by Rush, Jaime
She released a soft sigh, falling back flat on the bed. “You bring me to life, Archer.” No one had made her feel this way, consumed, spellbound. Not the Thrall either. The Archer Thrall maybe. She held tight to her Dragon as it writhed in sensuality.
He moved down to her inner thigh. “You will warn me before I find myself kissing scales, won’t you?”
When his mouth covered her clitoris, she could feel his heat. And her own. “I’ll…try.”
His tongue nudged into her folds, sliding through her wetness. She drew in staggered breaths, losing herself in the orgasm. When he slid his finger inside her, she caught a second wave of pleasure. She let it roll over her, drowning in the sensations.
When she came back to herself, feeling light-headed, she found Archer watching her with a smile. “You’re quite beautiful when you come. Your cheeks and chest flush, and your mouth—”
She pushed him back to the bed, kissing the embarrassing words away. “Let’s see how you look when you come.”
But she made him wait for it, moving her mouth over his perfect body, reveling in touching him everywhere. She tortured him back, alternately gentle and hard as she sucked his nipples. Moving lower, she took him into her mouth, then nibbled down the length of him. And only when she’d brought him to the edge, with his fingers digging into her shoulders, did she straddle him.
He gripped her hips and shoved her down onto him. “Gods…Lyra.” The way he said her name sounded like a prayer and a curse at once.
The muscles in his neck tightened, his teeth gritted. “Does the fact that I want to devour you come from the Dragon essence?” he asked. “I’ve…never felt this way.”
“Probably. My beast wants to let loose—”
He turned them so he was on top, and he did devour her mouth as he drove into her. “Want to tear into you, shatter you.”
Oh, yeah, he was feeling the Dragon sensuality. The Dragon lent the passion, but not the technique. Caidos weren’t asexual; they were overly sensual. Everything he did, every touch and caress, he seemed to do by instinct.
They moved together for a wonderfully long time, his body covering hers, his heat enveloping her. She felt a great pressure build inside her, like nothing she’d ever experienced, increasing with every thrust. When it exploded, she felt that ocean wave hit her the way his voice had earlier, sucking her beneath the water and tossing her about. When she burst to the surface, she gasped for breath.
“It’s you too,” she uttered, grabbing him tight as his body shuddered.
He filled her, physically, emotionally. When his spasms subsided and he came back to himself, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them to the side. “What?”
He was breathless, too, and she realized his hand resting on her hip was trembling. His whole body trembled, covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
She traced her fingers across his flushed face. “Your hunger, the fire, it’s not only the Dragon. It’s inside you.”
“No, it’s you, Lyra. You lit that fire.” He traced a finger across the lines of her face, rubbing his thumb over her lower lip. “I hold you responsible, Dragon Girl. I’m going to want more of it. A lot more. With you.”
She smiled. “Oh yeah, I can definitely handle that.”
THE END
See the next page for a preview of the next book in the Hidden series
Dragon Awakened
Ruby sat in her truck across the street from Dragon Arts. She’d changed clothes and done a quick cleanup at home. Even taking that bit of time had stretched her tight because she’d wanted to drive right over and tear out Cyntag’s throat.
Those kinds of thoughts usually disturbed her, hinting at a primitive violence that reared its head when someone wronged or threatened her. It throbbed inside her, making her flex her fingers.
Get it under control. This is one bad dude. All I’m doing right now is finding out how bad.
Her gaze fell on the dragon on the sign, triggering the logical part of her brain. A bad dude who possibly has control of bizarre and deadly weapons while you have a gun. Hullo?
But what else can I do, let him just get away with killing Uncle Mon and never know why?
All she had were Cyntag’s name and the schizophrenic thoughts bouncing around in her head.
He was teaching a class starting in—she glanced at the clock—one minute. While he was otherwise occupied, she’d snoop and be long gone before his class was over. She had no idea how much Cyntag knew about her. Because she usually wore her hair in a braid, she left it loose and frizzy. Not a big disguise but, at a glance, different enough. She had no intention of him seeing her, but best to be prepared. Which included her gun, the metal cool against the small of her back. She’d found it useful when going to look at a potential restoration job. In a city like Miami, no way was she walking into someone’s garage alone and unarmed.
Warm air washed over her neck, and in the corner of her eye, something shimmered right next to her. She jerked to the side and stared at…nothing. All her hairs sprung to attention. It had felt like a breath.
Her mystery rash, which only broke out on the right side of her stomach, burned something fierce. Doctors couldn’t figure it out, and she’d tried every kind of medication to no avail. Stress always triggered it. Watching her uncle get killed by some supernatural weapon had to rank high on that list of stressors. Being unable to tell anyone about it, and now investigating the only suspect, oh yeah, she was stressing big-time.
She stepped out of the air-conditioned cab of her truck and into the mid-September heat and humidity. The buildings in this area were old but in good repair. She spotted a Spanish/Portuguese restaurant across the way, and most of the signage was in Spanish with English subtitles. She generally felt like a foreigner in Miami, often one of the few Anglo people at any given location.
She caught sight of her reflection as she approached the glass door: cargo pants, black T sporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ asterisk logo, and black work boots that protected her feet if something heavy fell on them. The bandage on her forehead, that had to go.
Dragon Arts was first class, with a comfortable waiting area, natural wood floors, and halogen lights in frosted glass cones. A raven-skinned woman, framed by a tattered pirate’s flag on the wall behind her, sharpened pencils at a tall reception desk.
