady,” Mirox said, “or let it rise.”

  “They should invent a machine to do this,” she grumbled. She pointed at a contraption on the counter that had a paddle fixed in place over a bowl. “Like that thing. What is it called?”

  “A mixer.” Mirox looked like he tried not to laugh. “Lord Ualan wished for you to learn the correct way, the traditional way.”

  Morrigan sighed as she began kneading again, making faces at the dough. She pulled a hand out to stretch her shoulder and when she drew it back she accidently knocked sugar into the bowl with her elbow. Mirox frowned as she quickly righted it. After brief consideration, she kneaded the sugar into the dough too. Morrigan wished she had turned the tables on Ualan, made him be her slave. See how he liked being made to bow constantly at her feet. See how he liked having to cook her meals.

  “Maybe we should start over.” Mirox grimaced.

  “No, this will be perfectly fine. I’m not doing this for another hour. Besides, I wasn’t sure which spices you were talking about when I basted the, uh, wil—wilddeor?”

  “Yes, my lady, wilddeor,” Mirox said, looking weary.

  “It smelled fine,” she returned, shrugging.

  Mirox swallowed nervously. She knew he was now wishing he had been paying more attention to her—hovering right above her every move.

  “I’m done mixing. Give me the pan you said to put it in,” she ordered.

  Mirox handed it to her, not saying a word.

  Morrigan washed her hands beneath the running water, smiling gratefully when Mirox pumped soap onto them for her. He watched her dump the dough into the pan. She didn’t bother to level it before sticking it into the oven without bothering to check on the meat.

  Sighing, Mirox pulled open the oven door. “The meat is browning nicely.” He shut it again. “I think you should get a salad ready.”

  Morrigan looked at the refrigerator and sighed, not feeling like it. Mirox pulled out the salad ingredients for her. He tried to smile while handing her translucent purple leafy ball and loose yellow spotted leaves. She dropped them on the counter. He retrieved a knife and motioned for her to cut. She stabbed the purple ball with a knife and brought the tip back up with the skewered vegetable embedded on the end of the blade. She painstakingly pulled the vegetable off and stabbed it again. Mirox nervously took the blade and began chopping with apt fingers.

  Morrigan smiled wryly behind his back as the man took over making the salad. Her ploy had worked. Slowly, she moved back to his chair to watch him.

  “Does this go in the oven, too?” she asked sweetly.

  Mirox almost chopped off a finger. Glancing at her, he said nothing.

  It was only after he dumped both the yellow spotted and translucent purple leaves in the bowl and was tossing them together, that he seemed to remember she was supposed to be doing the work. “Come, chop, just like I did.”

  Morrigan picked up the knife and, dropping the pretense of not knowing how to use it, she sliced into a ripe tomato-looking thing.

  “Ah, well done, my lady. You are a very quick learner. You should be proud.”

  Morrigan indifferently tossed the tomato into the bowl. “Can we be done now?”

  * * *

  Ualan growled while he threw six knives at an already marred post. The blades hit dead center in a perfect circle with the last one embedding in the center ring. The accomplishment only caused him to growl again as he went to grab the blades. Ripping them from their post with angry jerks, he marched back to his original spot and did it again. The young warriors, who were neglecting their own practice to watch the outraged prince, murmured amongst themselves in awe of his skill. None were so bold as to approach him in his dark mood.

  Ualan burned inside. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think. Every time he went home his cock took it as a sign to come to life—not that his aggravating wife was ever willing to relieve him. That very morning he had to see to it himself—again. This was not how marriage was supposed to be.

  “Ach,” Agro grumbled, coming to join the spectators. “But can he do it with his eyes closed?”

  Ualan turned at him to glare. “Can you with blackened eyes?”

  Agro’s eyes were still bruised from Ualan’s attack, though they started to fade to a purplish yellow. The beefy giant grimaced good-naturedly. He held no grudge.

  “I should thank you,” Agro called, his Qurilixian accent rising with a soft burr. “My wife has insisted she administer her special medicine. Tell me, would you like me to punch yo
u so you can see if yours will do the same?”

  Ualan swore a black curse upon the man, throwing the knives with even greater force. They embedded nearly to the hilt. Morrigan would more than likely have his head first. If he closed his eyes he could still hear her begging him to end their torment. She had asked him to take her. But what could he do? He had to refuse them both until she relented her hardheaded ways. He would not let her live with an illusion of leaving him. He would never let her go. His heart could not take it.

  Agro was unconcerned with the curses as he went to retrieve the blades. Moving past where Ualan stood, he put even greater distance between himself and the post. Throwing, he embedded the knives in a snakelike line.

  “Blackened eyes,” he announced with great flair. The spectator warriors cheered in approval. Knife throwing was one of their greatest entertainments.

  When Ualan went to the blades, Agro joined him.

  Speaking low so none could hear, Agro said, “Tell me, Ualan, do you treat your wife with the same delicacy you have been treating these blades?”

  Ualan glanced at him, confused.

  Agro took the last blade before Ualan could pull it. Bouncing it in his hand, he said conversationally, “If you haven’t noticed, she be a might softer than these fools out here.”

  Agro pointed the blade meaningfully at the soldiers. Ualan frowned, not following what the man was getting at.

  “Let me give you a tip, from one surly warrior to another.” Agro handed the knife hilt first to the prince. Ualan took it and they began to walk back to the throwing line. “What is soft on the outside is usually even softer on the inside. We men are easy. If there is a challenge, we rise to it. If there is a fight, we shift and start swinging. If we need help, we ask the gods. Simple, right? Men are logical and make complete sense in everything that they do.” He paused and shook his head. “Now women? Not logical. I’m married, so I’ve had to learn a thing or two about the female ways. Women need softer handling or they get all emotional and cry and say weird things about feeling their feelings. Inside women are these little chemical things, and they get all shaken up when…well, you know how those little shake and pop chemical bombs we all make as children work?”