All, that was, except her stranger. And seriously, could you get any weirder?
I can smell your want.
The man’s murmured words slinked through her head and, for the love of God, her pussy contracted.
Now there’s a weirdo, Sera Hayes. Your psychotic kisser. What are you going to do about him?
Do about him? Chase him? Press charges against him? Hell, she didn’t even know his name.
Damn, why didn’t she know his name?
Are you serious?
“…doing this again on a public footpath, okay?”
Sera blinked. The cop was still talking. Admittedly a few steps farther away from her than where he’d stood before, his hand resting on his gun, but still talking to her nonetheless.
“Sorry?”
He scowled. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you and your…boyfriend, but next time, please avoid doing it on a public footpath, okay?”
Doing it.
It.
The word sent a wave of shimmering, tight, wanton need through Sera. She bit back a gasp, staring at the cop as he continued berating her, her pussy throbbing and pulsing and doing all manner of squirmy horny things at the thought of doing “it” with her stranger. Her nipples pinched tight, her heart raced faster and, before she realized it, she was pressing her thighs together at the memory of the way he’d kissed her. The way he’d cupped her breast and made love to her mouth with his—
The shark alarm at Bondi Beach wailed into life, a high-pitched siren that shattered the highly erotic and utterly disturbing memory.
Sera let out a gasp, her heart not just missing a beat but a whole goddamn chorus. She jerked her stare to the beach, her throat tight. People were running screaming from the surf, the shark alarm continued to wail and, above it all, a cacophony of shouts filled the air, all yelling the same thing: “Shark! There’s a fucking great big shark in the water!”
The cop ran for the beach. At a dead sprint on the exact trajectory her stranger had run only moments earlier. Why the cop was running for the waves, Sera couldn’t decide—hysterical relief over something other than her to deal with, perhaps? Whatever reason, she was glad for it. She wanted to go home. Go home, take a shower and forget this whole surreal episode had happened.
“Strange that a shark could get past the shark nets, no?”
Sera started at the voice to her left. She swung about, finding a little old lady complete with poorly applied pink lipstick and matching shell-framed glasses standing beside her.
“I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, dearie,” the wizened woman continued, “but aren’t those nets there to keep the swimmers safe and the sharks out?”
The woman’s eyes seemed to glint behind the thick lenses of her glasses as she stared hard at Sera. Hard enough to make her squirm.
Sera frowned, gripping Hannibal’s leash tighter. The dog—finally finished with his scrotal-licking preoccupation—came to the party on his protective duties and rose to his feet, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
The old woman shuffled back a step, flicking the huge beast a hesitant look.
Heat flooded Sera’s cheeks. She gave Hannibal’s leash a gentle tug. “Oh, right,” she muttered to him, trying to make him heel. “The psychotic kisser you don’t worry about one iota, but the little old lady gets your wind up?”
“Psychotic kisser?” the lady echoed, that glint not just in her eyes turning her inspection into something close to intense fervor. “You didn’t consent to his affections? Oh dearie, you need to report him. Do you know his name? His address? I can help with the report if you wish. Do you know where he lives? I could go with you now to demand an apology if you like.”
The questions lashed at Sera. There was no other way to describe it. They came at her fast, the little old lady shuffling forward with each one, coming closer and closer. Hannibal growled again. Louder this time. Growled and strained against his leash.
Sera swallowed. “N-no…I don’t…” She stopped, frowned. Looked out at the beach and the hordes of people keeping distance from the waves and back to the old woman with the piercing stare again. “I mean…how did a shark get—”
“You don’t even know the man who kissed you moments ago?” The elderly lady pulled a face of disgust. “Shameful.”
New heat flushed Sera’s cheeks. “That’s not…” She fumbled to a halt, biting her bottom lip with her teeth. Why did she feel like she had to protect her stranger? Especially against a woman who looked at least eighty-five in the shade?
No idea. But you do. Don’t you? And while we’re pondering the surreal and ludicrous, where exactly did your stranger go? Into the waves semi-naked and you haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t popped up once, not even to take a breath. How is that possible? Where did he go?
And why do you so desperately want to know?
She didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. It pissed her off. Enough that she forgot her reprobate mother had managed to raise a daughter who was polite and respectful to elders. She narrowed her eyes at the possible octogenarian scowling at her. Hannibal growled again. “Are you always this pushy?”
“Only with little hussies who snog complete strangers in the street.”
Sera’s eyebrows shot up her forehead, going from angry to stunned in a single jump. “Excuse me?”
The little old lady muttered something that sounded a lot like “stupid cunt”, shook her head and then offered a smile so saccharin, Sera’s mouth fell open. “I must be off, dearie. It was lovely talking to you.”
She turned and shuffled away and, for the first time, Sera noticed she wore running shoes with her matronly dress. Albeit pink running shoes, to match her lipstick and glasses, but running shoes all the same. Pink running shoes and thick black socks.
Sera blinked. “That is the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Really? Freakier than a gorgeous, sexy guy who scares the shit out of a cop with just a flare of his nostrils? Or freakier than a man who runs into the surf after kissing you with more passion than you’ve ever been kissed in your life?
