Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

  Ragnarr’s arms snake around me, pulling me close. His body is huge, the hard muscles of him a delicious contrast to my soft curves.

  “You don’t know how I’ve dreamt of tasting you.” He nips at the tender skin of my shoulder.

  My nipples harden and I draw in a sharp breath.

  “How I’ve played the taste of you over and over in my memory. How sweet your honey is. And how delicious it must taste straight from the source.”

  All I can do is let out my breath in a little moan. My body lolls under the onslaught of his passion. He cups one heavy breast in his palm though my dress, weighing it as if handling a precious objet d’art. My nipple hardens into his palm, the lace of my bra suddenly chafing my sensitized skin.

  I explore the hardness of his body, discovering the hard ridges and angles of him as a sightless woman would explore priceless treasure. I tug at his shirt hem, tucked too tightly for my taste into his expensive wool slacks, needing to get at his bare skin.

  Ragnarr sits up just long enough to undo the buttons of his bespoke tailored shirt, flinging it aside at last on the floor like a rag. His head dips to the neckline of my dress, tracing the line of the edge on my skin with his tongue.

  I throw my head back. I can’t hold back a moan.

  I dig my fingers into his hair, pulling out the elastic holding it in a ponytail so it falls loose around his face in a white-gold waterfall. It brings with it a breath of his exotic sandalwood-vanilla-musk scent.

  “I’ve waited too long for the rest of my second wish’s payment,” he says. “It’s come due.”

  Even if there was any turning back, I wouldn’t. I can’t lie.

  “Oh gods, me too.”

  “Are you that eager to be eaten by a dragon?” He mocks surprise. “And here I thought most damsels feared that sort of thing.”

  Damn him, always teasing.

  “You don’t even know. You’re driving me crazy. Don’t make me beg.”

  “You, begging to pay me?” A devilish grin. “Now there’s an idea.”

  “I said, don’t make me beg.”

  I’m nearly out of my mind with desire, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing our earlier repartee.

  “Too late.”

  Ragnarr scoops me up off the couch and carries me through to his bedroom. He places me gently on the huge bed. There’s also a fire lit in here, with dozens of lit candles scattered in groups throughout. The room is spacious, but it’s warmer than the other room.

  “Don’t move.” He pads out, leaving me to make myself comfortable.

  I close my eyes, stretching luxuriously as a cat, enjoying the warmth, the scent of him on the silken sheets, the plush softness of the bedding beneath me. Utter heaven.

  When I open them again, he’s standing over me, discarded shirt in one hand. There is a knowing, mischievous smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

  Firelight plays off the muscles of his chest, delineating the lines of his abs and the long, lean muscles of his strong forearms, the bulges of his biceps. The trail of soft hair starting at his navel glints amber-gold in the firelight.

  “I believe there was a mention of begging?”

  12: Ragnarr

  Sweet torture.

  That’s what she’s been to me all evening.

  That green dress, sliding across her every luscious curve, taunting me like the promise of water to a man dying in the desert. I want to tear it from her, explore every bit of her it’s hidden from me so cruelly.

  The way Emelie matches me, wit for wit, never letting my banter offend or best her. I wonder if she is as willing to match me in bed like that, with her passion rising up to match mine at every turn.

  And the way she enjoys every bite of food, savoring each flavor the way I want to savor hers.

  The way I want her to savor mine. My mouth waters at the thought.

  Sweet torture.

  My dragon cries out to make her mine—mine—and it’s all I can do to hold myself back.

  Now, Emelie is lounging on my bed, cat-like, as if she was born to be there. As if she belongs there, as if she will never leave. As if she’s already my hoard.

  Her eyes, half-lidded, gaze up at me in bold invitation.

  “Well, if I don’t have a choice,” she says, “then I’ll beg.”

  “You always have a choice,” I say. “But I hope you’ll beg anyway.”

  She makes a little noise in her throat. I can’t restrain myself any longer. I pounce.