Her dark pink lipstick made her white teeth pop when she smiled. “May I help you, sugar?” The small gold plaque on the desk proclaimed her name as Glesenda.
“I wanted to check the place out, see what classes you offered.”
She handed Ruby a slick brochure, studying her eyes. “And not listed are…” She did a double take, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well, you can see the listing for yourself.”
Well, okay, then. Ruby devoured the flier, looking for one thing: a picture of the owner. No deal, same with their website. A Net search gleaned several articles mentioning Cyntag’s name in conjunction with either his studio or some competition a student had been in, but no personal information.
Ruby caught Glesenda’s eye. “I understand Cyntag Valeron teaches Cane Fighting Level One?” Whatever that was.
Glesenda nodded toward one of the large glass windows. “He’s teaching in the Sapphire Room right now.”
Ruby wanted to run, to finally put a face to her uncle’s murderer. Her breath left her with every step toward the window. A class of ten men of various ages stood in formation as they watched two men spar at the far side of the room. One sported a shaved head, was in his fifties, and weighed about two-fifty. The other—holy Jesus in Heaven. She sucked in air and tried to pull herself together. He was whip-lean and muscular, wearing loose white pants with a tight black sash at his waist, his ripped torso slick with sweat. Gorgeous, dangerous-looking…and the spit-and-polish image of the Dragon Prince from her uncle’s fairy-tale book.
He had a tattoo far more fantastic than any she had seen, a dragon crawling up his back. Black and blue wings spanned his shoulders, the tail s
liding down his spine to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. When he shifted sideways, she saw that the Dragon’s head peered over his shoulder. It looked three-dimensional.
“Yeah, he has that effect on most women.” Glesenda wore an amused expression. “And a few men.”
Not quite this effect, Ruby bet. Her chest was so tight she had to push out the words, “That’s Cyntag, the one with the Dragon tat?”
“Sure is. Total hotness,” she said on a sigh.
Yeah, well, whatever. The hefty guy pretended to sneak up behind Cyntag, who twisted, hooked the other guy’s neck with the curved handle of the cane, and sent him flat on the mat in a flash. Unscathed, Hefty jumped to his feet and tried another attack, which was quickly thwarted with a pseudo-whack of the cane to his head. She watched, mesmerized by the grace of Cyntag’s movements, the way his muscles flexed, and how damned fast he was.
“You can listen in, too.” Glesenda pressed a button and then ran in five-inch heels to answer the phone.
Cyntag’s voice came through the speaker. “The next counterattack we’ll demonstrate is a face-to-face attack.”
Yes, the low, smooth voice she’d heard on the threatening message for Mon.
Ready to take more abuse, Hefty tried to punch Cyntag and ended up with his arm locked behind him and the cane shoving him to the floor.
Cyntag extended his hand and effortlessly pulled Hefty to his feet. “Thanks, Stephen.” He raised the cane over his head, which bulged his biceps, and addressed his class. “Looks like a sign of disability or old age, right? If I’m looking for a victim, you’re an easy target. Or maybe not. If you’ve got one of these, you have the ability to fight off an attacker with force. At all times, you can carry a weapon right out in the open, no permit needed.”
There was an underlying accent in his voice, a slight Spanish lilt but not Cuban or any dialect she heard all the time. Perhaps from Spain, which would account for the dark hair and exotic slant to his eyes. He moved with a stealthy grace and enviable self-confidence. What in his life had made him capable of murder?
At that moment, Cyntag started to look her way. Ruby moved out of view, her fingers so tight on the frame she had to pry them off. Her hands were shaking as she passed the desk where Glesenda was on the phone with someone who was obviously calling in sick. Ruby glanced at a clock made from weathered wood. Forty-five minutes before class ended.
She’d laid her eyes on him, all right. What was she going to do about it? The only way to take him out—if she could—was to shoot him from a distance, but that wouldn’t glean any answers. She was as desperate for them as she was revenge. Maybe something here would help.
She passed the Obsidian Room. This one bore no window. Too bad, because disturbing sounds emanated from behind the closed door. She tried the handle, ready to act contrite at interrupting the class. She’d grown adept at bluffing while negotiating for antiques that she wanted to restore and sell.
Except, no deal. The door was locked solid. The thumps and growls coming from within were muffled, as though the walls were somewhat soundproofed. Those growls sounded so primal that they raised chill bumps on her arms. But more than that, they reached deep inside and twisted at her insides. She wandered into the shop and pretended to look at fighting sticks, canes, and uniforms. Until she spotted a closed door with the words EMPLOYEES ONLY on it.
She pushed it open, prepared once again to pretend innocence if she found someone on the other side. Her chest loosened only a bit when she found a vacated break room. A door at the other end was ajar, and she could see a desk. Maybe Cyntag’s office. Inside, a contemporary desk juxtaposed more antiques, like framed compasses and maps that looked as though they’d traveled on many a high seas. No pictures of friends, family, or a special vacation. A collection of porcelain dragons lined the top shelf of the bookcase, each locked in combat with either another of its kind or a man wielding a sword. Dude had a thing for dragons, obviously.
She realized she was scratching at the damned rash again and dropped her hand. She closed the door and sank into the leather chair, searching for any clue to who Cyntag was and what he was involved in. Quick, in and out—anything incriminating would be documented with her phone camera. She’d rifled through four drawers, finding nothing out of the ordinary, when the door opened. Her heartbeat shot straight up into her throat as she turned.
Because of course, it had to be Cyntag standing there.
Also by Jaime Rush
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