She swung her head and stared at the beach, doing her best to ignore the ridiculous way her sex throbbed at the memory of that unbelievable kiss. The beach was packed with confused people. They stood at the water’s edge, staring at the waves as if searching for the shark. The alarm was no longer wailing and the cop who’d come to her rescue earlier was now trudging back up the beach, heading in her direction.
“Whoops, Hannibal, time to go.” She pivoted on her heel, tugging the still-growling dog with her, and began trotting along the footpath.
Yes, it was time to go. Time to go home, have a shower and put this whole situation behind her.
Now if only her damn pussy would stop carrying on, reminding her with insistent force exactly what she was trying to forget—one brilliant kiss from a complete stranger.
Stupid bloody pussy.
Chapter 2
Tyson climbed out of the surf naked and human once more. Damn it. He really liked those cargoes. And the shirt he’d tossed aside, come to think of it. And he’d only just broken in his shoes so they were perfectly comfortable and—
Crikey, Ty. Are you really worrying about your clothes? You do remember what just happened, don’t you?
He did. But it was better to concentrate on the here and now than the twenty minutes ago. At least until he ascertained the tiny beach surrounded by rocky cliffs he was currently wading toward was as unpopulated as usual. A larger-than-normal wave smashed into the backs of his thighs and he struggled to stay on his feet, casting a slow stare along the deserted inlet as he did so. Thank God he knew the little impossible-to-reach beach existed, otherwise Sydneysiders would be getting a side order of dragon with their six p.m. news that night.
That would be bad. Contemporary man wasn’t equipped to deal with the concept of dragons, let alone dragons that were also humans.
That he’d had to resort to diving into the water back
at Bondi Beach to hide his uncontrolled shift made him a little unnerved. That he’d had to swim underwater in dragon form for so long before he was able to shift back unnerved him even more.
Unnerved? Think that’s probably a slight understatement there. Seriously, when was the last time you shifted without intent? Hell, when was the last time you shifted, period?
He bit back a growl, the waves lapping at his ankles as he finally cleared the surf. Until today, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d shifted. Unlike the country’s lucky canine shifters, who could shift and go for a run in the nearest National Park, cocking their legs on any and every tree that came along, dragon shifters were pretty much confined to human form. It wasn’t scared villagers one had to worry about nowadays, but backyard guerillas with their registered handguns. Even heading out to the country posed various threats, given every farmer and his dog possessed a Government-approved high-powered rifle these days.
What with the vicious feral pigs running amuck in the country, Tyson wasn’t surprised the farmers were armed to the teeth. He’d had a run-in with one such wild boar back in his teenage years and his right calf still ached in wet weather due to the injury he sustained. Even a dragon had to draw the line somewhere when it came to taking on prey. Those feral pigs and antsy farmers made flying around in the bush a high-risk exercise. Try to take wing near a farmer’s property and you were bound to have your belly hit with a round of bullets.
Dropping onto the sand, the fine grains biting into his naked butt, Tyson dragged his hands through his wet hair. As always after a shift, his skin tingled. It was a wholly wonderful sensation, like walking through a cascade of liquid heat bubbles, but unlike nature had intended, he couldn’t enjoy it right now.
He’d met his Fire Mate. The one female his id, his soul and his body would forever be joined with. His destined mate, his future, his forever…and she was human. How the fuck did that even happen?
He didn’t know. But he had to find out. It was impossible for a human to be a dragon shifter’s mate. Impossible.
First things first though, Ty. You need to find some clothes.
He wriggled his toes in the sand, staring out at the Pacific Ocean stretching before him and then up at the imposing, vertical cliff face behind him. His home was about forty minutes west of where he was now. Forty minutes of densely populated Bondi packed to the rafters with camera-toting tourists and Smartphone-wielding locals. A naked man running through the streets was bound to grab attention. The last thing he needed was to get his bare butt a spot on someone’s YouTube playlist, Twitter feed or Instagram account.
So, shift again? Wait until night and shift? Fly home?
His gut knotted, his skin tingling with a million pricks of icy fire. As enticing as the idea was, it was dangerous. Too dangerous. The air above Sydney was one of the busiest flight paths in the world. No matter how fast he was, how low he flew, he’d be detected. Pilot, stargazer, it didn’t matter which, he’d be spotted. When in dragon form, he was roughly the size of a sperm whale with a wingspan that rivaled that of a 747. He was also covered in scales the color of iridescent blood. Pretty hard to miss.
Besides, he couldn’t wait that long. He couldn’t. As much as he’d like to believe the whole human-as-Fire-Mate thing was some preternatural fuck-up he could ignore, he couldn’t. His croi, his inhuman source of existence, had found hers—whoever she was—and now he had to claim her.
Claim her, fuck her, brand her and join with her on every level imaginable.
Within the next twelve hours. Or all his worries about being detected would mean sweet fuck-all.
Which means you’re not only going to have to climb the cliff buck-naked, but also do a runner through the streets until you can find something to wear.
