Sold To The Dragon Princes: The Novel

by Daniella Wright

  “So you got a lot of money, huh?” asked Bess. I shot her a look, mortified.

  “Bess!”

  But Laird only laughed. “I have plenty of money. Why do you ask?”

  Bess gave me a look that was both mischievous and practical. I waited for her to answer before I jumped to conclusions, though I was scandalized by her boldness.

  “Miss Truwent here has an inn,” said Bess. “Not too far from the village.”

  My eyes widened and I kicked her under the table. She shot me a meaningful look and I stood up.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe,” I said apologetically. “I need a moment with my friend, if you don’t mind.”

  I practically dragged Bess by the elbow to the other side of the patio.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “He needs somewhere to stay,” she pointed out. “And he’s loaded. I bet he’s willing to drop a pretty penny to find somewhere to hide out.”

  I thought about it, reluctantly admitting to myself that she was right. He seemed hard-up for a place to stay in order to avoid his publisher. I was turned off by his overly-flirtatious manner with the women who had been here before but I was intrigued by him—I had imagined what he might be like many times, what kind of man could write such exciting and beautiful stories as he was capable of. If I were to admit it to myself, the idea of having him around was quite thrilling. To be able to pick his brain, to see his process, would be worth it.

  “Okay,” I said. “But you have to really drive a hard bargain. If you can get us enough money, it’s a deal.”

  Bess nodded and grinned confidently. I loved the boldness of my best friend, adored her more than anyone else I knew. She marched back over to the table and took a seat across from Laird. I did the same, gazing at him shyly through my lashes.

  “Look, I’ll pay up front,” he said, desperation haunting his voice, then he winked at me. “I’m sure the place is as beautiful as the company.”

  I blushed and looked away, avoiding his eye.

  “A week’s rent,” I said. “Up front.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

  He pulled out his billfold and I was shocked when he removed a wad of cash, counting out more money than it would cost to pay to stay at my place for a whole month. I tried to tell him so, but Bess interrupted me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Monroe,” she said, beaming. She collected the money and put it into her bag. “I’ll go give this to Lawrence. And oh,” she paused, looking at Laird. “I can drop by and get your stuff from the Radley if you don’t want to run into your boss.”

  Her eyes sparkled. She was so lively it made me jealous. I wouldn’t know how to speak to him so well, how to handle his warm gaze and charming grin.

  “Thank you,” said Laird, standing up. He shook her hand; a strange gesture, I thought, but I approved nonetheless. He was a wealthy man, and talented. Most men like that wouldn’t get within ten feet of shaking with someone like Bess or I. It told a lot about him that he was willing to show such a gesture.

  “How about you take the carriage and go to the house?” Bess said to me. I swallowed, not knowing how to feel about being alone with him. On one hand, he was so charming, so handsome and one of my favorite authors. On the other, that combination could be dangerous. I knew from experience. Still, I told her I would, and we climbed into the carriage as she walked toward Lawrence’s office.

  Chapter 3: Laird

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off her flaming red hair, her blue eyes and that curvy figure that could drive me wild if I wasn’t careful. I had not expected to be so enamored with her when we’d locked eyes that first time across the patio; for a moment, the three women I was with, the ones who were so open to my advances, had distracted me. Seeing her now in the carriage, the sunlight lighting her face, I saw that she was beautiful. No, gorgeous. And I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

  “Have you been running the inn for long?” I asked her, trying to make conversation. I wanted to see those lovely eyes light up when she spoke.

  “It’s not actually an inn,” she admitted. “But there are plenty of spare rooms.”

  “Well,” I said. “I thank you for letting me hide out there. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  She gave me a sly smile and my stomach did a flip. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You can punish me if I get out of line,” I said, grinning.

  “I might,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She licked her lips and looked away from me, the gesture infinitely distracting. We were quiet for the rest of the ride, which was smoother and quicker than I had imagined when I first saw the carriage. When we pulled up to the estate, I was immediately charmed by its white-washed walls and gingerbread trim. It was large, larger than I had expected, with a good-sized vegetable garden, fruit trees, and a small fish pond in the front. I got out of the carriage and was looking around when a large dog jumped against my chest, nearly knocking me over. I laughed and stroked him behind the ears as he licked my face excitedly.

  “Caesar!” my hostess chided, snapping her fingers for him to come. He let me go obediently and went to sit at her feet, patiently waiting for her attention.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He gets excited.”

  “It’s fine,” I told her, kneeling down to stroke his fur. “Great, actually. I love dogs.”

  She knelt down too, not caring that her dress was in the dirt, and petted him. Our fingers touched briefly and I looked up to hold her eye. She blushed and stood.

  “Um, we can go inside if you’d like,” she said, “I’ll show you your rooms.”

