I release her throat, my clawed fingers trailing down to cup her breast instead. There are marks on her neck. Red impressions of my fingers. I stare at them, feeling something twist in my chest.
What's happening to me?
"But I'm the only one who loves you," I murmur. "I'm the only one who knows what you need."
I get the soap back out. My soapy hands glide over her breasts, cupping their heavy weight, my thumbs circling her nipples until they harden under my touch. I've done this thousands of times, tens of thousands, and I never tire of it. Never tire of the way her skin feels like silk beneath my palms, warm and impossibly soft. I map every curve, every dip, committing her body to memory even though I already know it better than my own.
My cock is still buried fully inside her. I trail my hand down her stomach, the delicate indent of her navel, the outline of my cock on her belly. My fingers splay possessively across her hips, gripping, claiming. Then lower, between her thighs, where we're still connected. Where she's always so soft, so warm, so perfectly mine. I take my time here, my soapy fingers stroking through her folds, circling, pressing. She can feel this. I know she can.
I wonder if she's screaming inside, or if after all these years she's learned to crave it. My cock throbs at the thought. I clean every inch of her with reverent, obsessive care, my fingers lingering where they shouldn't, touching her the way a lover would, the way a worshipper touches something sacred and profane all at once.
I wash her hair next, tilting her head back, supporting her neck. Her lips part slightly, and I stare at them, remembering. Imagining.
Did they really move? Or am I losing my mind?
I want to see her lips move. Hear her voice again. But I can't wake her. Not yet. Not when the world is still so dangerous, still so full of men who would use her, breed her, break her. Not when she might hate me for what I've done. Hate me for what I continue to do.
Not when she might try to leave.
After her bath, I dry her carefully, do her hair, then carry her back to bed. I've laid out a new gown. Deep green lace this time, like evergreen trees. I dress her slowly, savoring the feel of her skin against my fingers.
I arrange her on the bed, positioning her arms at her sides, her braided long blonde hair spread across the pillow. Then I climb onto the bed beside her, my hand trailing up her thigh, pushing the green lace higher.
"You're so beautiful," I tell her. "More beautiful than the day I took you. I know you can hear me," I whisper against her ear, my scaled lips careful against her delicate skin. "I know you're in there, Adelaide. Listening. Feeling."
My clawed hand finds the heat between her legs, and I'm careful, so careful, not to scratch her with my talons. She's still wet from earlier. She's always wet for me now. It took years, decades, but her body learned. Her body knows what's coming.
"I wonder what you think of me," I say, stroking her slowly with the pads of my fingers. "Do you hate me? Do you dream of killing me when you wake? Do you remember that I tricked you, that I wore a human face to lure you away?" I flip her onto her hands and knees, positioning her like a doll. She slumps forward so her breasts rest on the bed, her ass is up in the air.
"Or do you love me?" My wings shift behind me, the iridescent blue membranes catching the afternoon light as they spread slightly for balance.
"I know I just had you," I murmur, running my clawed hands down her spine. "In the bath. But I can't help myself, treasure. I need you again."
This has been happening more often lately. Multiple times in a single session. Sometimes I take her five, six times before I can finally let her rest. The need is becoming insatiable, almost frantic. Almost violent.
I wonder absently if it's something to do with the curse. Some side effect of the magic keeping her suspended. I should check the spell work tomorrow. Make sure everything is stable.
But right now, all I can think about is being inside her again. Claiming her again. Making sure she knows she's mine, mine,mine.
I grip her hips and position myself behind her, pressing just the tip of my cock against her entrance. She's still slick from before, still stretched from taking me, but I don't push in. Not yet.
"You're such a desperate little whore," I growl, and the venom in my voice surprises me. When did I start sounding so cruel? "Look at you. Still dripping from the last time. Still ready for more. My perfect little slut. My heart. My fucktoy."
I push in just enough for the tip to enter. Maybe an inch, no more. The first ridge on my cock catches at her entrance, and I feel her walls flutter around just that small intrusion.
"Pathetic," I breathe, pulling back and pushing in again with the same shallow movement. The word feels wrong, tastes bitter, but I can't stop. "Pathetic how badly you need me. How your body begs for my cock even when you can't. My beautiful whore. My perfect love."
It's a lie. I'm the one who needs her. I'm the one who's pathetic.
I keep my hands firmly on her hips, refusing to touch her anywhere else. No fingers between her legs, no hand on her throat. Just my grip holding her in place while I tease her with barely anything. My claws dig in deeper than they should, and I see blood well up under the tips.
I should stop. I should be gentler.
I can't.
"Getting off on just the tip," I taunt, feeling her breathing start to change. "What would those princes think if they could see you now? Their precious princess, coming undone from barely being touched. Begging to come all over a dragon's cock. My perfect little slut. My love."
Her walls start to pulse, that telltale flutter that means she's close. I keep the rhythm steady. Shallow, teasing thrusts with only the tip.