  I’m on top of her, tugging at that damned green dress. I can’t bear to let it keep me from her another second. She pushes me gently away, pulls it off over her head herself.

  Her body is exquisite. Of course, I saw her that first time skyclad, but this is somehow far more intimate. Far more tempting. And now that I’ve gotten to know her, she’s far more beautiful.

  Emelie is dressed now only in a lovely matching lingerie set. Her tight coral nipples peek out cheekily through the sheer cups. The black embroidered lace contrasts with the pale ivory of her skin, and it fits her perfectly, cupping and pushing up her full breasts in a way I can only envy. My hands itch to replace it.

  Matching black panties. Further torture. Jacquard satin conceals any hint of her fiery curls, while the sheer lace at her hips teases me with glimpses of her soft skin. My dragon wants to tear it all from her.

  Emelie slides her hands behind her back, unhooks her bra. She slides the straps off her arms one by one, keeping her breasts hidden until the last second. They spill out at last like ripe fruit.

  “Ready to grant me mercy?”

  “Not even close,” I say.

  The scent of her is feminine musk, wanton desire. It calls to me, a siren song I can’t deny. For Emelie, there is no need for bindings, for tokens, for magical circles—I am helpless in the face of her power.

  “Well, I’ve got to pay for my wish somehow, don’t I?”

  “I thought you were going to beg me.”

  “Please…?”

  “Hmm.”

  I don’t think she’s quite got the spirit of it yet.

  I take her hands, wrap my discarded shirt around her wrists.

  “You’ll beg so much more prettily when you’re tied up.”

  Her lips part. Her eyes widen.

  “Tied up?” She nibbles her full lower lip. “Are you going to make me beg as—as your payment?”

  The way she’s looking at me makes me want to rip those panties off once and for all.

  “At this rate, I might be the one begging you.”

  She laughs in disbelief. It cuts off when I take one coral point between my lips, feeling it pebble against my tongue.

  “Nej—”

  “Nej?”

  “Nej, you’re not. I am. Oh, that feels amazing. Please don’t stop.”

  Her skin is so soft against my face. Her hips so lush and full under my palms. I fill my hands with her, reveling in her generous curves. My mouth moves to the other breast, bathing it with heat. I wrap my arms around her, pick her up off the bed. She gives a little squeak.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I push open the door to the balcony with one hip and carry her out.

  There is the hint of a breeze, and faint sounds of late evening traffic waft up on its tendrils.

  “It’s a little cold,” she says.

  “I’ll warm you.”

  I set her down in a padded lounge chair, wrapping my shirt’s loose ends around the bars at the top so her hands are prettily captured above her head. Emelie makes a pleading little noise, like a small animal caught in a trap.

  “So now you’ll beg?”

  She nods. The ambient city light filters up, lighting her curves from everywhere and nowhere. Her nipples, small hard pearls, point up at me. She doesn’t need to speak—her body is doing the begging for her.

  I straddle her on the lounge chair, one knee on its cushion. I lower myself on top of her, careful not to crush her with
my weight. Emelie moans when my bare chest brushes hers.

  “Your payment, lilla häxan,” I say softly. “You promised to let me taste you. Drink your honey from the source. To taste you when you come for me.”

  She nods, unable to speak. Shivering a bit, she presses herself against me.

  “Still cold?”

  Another nod.

  I lean over, pulling a soft blanket from a neatly folded pile by our chair. Spreading it over her upper body, I hide her skin from my gaze, teasing myself with the knowledge of her bare breasts concealed underneath like a secret prize.

  But her legs, her delicious thick thighs, are still bare. And those are mine.

  Mine.

  I slide down her body, dip my head, trace the line of her lace panties with my tongue. A contrast of hot, silky skin and the cool rasp of black lace.

  She cries out, shivers.

  I smile, hook a finger in the elastic of her panties.

  Pull.

  The scent of her fills me, fills my senses, my soul. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her—fight for her, steal for her, tear down mountains for her. But I would never tell her this.