  I followed her to the front door, where she took out a large key and unlocked it. She pushed it open and I saw that the inside of the house was as cozy and charming as the outside had been. She led me through upstairs to a large set of rooms on the second floor. It was complete with a cold hearth and an attached dressing room.

  “It’s not much,” she said, “but it should suit you.”

  “It’s perfect,” I told her, making my way to the window to see the view. “Is that a goat?”

  “Gertie,” she said. “We use her for milk. She’s Bess’ actually.”

  “Oh, does Bess live here?”

  She nodded. “She’s my maid. Well, she helps out around the house at least. She’s not very maid-like.”

  “No, she definitely is not,” I said. I liked Bess. She was bold and funny, obviously very loyal to her friend.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you here for now so you can rest. Bess will be home and dinner will be ready shortly.”

  “Wait,” I said, turning toward her. She had obviously been staring at me as I looked out the window but she didn’t look away when I caught her. We locked eyes and I thought I’d drown in the blue depth of hers. “I never got your name, Miss Truwent.”

  “Naomi.”

  “Naomi,” I repeated, the word sweet on my tongue. “Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.”

  When she was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my boots off, then climbed in and laid on top of the covers. I fell asleep within minutes—the night before had been a long one, full of drunken laughter and sex and very little sleep. When I woke, it was dark outside, and I rolled out of bed to get dressed.

  I walked downstairs. It smelled delicious and my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I found the dining room and saw Naomi sitting there talking to Bess. There was food on the table—plates and plates of food. The smell of roast chicken, potatoes, and green vegetables almost made my mouth water, and I took a seat at the table across from Naomi.

  “Did you sleep?” she asked, smiling, and I realized I hadn’t looked in the mirror before coming down. I had no doubt that my hair was mussed and I knew that the stubble was starting to grow on my cheeks. I must have looked a mess.

  “I did,” I said, “thank you.”

  The two of us were quiet while Bess chattered about her time alone in town. My
personality had always been different in public than in private with few people. In public, I was a character. Laird Monroe, author, heir to the Monroe fortune. In private, though, it was harder for me to find words. I felt shy and reserved, so I was happy to listen to the two women talk. Naomi kept looking at me curiously. More than once, I’d caught her eye and held it. She was interested, I could tell. Just as interested as I was.

  Bess cut off my thoughts by addressing me. “I saw your publisher in town today. He was all up in arms about your disappearance.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, not surprised. Thank God I had found a place to stay—I couldn’t stand telling Heath that I hadn’t even started the manuscript.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He asked me over and over if I’d seen you. I told him no.”

  “I appreciate that,” I told her, genuinely thankful for her diversion.

  “And by the way, your things are in the foyer,” said Bess, raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t happen across any manuscript.”

  “There is no manuscript,” I admitted, abashed. “I haven’t even started.”

  “Why not?” piped in Naomi. I looked at her.

  “I haven’t written a single page in three years,” I said. “Nor do I think it’s possible. It’s hopeless.”

  “But you’re so talented,” she gushed, letting her enthusiasm bubble to the surface. “You can’t stop writing.”

  I shrugged. She began musing over my existing books, describing them in ways I’d never heard before, even by reviewers. It was like she remembered every detail, like she’d cherished them. I was touched and at the same time I was uncomfortable and impatient; I didn’t want to be reminded of all I had accomplished when I knew there was no future for me.

  I stood up, pushing in my chair quite suddenly. “I must go to bed now,” I said shortly, and cursed myself at the stricken look on her face. I knew I had offended her but I needed to get out of there, needed her to stop praising my work with such sweet abandon. I left without another word, going upstairs to my room, ignoring the low voices of the women behind me.

  Chapter 4: Naomi

  I didn’t know what was wrong with him. One moment we were flirting heavily, our eyes locked together. I couldn’t look away from him. When I started talking about his books, though, he had clammed up and disappeared. It was rude, in my opinion, and I was glad I didn’t have to see him for the rest of the night.

  That night I dreamt about him. He and I were characters in his first book, “The Travels of Jonathan Abbington,” who was an explorer for the queen who conquers not only far off lands, but the hearts of women he comes upon as well. In it, I was one such woman. We were entwined in my bed, his long hair spread over the pillow, and I was asking him not to leave, to stay with me forever. In the dream, I had never felt that way about anyone, I had never wanted anybody so badly.

  “I’ll never leave you, Naomi,” he promised, taking my lips in a kiss that felt more real than anything I had ever experienced. He licked my lips sensually, asking permission to slip his tongue in my mouth to tease my own. I parted my lips for him and allowed him access, relishing the taste of him, the heat of his body pressed to mine. He rolled over on top of me and I spread my legs for him but he shook his head, flipping us both over so that I was straddling his hips.