Tyson let out another growl, this one a little less human and a whole lot exasperated. He wasn’t a small man. No dragon shifter ever was. At six-five and ripped with muscle, he was pretty damn intimidating to look at. He knew that. However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see himself pulling a Schwarzenegger à la Terminator and just walking up to a guy his size, demanding said guy hand over his clothes. While Tyson wasn’t worried about being beaten to a pulp—he was damn near invincible in a physical punch-up, after all—there was that constant social media threat. And the threat of being arrested. That was a situation he could really do without.
As far as the human world was concerned, Tyson Conley of Sydney, Australia, was thirty-five years old. At least, that’s what Tyson’s driver’s license said. If cops started digging however, they’d discover that identity only went back five years. If they really knew he was over two hundred…
No. He had to make it to his home without police attention, or if not his home, at least a phone to call his brother. Ryan had stood him up for lunch. In Tyson’s mind, that meant his brother bloody well owed him.
Okay. So what’s the plan, Stan? Get home, get dressed and get hunting?
He pushed himself to his feet, wiped off the sand clinging to his naked butt, shook more from his balls and swiped a few grains from the end of his cock. His cock which, he was more than a little dismayed to see, was already growing stiff and fat at the idea of finding his mysterious human Fire Mate.
Lord love a duck, he’d never had much trouble getting it up, but this was borderline ridiculous. Getting a hard-on just thinking about finding her? What the hell was his dick going to do when he was actually near her again?
What was it going to do when he was inside her?
The thought was too much for him. Too enticing and too inescapable. He groaned, his gut clenching, his groin tightening. Her taste filled his mouth, his mind having already stored every possible detail it could from their short, explosive kiss.
Fire swept over him, again, scalding his senses. His cock jerked, now as hard as it had ever been, the head wet with pre-come. His balls didn’t just ache, they throbbed with exquisite agony. Needing her touch, her tongue, her mouth…
His knees gave out.
He stumbled back a step, the mating fire rendering his legs weak. God, he could barely stand. Pain lashed through him, the pain of absolute lust and desire. He fell to his knees, gut roiling, breath caught in his throat. Scary need lanced through him. Consumed him. His cock jerked again, a pulsing spasm that sent wicked pleasure deep into his core. He threw back his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he was going to shift. Again.
He was going to shift unless he did something to stop it. Something to—
He grabbed his dick. Wrapped his fingers around its thick, rigid length and pumped.
Raw pleasure burst through him. Raw and concentrated and absolute. It speared into his groin, into his very center. He gritted his teeth, blinding showers of red and orange and white erupting behind his closed eyelids. Ancient hunger and primordial need turned his blood to rivers of molten lust. He pumped his cock, head back, mouth open. The image of his mysterious Fire Mate filled his head. They were her fingers on his cock, not his own. They had to be. If he was to stop the shift, it had to be her fucking him with her hand. It had to be her fingers jerking him off, bringing him to release.
He thrust into her tight grip, his cock stretching her fingers wide, his pre-come wetting them, making them slick so he could fuck her hand faster. Harder. And he did, moaning as she snared his balls with her other hands and kneaded them with violent force. A blistering summer gust blew up the beach, like a blast from a sand furnace, and Ty cried out, his skin so hot the wind caused an impossible chill to ripple over him.
His mysterious Fire Mate worked his cock, stroked it, squeezed it. Punished its bulbous head with brutal urgency before pumping again. Her fingers choked the root of his shaft even as she tugged and massaged his swollen balls. He shuddered, the rising excitement in his core licking at his control, running through his veins. The fire simmering beneath his flesh turned hotter, so hot. He cried out again, the sound inhuman. It reverberated around the inlet, bounced off the rocky cliff
walls and assaulted him—the mating cry of a creature beyond rational thought.
God help him, he was close. Close to shifting. Close to coming. Close…so close.
Fuck her hand. Fuck her hand and believe it’s her mouth. Before you shift and all is—
He slammed his hand up and down his cock and pictured her mouth sucking it. Pictured her lips stretched. Lips that tasted so sweet, that felt so soft under his. He saw her sucking his dick. Felt her lash its length with the tongue he’d had in his mouth less than an hour ago.
His skin rippled, the shift so close now his bones began to burn as well. A raging inferno consumed him, a pyre of rebirth he knew couldn’t be tempered or controlled. It was a race. A race to release. Either his climax or his dragon would win, and if the shift claimed him first…
Fuck, gonna come, gotta come, gonna…gotta…oh fuck.
A shudder rocked through him. Painful. Violent. He thrust into his Fire Mate’s mouth, fucked it. It was so good. So fucking good. And still the shift loomed closer. His mind, his god-cursed human mind, knew it his hand, not her mouth. His hand, not her cunt. And he needed that mouth and that cunt. Needed them so much. Her sweet pussy that was his and his a—
He came.
At the thought of his cock slamming into her sex, Tyson came hard. Ropes of thick seed erupted from his dick, arcing through the air to splash the pristine white sand.
His release poured through him like liquid energy, and as it left him in powerful jets, the fantasy it was her causing this pleasure overwhelmed him. Overwhelmed the shift and, with one final cry, with one final shudder, he collapsed completely. Naked and covered in sweat and come and sand.
But human. Thank fucking Christ, still human. At least on the outside.
Sera's Dragon Page 2
