Fire In His Spirit: A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Shifter Romance

by Dixon, Ruby

  Fucked that up, too.

  Dealing with the Brothers of Ash? With Amy and Rast, who I tried to drug and sell out? Saving my little sister Daniela? Fucked it all up good.

  I’m pretty sure if given the chance, I’d fuck up Vaan in ways we haven’t even imagined, and something that’s supposed to be good and sweet and pure and right will end up being bitter and ugly and hurtful.

  So I haven’t encouraged more kisses. I haven’t tried to let him get closer. Even though sometimes I wake up at night with his body pressed against mine and wonder what it’d be like to roll over and kiss him, to rub up against him and let things go as far as they can possibly go. See what happens.

  Be the dragon’s mate.

  I can’t think about it as a betrayal of the human race. I’m too practical. At this point, anyone that would have sold out humanity already did a long time ago and would continue to do so again. I think of Mara with her old, abusive “protector.” I doubt she was with him by choice, but she endured because that’s what you do to survive. Am I being a prima donna about things? If I have to be someone’s property, isn’t it lucky that I’m the property of someone as protective and caring (and okay, hot) as Vaan?

  I should be thanking my lucky stars, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m poison to everything I touch and that hooking up with Vaan will be a mistake—not just for me, but for him.

  He’s gone through so much already, if what Amy has told us about dragons is true.

  Restless, I gaze down at my bed for a long moment and then pace off to see what the rest of the house has to offer.

  I don’t have to turn around to know that Vaan is with me. The footsteps behind mine are light for all that he’s twice the size of Mara. I just know Vaan at this point, and I know he wouldn’t let me go off on my own. Not because he’s controlling, but because he wants to make sure I’m safe. I head into the kitchen of the old house and eye the white and black checkerboard marble tiles wistfully. The tile is filthy, which doesn’t bode well for any food to be found, and a quick, cursory look around proves me correct. I turn to go back the way I came and nearly run into Vaan’s chest.

  “No go in this direction,” I murmur to him and give his chest a pat.

  He looks down at my hand on his chest and grins widely, as if I’ve pleased him somehow.

  “Weirdo,” I tell him, but there’s affection in my voice. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anything upstairs.”

  I pass through the busted up dining area and foyer, Vaan at my heels, his hand drifting out to touch my arm or my back each time we pass or brush against each other. It’s rather nice and saves me from being creeped out by this place, because it looks like a haunted old Southern mansion. No thanks. I see an area in the front that looks like a giftshop, but it’s been ransacked and destroyed from the elements. It’s easy to see why—a tree from the yard collapsed and took out part of the roof here and all of the windows. “Nothing salvageable,” I murmur.

  “No-thing,” Vaan agrees, and I look over at him sharply.

  He just gives me another toothy smile and I wonder if he’s picking up more than he’s let on. He could be a genius and I’m talking to him in baby-speak English. I narrow my eyes and pat his shoulder absently. “Want to fuck like bunnies upstairs?”

  He rumbles an absent response and yawns, scratching at his chest.

  Right. Whew. “I gotcha.” I move to the staircase and eye it unhappily. The stairs are collapsed and the ceiling’s sagging in this area. “It would be monumentally stupid to go up those stairs looking for a score.”

  “Stupid,” he agrees.

  I snort-giggle at that and abandon my hopes of finding an untouched closet. Instead, I head down another hall and pass through the rooms again. Behind a dresser, I see another doorway—aha. The old master bedroom, neatly concealed behind a massive bureau.

  I tap the heavy wood and look over at Vaan. “Think you can move this aside?”

  He grunts, stepping in front, and with the nudge of one elbow, shoves it a foot. Dang. He’s strong, even in this form. I give a little shiver, and when he casts a speculative look my way, I pull at my sweat-dampened shirt, pretending it’s the heat—and not the naked, gleaming golden body in front of me—that’s giving me chills.

  With one more nudge, Vaan gets the bureau out of the way and then I can see the doorknob. The door itself is warped from time and damp, and when I brace my shoulder against it to try and push it open, Vaan growls. His arm links around my waist and he physically removes me, then steps in front and forces the door open with a great crash of his body against it.

