"This is your last chance," he said, and his voice was serious despite the hunger burning through the bond. "Once we do this, you're mine forever. Immortal, bound, belonging to me in every way that matters. If you have any doubt, any hesitation—"
"No doubt." I reached up to cup his face, pulling him down until our lips were almost touching. "I choose this. Choose you. Choose forever. I'm sure, Daddy. I'm ready."
Through the bond, his joy and relief and desperate hunger crashed into me with enough force to steal my breath. For three thousand years he'd waited for someone to say those words and mean them. And I did mean them, down to the transformed bones, down to the magic singing in my blood.
"Then let me love you," he whispered against my lips. "Let me show you what it means to be mine."
Devotion. That’s what the kiss tasted like. Worship, deep and thorough, while his hands began mapping my body properly now. Not just looking, not just admiring from a distance, buttouching, learning, finding what made me gasp and what made me arch.
When his fingers trailed down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs, I opened for him without thinking. Instinct older than thought, trust built through weeks of care and patience, need that had been building since the moment our bond formed.
He found me wet and ready, and his groan vibrated through my chest. "So perfect. So ready for me."
"Please," I breathed, not even sure what I was asking for except more, closer, finally. "Please, Daddy, don't stop."
"Never," he promised.
His fingers worked me with skill that came from centuries of knowing exactly how bodies responded, what made them sing, where to press and circle and stroke. I'd never felt anything like it—pleasure building in waves that crashed higher each time, sensation concentrating between my legs until I couldn't think past the need for more, for completion, for him.
When he found the spot inside that made me cry out, he groaned like he'd discovered treasure. "There," he murmured, working that place with focused attention while his thumb circled my clit in rhythm that had me panting. "Feel how good this is? How perfect? Your body was made for this, little one. Made for me."
The pleasure spiraled higher, tighter, pulling everything inward until I was balanced on a knife's edge between climax and needing something more, something bigger than his fingers could provide. I was making sounds I didn't recognize—whimpers and gasps and his name shaped like prayer.
"Not yet," he said when I got close to breaking. His fingers gentled, easing me back from the edge. "Not until I'm inside you. I want to feel you come around me the first time."
He withdrew his hand and I actually whimpered at the loss, empty and aching and desperate. But then he was positioning himself, the blunt pressure of him replacing his fingers, and I forgot how to breathe.
"Look at me," he commanded, and I did, found his storm-gray eyes watching me with intensity that felt like being seen down to my soul. "I need you to tell me if it hurts too much. If you need me to stop. Promise me, Wren."
"I promise," I managed, though stopping felt impossible when I needed this so desperately.
He pushed forward with aching slowness, and I felt myself stretching around him, opening to accommodate invasion that my body had never experienced. There was pressure, resistance, the sensation of being filled beyond what should be possible. Then sharp pain as something gave way—my virginity ending in a brief flare that made me gasp.
He froze immediately, holding absolutely still even though I could feel through the bond how hard that control cost him. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of not moving, not thrusting, giving my body time to adjust.
"Breathe," he said roughly. "Just breathe through it. The pain will pass."
I did, dragging air into lungs that felt too small, and he was right. The sharp edge dulled, faded, transformed into something else entirely. Fullness that felt right, connection that went beyond physical, the overwhelming sensation of being claimed in the most fundamental way.
"Okay?" His voice was strained, every muscle rigid with the effort of staying still.
"Yes." I rolled my hips experimentally, testing, and pleasure sparked sharp enough to make me moan. "More than okay. Move, Daddy. Please move."
He did, withdrawing slightly then pushing back in, and the pleasure that shot through me stole coherent thought. Again, deeper, finding a rhythm that built steadily. Each thrust lit up nerve endings I hadn't known existed, sent sparks racing up my spine, made me arch and gasp and clutch at his shoulders for anchor.
It was everything—primal need meeting tender care, his body claiming mine with steady, powerful thrusts that made me see colors that didn't exist outside my new dragon sight. The nest cushioned us perfectly, cloud-stuff and crystal giving just enough that each movement felt deeper, fuller, more intense than should be possible.
But then the bond between us exploded into something transcendent.
Suddenly I didn't just feel my own pleasure—I felt his. Felt the tight heat of my body gripping him, felt the relief and hunger and desperate joy of finally claiming his mate. The feedback loop was instantaneous and exponential. My pleasure amplified his, which amplified mine, which amplified his, building in a spiral that should have been impossible to contain.
"Oh god," I gasped, overwhelmed by experiencing both sides of our joining simultaneously. "I can feel—I feel what you—"
"I know." His voice was wrecked, control fraying with each thrust. "I feel you too. Feel how good this is for you. How perfectly you're taking me. How much you needed this."
He changed his angle slightly and hit something inside me that made me scream—pleasure so intense it bordered on unbearable. Through the bond, I felt him feel me feel that, the loop compounding until neither of us knew where one ended and the other began.
Around us, the caldera responded to our joining.