  I can’t remember the last time a woman has felt this sweet. Tasted this sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever had one who was. Every molecule of me cries out for her, to take her, to possess her. I want to weep for the beauty of her.

  All I can do is communicate this through touch. I stroke her as gently as I would a half-wild cat—tentatively, experimentally, allowing her to learn to trust me.

  Emelie arches up to meet my touch, and then I know she is tame to me.

  I work her damned panties off, bit by bit, revealing her red-gold treasure. She wriggles impatiently, demanding my attention.

  “Are you begging me yet, häxan?”

  She makes a frustrated noise, but makes no answer.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ja!” she cries. “Yes, damn it! Stop fucking teasing me!”

  I growl in victory. Her thighs have parted for me, a sweet invitation. Her pussy, crowned with rosy gold, a sweet treasure I’ve been dying to acquire. Still, it’s not yet time.

  With one finger I trace the delicate wet slit. Her hips buck like an unbroken horse.

  “Is this what you want, häxan?”

  “Stop torturing me!”

  I trace the soft fold between thigh and pussy with my tongue—so close to my goal, yet so far.

  “Please, Ragnarr—please!”

  Again. Just a tiny bit closer, but not close enough for her taste. Nor close enough for mine.

  Her musk fills my senses. My body trembles with need for her, but I deny myself. I deny her. I want to hear her beg me for it. I want to know she wants me.

  Again. The soft red-gold curls rasp against my tongue, and I sense her wetness just a little bit closer, just a few more millimeters from my tongue. A siren’s call, beckoning.

  My arms wrap around her voluptuous thighs, my hands tucking over her hips. I draw up the flesh gently, parting her pussy for my questing tongue.

  “Do you want this, häxan? Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

  “Oh—fy fan!” She raises her head, glares down at me. “I’m begging you! Happy now? Just—fucking—do—it! I’m begging—I’m begging you!”

  I smile up at her. Hold her gaze. Point my tongue, draw it delicately up along her slit. Her jaw drops, she gasps as my tongue flicks across her exposed clit. She can’t take her eyes off of me as I repeat the motion, starting slowly just above the puckered rosebud of her ass and ending with a quick little flick at her clit.

  “Your honey is even sweeter than I remember.”

  I dip my tongue deeper in the middle of my strokes, sampling the depth of hot wetness there. Wildflower honey, sea-salt, musk. If ever there was a place I’d like to die, it’s here.

  She struggles against her bonds. “Please, untie me.”

  I laugh. “Oh, I don’t think so, häxan. Not when I’m just starting to get comfortable.”

  A high keening escapes her as I trace the wet line of her pussy with deliberate slowness. I swallow the pool of her honey that collects on my tongue, and go back for more.

  Her hips rock up to meet me with every stroke. She is shameless, wanton, her breasts jiggling under the blanket with every movement. She is a sex goddess, flagrant, unashamed, and I help her ascend to the glorious throne in the heavens which is her due.

  Emelie’s clit is a hot, smooth gemstone beneath my tongue. Her honey coats my face, my chin, as if she’s marked me deliberately with her scent. I want to mark her as she’s marked me.

  I want to claim her, fuck her, knot her, breed her.

  Own her. Hoard her.

  Love her.

  My right hand finds her slit, and one finger, then two, slip inside. I hook my fingers up, find her spot. Beckon to her.

  Come for me. Lilla häxan, come for me.

  An answering burst of wetness. Her body tenses, her back arches. Her fingers dig sharp grooves into the cushion beneath her.

  High-pitched screams echo off surrounding buildings as her body explodes in orgasm, riding my fingers, riding my tongue in the heights of her need. I smile into her, never relenting, never slowing, urging her on to ever greater heights. Her cunt honey pools in my palm, tiny spurts of it exploding upwards onto my chin.

  My cock is hard and heavy, throbbing with the want of her, throbbing in time with the pulsing of her orgasm around my fingers.