  Well, that's certainly effective.

  I touch his arm as I walk past him into the room. There's a dusty haze filtering in through the low light, adding a quietly eerie sensation to the room. It feels a bit like a tomb that's been sealed off for ages, but I don't see dead bodies. There's a bed here, covered in a dusty, faded quilt, and flanked by two nightstands. There's a closet and another dresser with shoes neatly lined up on a rack beside it, and a rocking chair with another blanket tossed over it. Everything in here is picture perfect and organized as if it's just waiting for the owner to come back. I move forward, drawn to the dresser because I see a picture frame and a jewelry box. I pick up the picture and blow off the dust, revealing a young white couple, a baby perched in the woman's lap. I figured it'd be white people if it was a restored antebellum mansion. Places like these give black people the creeps because the history's remembered very differently. I put the picture back, thinking about the happy couple and their baby. I hope they got out okay. I hope the jewelry box is totally empty because they took everything of value and left for someplace safe.

  But when I flip open the jewelry box, it's full of rings and bracelets, all slightly tarnished but expensive, and my heart hurts a little. Even a wedding ring is nested in a place of honor, waiting for its owner to return. I close the box again. I love sparkly things, but it feels wrong to take these. They can keep waiting, because I won't touch them.

  I pull out one of the dresser drawers, looking for clothing instead. Well-made clothes that stand the test of time are always useful, and I don't think the people who lived here before would begrudge me a few pairs of jeans or an extra T-shirt or two. Most everything I find is too large, and I'm “apocalypse thin,” so they'd hang off me. I take a couple of the T-shirts anyhow, and a pair of cutoff jean shorts that look like they might fit, and a bikini top. The clothing sticking to my skin suddenly feels oppressive, and I strip them off, changing into the bikini and shorts and then rubbing the sweat off my body with my old shirt.

  God, I already feel a hundred percent better.

  I glance over my shoulder and Vaan's watching me with bright gold eyes. He watched me undress. Of course he did. For the last week, he's been pulling my pants down for me. The look in his eyes isn't that of a dispassionate caretaker, though. There's hunger in his gaze tonight, and he's devouring me with a glance. My nipples prick against the soft fabric of the bikini and I'm acutely aware of him as I move to the shoe rack and pick a pair of sneakers up, pretending to be fascinated by the laces.

  I'm alone with him right now. I'm wearing a lot less clothing than I usually am. There's a nice big bed. It's like fate's pushing me toward Vaan with a not-so-subtle nudge. And I'm tempted, I really am. Like, we could just shake the dust off the bed, fluff the pillows, and see how things go. I lick my lips, thinking hard.

  "Kisssss," Vaan says suddenly.

  I tense up, every muscle in my body freezing in surprise. He's thinking the same thing I am. I glance over at him, pretending not to understand. "What?"

  "Kissss," he murmurs. He moves toward me and then lightly brushes the backs of his fingers along my now-bare arm. "Kissss mmmeee."

  "Your English gets better every day," I tell him, breathless. "Good job." I don't want to look him in the eye, because I'll melt into a puddle of girly goo.

  He moves closer to me, ever closer. That prey feeling rises again and I
feel a bit like a mouse in front of a hungry snake. Except that feels somehow wrong, too, because I don't feel like Vaan wants to hurt me.

  Devour me, yes. Hurt me, no.

  Vaan takes another step forward. I can move back, of course. There's plenty of space in the bedroom. But I don't. There's a deep, dark part of me that wants to see what happens if he catches his prey. So I remain utterly still.

  And I wait.

  24

  VAAN

  I think Gwen does not realize what she does to me.

  We are here, alone, in a room that is clearly for nesting. One of the human nests is here, the blankets still carrying the scent of old, old matings from long ago. She does not pay attention to this, of course, and instead finds new coverings for her body and strips her old ones off without a thought, baring her back to me.

  And I am tempted.

  So very tempted.

