A flicker of fear, of nervousness hits me then. I pause, breathing hard, wetting my lower lip as I stare up at him. I’m twenty-three. I’ve bled clearblood men across academy grounds. I’ve bled monsters. But I’ve never—nobody has ever?—
My hands hover over the clasp of his belt, fingers trembling subtly. His hands close around them, holding, steady and still.For the first time since we fell into this stolen moment, his voice sounds uncertain.
“Esme.”
The way he says my name—soft, careful, like I'm something fragile—makes my chest crack open. I can't meet his eyes when they search mine, can't bear the weight of what he's seeing.Virgin witch.Though he probably already figured that out during our “seduction lesson” at Heathborne. Daughter of centuries of selective breeding designed precisely to avoid this exact scenario. This moment, this man, this fire.
But, of course, this is just a construct. A fantasy. No matter how real it feels,I remind myself.
I have no reason to be nervous… and yet the feeling doesn’t go anywhere.
“Guess I, uh... never thought it would be like...” I gesture vaguely at him, at the impossible heat of his body, at the dragon glimmering behind amber eyes. “Any of this. My grandmother swore I'd marry a darkblood heir. My mother at least hoped for a member of our coven. Not a dragon king who probably has centuries of experience at?—”
“—at waiting,” he finishes quietly. “At letting someone decide for themselves.”
I swallow, the silence suddenly intimate. Too charged with the way he’s looking at me. Too charged with my own breathing.
I wet my lower lip, try to steady my breaths. “I just pictured my first time involving fewer scales and more protocol,” I whisper.
His mouth quirks, softly, slowly. “And instead you got a dragon with an impeccable bloodlineandpersonality.”
“Debatable,” I murmur, but I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips when his eyes flicker with something like amusement.
His thumb traces softly across my knuckles. “But… we don't have to.”
As his voice trails off, the steam feels thicker suddenly, settling between us like a shield. He settles back a little, not withdrawing but giving me space to breathe. To choose. My hands trace the lines of his pectoral muscles, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart—faster now, though he hides it well.
“This place isn't real,” I whisper, desperate to anchor myself to something.
“No,” he agrees. “But how you feel right now is. And if you want to walk away?—”
I kiss him to stop the words, just a brush of lips that holds all my trembling. Because I don't want to walk away. I want to burn. Just... slowly. Carefully. With someone who's looking at me like I'm not broken, just new.
“Teach me,” I breathe against his mouth. “Just... don't make me disappear.”
He draws back just enough for our breaths to separate, a thread of mist hanging between us.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice pitched like a conspirator’s, “Lesson one. Professor Draxion’s special tutorial: how not to disappear when every instinct screams to vanish.” His grin goes all wolf. “Shall I assign homework, or would you rather I demonstrate on the spot?”
A surprised laugh hiccups out of me—half scandalized, half drunk.
“You’re not my professor,” I breathe, but my hands betray me, curling over the carved slabs of his shoulders.
“No?” His brows arch, mock-earnest. “I’ve studied you longer than any academic ever devoted to a thesis. Your tells, your triggers, the exact motion that makes your pulse sprint.” He punctuates the claim by slicking his tongue along the hollow beneath my ear. “If that doesn’t earn me tenure, I’m open to bribery.”
His stupid title makes my skin blaze hotter than the mineral water. “Bribery with what?”
“With this.” He slips a hand between us, palm gliding down the midline of my stomach until his thumb hooks under the waistband of his own and part-unbuckles his fatigues. He doesn’t push them off—just lets the fabric lower, offering a glimpse of sharp hipbone and the start of dark hair, a promise rather than a reveal. “Extra credit, Salem. All you have to do is ask.”
My brain short-circuits at the border between indignation and lust. I have never—never—played the student, not really; I’ve always been the blade hovering over his throat.
But there are exceptions to every rule.
“Fine, Professor,” I manage. “Teach me something I don’t already know.”
His answering growl is pure satisfaction. “Observation first.” He lifts my wrist, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the blue vein there that drums under his tongue. “Heart rate one-thirty. You skipped the preamble.” He releases me only to recage my hips, hands sliding around to cup the curve of my backside. “Lesson two: leverage.” He lifts, effortlessly, and guides my thighs around him, until the hardness of him is positioned against exactly the spot he’s already mapped with his mouth.
Sensation detonates up my spine; I bite back a gasp, nails digging crescents into his skin.