  “Show me how much you love me, darling,” he commanded, and so I wrapped my hand around his shaft and started teasing him with my fingers, making him throb in my palm. He was staring at me with a little smile on his face, watching as I played with him. In the dream, I guided him inside of me and only let him in about two inches before pulling back. I didn’t think that in real life I would ever be so bold as to try to tease a man but I wasn’t me in my dream. I was a different version of Naomi—one more powerful, more sexual than I had ever been in real life. He groaned and tried to take my hips in his hands to lower me further but I took his arms and pinned them above his head. He could have easily broken away but instead he let me hold him while I lowered my hips fully and then pulled away before he could begin thrusting upward inside of me.

  “Naomi,” he growled, his hips lifting against mine. “Stop this.”

  I shook my head at him, grinning. Instead of pushing him inside of me again I let the length of his shaft slide up and down between my folds, grinding against him with my hips. I liked being the one in control; in the dream I knew he was powerful, knew that I could be easily overwhelmed by his sexual charm and advances. It was rare that he was at my mercy and I was going to make the most of it. I slid back and forth along him while his body trembled beneath mine. I knew that he wasn’t going to let me hold him down much longer, not if I didn’t allow him inside of me soon. My hips lifted and he slid easily inside of me, all the way to the back of my channel. I began to ride him, lifting my body and lowering it, taking him inside and then pulling him back out. I did it slowly, agonizingly, leaning down to capture his mouth in a hot, passionate kiss. I moved my head to nip at his jawline, then his throat and his shoulder. He lifted his hips in rhythm with mine and we moved together like dancers. There was harmony between us, between our bodies, and it was the most perfect thing I had ever experienced.

  He groaned and broke from my grip, quickly flipping me over so that I was underneath him. He slid the full length of his shaft deep inside of my folds and brought my legs up over his shoulders, opening me fully to him. His thrusts were merciless then, just the way I wanted them. He stroked in and out of me as hard as he could and I was mewling like a kitten with the feel of it, panting and writhing and marveling at his strength. I wanted to be ravished, to be taken, and that is exactly what he gave me. His hips thundered into mine and all I could think about was that painful pleasure, the thrill of being really and truly fucked by a man.

  I woke up with the taste of him still in my mouth and pressed my fingers to my lips, sitting up, unable to sleep anymore. Instead, I slipped my hand in my undergarments and touched my soaking wet slit, rubbing the sensitive bud there up and down, straddling the sides of it with my fingers to get that perfect indirect touch I so craved. I rubbed myself to completion, thoughts of Laird and his body running through my mind, and came harder on my fingers than I ever had before.

  I stayed up the rest of the night and emerged from my room, bedraggled, to see Bess cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Bess looked up at me and her face wrinkled into a look of concern.

  “Didn’t sleep well?” she asked. I shook my head and blushed.

  “Strange dreams,” I told her, thinking of Laird, of his mouth and his kiss, which had felt so real. “Don’t you think it’s a shame that Laird isn’t writing anymore? It’s so disappointing.”

  “Maybe you could help him,” said Bess, slyly. There was a smirk on her lips and I couldn’t quite place why. That was Bess, though, always joking, always up to something.

  “I could,” I said, and thought about it. I decided I’d approach him, try to convince him that he was capable of producing something great. I wanted more books from him, wanted his creations out in the world where they belonged.

  I waited for him to get up. He was not an early riser, I’d noticed, and it was close to noon before he came downstairs, looking more refreshed than he had the evening before. He was bright-eyed and cheerful, though quiet as he sat down to breakfast. I wondered what he was thinking about the night before, if he felt guilty about getting up so abruptly or if he was still angry for whatever reason.

  He spent most of the day in the library and out of the way. I didn’t want to bother him, but I supposed there was no better time to talk to him. During dinner was out of the question after the way he’d behaved the night before, and besides I didn’t want to have our conversation in front of Bess for whatever reason. I rapped lightly on the door and he bid me enter, and when I went inside he was sitting in one of the oversized chairs, his feet propped up on the ottoman, not reading but instead just looking out the window at the estate below.

  “How are you this afternoon?” I asked him, making c
onversation.

  He uncrossed his legs and looked at me, the heat in his eyes so inviting he may as well have patted his lap for me to sit. Whatever this attraction was between us, it was distracting and warm, and it bothered me that I would fall so easily into the trap of a man like Laird Monroe. Still, I sat across from him, determined not to be so affected by his presence.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “And how are you?”

  “Fine,” I told him, looking down at my hands. “And listen, I wanted to say something. I know it’s none of my business, but I really think you ought to try to write while you’re here.”

  He stared at me. “You’re right,” he said, his voice suddenly crisp and cold. “It’s none of your business.”

  I rolled my eyes then, annoyed at his shift in mood. I didn’t know what the big deal was, why he was so hesitant to talk about his work. It made me angry for some reason that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe he just vexed me, maybe his personality just rubbed me the wrong way. Since I’d seen him flirting with the women at the café, I’d been put off.