And then he comes, barely two minutes into this travesty, his whole body going rigid as he spills inside me. He collapses on top of me, breathing hard, and I stare at the canopy above us, feeling absolutely nothing except a growing rage that threatens to consume me from the inside out.
After a moment, he rolls off and immediately puts his hand between my legs.
"Your turn," he says breathlessly, and starts rubbing at my clit with all the finesse of someone scrubbing a stain from fabric. Hard, rhythmless, completely disconnected from any response my body might have. Not that my body is responding. The only wetness that exists down there is his semen leaking out of me. I try to guide his hand to where I need it most, but he bats me away.
“What are you doing? Ladies shouldn’t touch themselves… down… down there.” My body is a locked door, and this idiot doesn’t even know where to find the keyhole. It feels like he’s deliberately touching me everywhere except where I need it.
He rubs harder, like pressure alone will somehow conjure pleasure from nothing. Like my body is a lamp he can polish into submission. I lie there, staring at the canopy, feeling his fingers work at me with all the eroticism of a medical exam. Maybe even less. At least physicians have some understanding of female anatomy.
“Are you close?” He asks, breathing hard from the effort.
“No.”
He makes a frustrated sound and changes tactics, moving his fingers in circles now. Fast, too soft circles that accomplish absolutely nothing except making me want to kick him off the bed. My dragon knew every inch of me. Knew exactly how much pressure, exactly what angle, exactly when to use his tongue or his fingers. Even his cock with its ridges felt perfectly… perfectly made for me.
I feel tears prick my eyes. Tears of frustration. Tears of loss.
“What about now?” His voice is petulant, like I’m being difficult on purpose. My dragon would have told me to quit being a brat and let it happen. There’s nothing to happen now, though.
“No.” I say again.
He tries a new tactic. This one a sort of tapping motion that makes me wonder if he’s ever actually touched a woman before, or if he learned sex from some medieval medical manual written by monks who’d taken vows of celibacy. Maybe that’s it? Maybe he thinks female pleasure is a myth, something women invented to make men feel inadequate?
Well. Heshouldfeel inadequate.
“You… you need to relax!” He whines. Irritation laces his words. “You’re too tense. That’s the problem here.”
Too… tense? Of course I’m tense! He’s performing some sort of vaginal Morse code on me after forcing me to have sex with him for the purpose of shooting out eight babies… Eight! He thinks he owns me. Thinks my family has a right to promise him my womb like I’m livestock being traded at market. Eight heirs. Eight times I’ll have to endure this fumbling, graceless rutting, this man who recoils from my desires while expecting me to come apart from his mediocre efforts.
The rage builds in my chest, hot and caustic. A century ago, I was a princess who smiled and curtsied and let men make decisions about my life. Then a dragon stole me away, and everyone assumed I was a victim. A damsel. A prize to be won.
He did kidnap me, but now that I’m living out the reality he aimed to protect me from, I can wholeheartedly say I would prefer my dragon to any misogynistic prince I may be promised to.
My dragon took from me, but never without my well-being in mind. He always considered my comfort. My wants. He learned my body like it was a sacred text, and he worshipped at the altar of my pleasure until I was the one begging, the one demanding, the one who couldn’t get enough. In the end, he gave me power. Power over myself, over him, over the desire that burned between us like dragonfire.
He gave me a choice.
Benedict takes. He demands. He expects.
And he can’t even make me come.
“Actually… maybe if you touched yourself?” he suggests, pulling his hand away. “Ladies don’t do that, but whores do… don’t they?” His words sound vile. When my dragon would call me his whore, it was with love. With lust and appreciation and want. They do not sound the same. I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts.
“Stop.” I murmur.
“But you haven’t—”
“STOP!” I sit up slowly, shoving him away. “Just… stop. I’m done.”
“You’re into depraved shit. Of course you couldn’t come. Something’s wrong with you.” He pulls the comforter over his body.
“I know.” Of course I know something is wrong with me.
I climb out of the bed, my legs unsteady, and grab the silk robe someone left draped over a chair. Benedict is sputtering behind me, saying something about duty and gratitude and how I should be more appreciative, but I’m already walking away. The door to the bathing chamber is heavy. I slam it behind me and turn the lock.
I lean against the door, breathing hard, and that’s when it hits me. The full weight of my life.
I'm free. I'm finally free of the dragon, free of the castle, free of my century-long captivity.