  This is not like before, when she was hurt and relied on me to care for her. Then, it was easy to tend to her body without focusing on the beauty of her form. But now that she is healthy? I cannot stop staring. I watch every little thing she does, absorb every movement, every gesture. I memorize the elegant line of her back, down to the soft curves of her buttocks.

  My memory may be shattered, but I want to remember this.

  She turned and glanced over at her shoulder once, aware of my presence, and I glimpsed the swells of her breasts. Her body is lovely, golden brown all over and smoother than the most polished scales. Hunger for her burns in my belly, but I do not touch her right away.

  I wait to see how she reacts. To see if she gives me her mating challenge as she did before, with the mouth on mouth presses.

  She does not, though, and when her gaze flicks to the door, I grow impatient. I have waited long enough, so I say the human words to let her know my thoughts.

  “Ks me.”

  Gwen looks surprised to hear me speak, but the expression in her dark eyes grows soft and just the smallest hint of her mating scent perfumes the thick, still air.

  It is enough for me. I stride forward and put my hands on her bared waist. Her new coverings only hide the most attractive parts of her, and I am tempted to rip them off and bare her to my gaze once more.

  Her breathing quickens, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. "Vaan," she whispers.

  Touch me, I tell her, but when she continues to stare at me without comprehension, I ignore my impatience. Soon.

  She doesn't pull away from my touch at her waist, and her arousal scent grows thicker. Perhaps with humans, the male is the challenger? I think of the smelly female and how she cowered in front of the male she was with until I devoured him. It is worth testing. I trace my claws up the flat plane of her belly, grazing over her soft skin and moving upward until I reach the dark band of her breast covering.

  Her hand immediately goes to shield it from my touch. "Dntripit."

  "No?" I ask, not understanding her words but grasping the meaning. She wishes for me to stop?

  Gwen hesitates a moment and then takes my hand and moves it above the band, back on her skin. "Hr, notder."

  "Hr," I echo, and she nods. She wants my touch, then, just not my claws destroying her new coverings. I understand. I notice the taut points of her nipples under the fabric and lightly rub a knuckle over one. "Hr?"

  A low moan escapes her and her body shudders. She steps closer to me and it feels like a victory.

  She likes my touch. Wants it.

  The hunger I carry for her rages like fire, consuming my spirit. I lock my arm around her waist and pull her body against mine. She sucks in a breath but does not fight, her arms going around my neck. Her eyes meet mine, and even though they do not show her emotions in color, there is no denying the need in them.

  I will challenge her, then, though it feels strange.

  Twining my claws in the thick tangle of her hair, I tilt her face toward mine.

  Her breath comes in shallows rasps, but she does not pull away.

  I tilt my face toward hers and press my mouth against her lips. She tenses against me, so I go still and remain motionless against her, lip to lip.

  She sighs and after a moment, she nips at my mouth with hers. "Ks me," she murmurs, and her lips brush against mine in the lightest, most teasing of touches. I know those words. I copy her movements, caressing and tasting her mouth with my own, our touches playful and flickeringly brief. They are good touches, but so fleeting that they are unsatisfying. I want more.

  Then, she presses her mouth to mine and her tongue strokes against my lips, and I realize that there is more to this. The touches we have exchanged are a mere flirtation. Tongues are the true battleground. With a groan, I let her take the lead and Gwen flicks her tongue in the same teasing caresses that she's been giving my mouth…but are totally different now that her sweet, slippery tongue is involved. When it flicks against mine, I feel it in my groin, in my toes, in the very strands of my hair. My world centers around her soft, pink tongue and how she uses it. With little strokes, she tastes me, coaxing and teasing and dancing along mine until I taste her back.

  Mine is not a gentle tease, though—mine is a conquering taste of her mouth. I plunder her sweetness with a bold flick of my tongue, licking at her. She trembles against me and lets me take the lead of the kiss. It goes from soft and playful to hot and devouring in moments, and then she's sagging against me, little whimpers of need escaping her throat as I conquer her mouth like I would her cunt.