  * * *

  She pulls me up with her eyes, wanting to be kissed after. I come willingly, resting only a part of my weight on her. Emelie kisses me deeply, tasting herself on me, licking her honey from my lips, my cheeks, my chin.

  “You like tasting yourself?”

  “I do, but it’s never tasted as good as it does off of you.”

  “You may lick your honey from me any time you please.”

  Her tongue makes soft strokes against my face, seeking out any trace of her own creamy wetness. She truly is a sex goddess—gods, I want that tongue on me, on my chest, on my throat, on my cock.

  “That tongue would make even me beg,” I say hoarsely.

  “Is that so?” She finds one last spot, cleans it from my skin. “Are you still thinking naughty thoughts?”

  “You caught me.” I laugh a little. “Am I that transparent?”

  “You might be a dragon, but you’re still a man. And it might have been a while, but I know what men are like.”

  “Do you now?” I give her an arch look. “And how are men, pray tell?”

  “Easily pleased. Easily steered. If you know the right buttons to push, the right face to make, and the right place to stand.”

  My cock throbs in answer. She feels it. Laughs.

  “See?”

  “I do see,” I say, pulling the blanket down to admire her beauty. “I’ll see to remember this haughty attitude the next time you’re begging me for it, lilla häxan.”

  She gives me a flirtatious little look. But then she remembers something, looks down at my disc between her breasts. The golden crescent has waxed now to just over half full.

  Her eyes cloud over just a little.

  I fear what storm those clouds indicate. If the rain they bring will drown me, drag me back down to unfathomable depths of despair.

  My throat tightens, anticipating the familiar lack of oxygen. The lack of light, the lack of love.

  I know it all too well.

  With fingers that tremble just the slightest bit, I untie her, set her free. She sits up, not quite meeting my eyes. Her skin is still damp with sweat, and it prickles with gooseflesh in the light breeze.

  She hugs herself, but something in the way she holds her arms keeps me from offering the warmth of mine instead.

  13: Emelie

  “Hello? Are you guys open?”

  It’s the afternoon lull between lunch and dinner service. I’m stocking the bar for the week, cleaning taps, hooking up kegs, and making sure the lines are working prop
erly.

  Many of our customers are American tourists, and the woman who just walked in has a pronounced accent. I’m not sure what it is exactly—maybe the northeast, New York or Boston maybe.

  I wipe my hands on a bar towel and come around to greet her in English.

  “I’m sorry, we’re not, but if you’d like to make a reservation for dinner—”

  “Oh no, I’m actually here about a job position I saw.”

  She’s tall, with a beautiful dark complexion and a full figure. It’s hard to tell her age. It could be anywhere from twenty-five to a well-preserved fifty.

  “My name is Valerie James.”

  She extends her hand to shake. Her grip is firm and confident.

  “I’m Emelie Odenberg, co-owner and head mazer. I’m the artistic one. Linnea Eklund takes care of the business end of things. She’s upstairs, but I think she’s making some calls at the moment.” I give her a smile. “So you’re American. How did you end up looking for a job here?”

  “Yeah, I’m from Philly. Philadelphia.”

  “Ah, okay.” So that’s what her accent is. At least I was close.

  “It’s a funny story, actually.” Her luminous chocolate-brown eyes are wide and animated, lit by a sharp intelligence. “I just finished up my MBA in Business Management studying abroad in the Netherlands. It’s a prestigious program. Anyway, an old friend of mine lives here in Sweden. We went to college together in Philly, and after that we were coven-mates—that was before I went solitary. But she met a Swede a few years ago and now they live about twenty minutes south of here. So she invited me to come and visit, to catch up and celebrate getting my Master’s and all that.”

  Valerie says all this in an animated rush. Just something about her makes me smile. She’s so passionate, a breath of fresh air—a sweep of animated color against a muted sea of subdued Swedes.

  “But you don’t live here?”

  “Well—not really. But right now I’m staying with my friend. Her house is huge. Yesterday she actually brought up the idea of me moving in long-term if I like the area and find a job locally, because she’s been looking for a reliable boarder.”