  This is not so very different from mating her cunt with my mouth, I decide. I am just mating another soft, juicy part of her. Strange, but equally enjoyable. I lift my mouth when she breaks away from me, panting and dazed. "Vaan," she whispers, her lips swollen from the constant press of our faces. They are shiny and flushed with color, and I cannot resist licking them again to taste her, and she moans against me, as hungry and full of need as ever.

  My Gwen. I like that I can please her with my mouth. It is such a ridiculously simple thing, to mate tongues. If she had told me this was what she wanted when she rubbed her mouth to mine, I would have been mating her tongue many, many times this day. I brush my nose against hers, nuzzling her face, and the scent of her arousal wafts through the air, growing stronger by the moment. This pleases her. I rumble with pride at the realization.

  I can do more to give my mate pleasure.

  My claws skate up and down her back in the lightest of caresses, as I am mindful of how fragile her lovely brown skin is. She shivers, her lips parting, and she stares hungrily at my mouth, wanting more. I taste her lips once more, and then decide that I want to taste all of her. She is more than just sweet lips, and I would caress all of her with my tongue, if tongue-caresses are what she enjoys.

  I stroke her sides even as I mate her mouth, and then reach for the dark strip of fabric over her breasts again. I tug at the cloth, careful not to rip it. I want to look at her bare skin. I want to put my mouth on it. I want to put my mouth everywhere on her.

  She whimpers lightly and rakes her nails over my skin. It does not hurt, but I still groan, because I feel the need building in her. It is the need I feel in my belly, the endless hunger that threatens to take over whenever I am around her. Maybe tonight is the night she will let me claim her and give her my fires.

  I slip the band of fabric down to her belly, exposing her breasts. Her nipples are a delicate, rosy brown, and they tighten as I gaze down at them. She moans, shivering against me. I lightly run my knuckles over one delicate tip and am surprised to see that her skin feels different here. Still soft, but with a unique texture. She is fascinating, my human mate. I trace along the tip and it grows harder and more erect as I do, and her arousal-scent grows deeper as well.

  With a snarl, I turn our twined bodies and drop us to the top of human nest. She lets out a gasp as we bounce atop the springy surface, letting up a cloud of dust. I do not care about such things, though. I am too interested in the movement of her breasts, the way they shift and jiggle against me. I c
aress one soft mound, fascinated by the hard tip, and then lower myself over her until I can rub that mound against my face.

  She moans loudly then, her back arching and her short, blunted claws going to my hair. I nuzzle at her nipple, teasing it with my lips and then my tongue. It feels strange and forbidden to touch her like this when there has been no challenge, but I can smell her mating scent heavy in the air and know my touch is welcome. I tease her skin, brushing my lips over her until she is squirming beneath me, her breath panting and quick with excitement. My cock aches as it has never ached before, but my own pleasure is an afterthought—all I want is to please her.

  I rub my face in the valley between her breasts, fascinated by the way she feels against me. I could spend endless days just touching and caressing her. Breathing in her scent like this, holding her against me—the storm clouds that always threaten my mind have rolled back entirely and my entire focus is on Gwen and Gwen alone. I brush my lips against her skin and then flick my tongue over the same spot, tasting her. The whimper that escapes her excites me like nothing else, and I redouble my efforts to wring more of those little sounds from her. I lap at her skin, use my tongue to tease lines over her belly, and move lower, because her scent is driving me mad with hunger.

  I want to bury myself—my face, my tongue, my cock—in the heat of her cunt and the wet wonder of it. My mate, I chant silently. My mate. My Gwen.

  "Vaan," she moans again, her hips undulating under me.

  I press my face against the rough fabric covering her hips, breathing deeply for a moment before pulling at it. Unlike the soft band over her breasts, it does not give at my touch. Frustrated, I hook my claws underneath the waist and pull.

  She makes a startled sound and pushes my hands away. "No, Vaan."

  I press my face against her belly in frustration. I know that word. It means she is done. It does not matter that her need is perfuming the air around us, or that I am desperate to give her my fires. The storm clouds in my mind rush forward, drowning out my senses with their furious rage. Anger bubbles through me, piercing the sweetness of her scent.