Her skirt hiked up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings against the warm, rain-slick flush of her thighs.
His cock hardened painfully.
“I’m not following you,” he growled.
Water dripped from her hair, tracing a slow path down the column of her neck.
Her top was plastered to her like a second skin, outlining her bra with a clarity that made his vision swim. Her nipples pressed against the soaked fabric, bold and unashamed, catching the dim light of the cab.
“Thanks for stopping,” she said lightly, wiping a droplet from her lip.
I stopped to admire the view,he almost said, the words catching in his throat.
The ride to her bakery was a blur of gritted teeth and white-knuckled steering.
He couldn’t find a single word that didn’t sound like a feral growl.
His eyes kept darting sideways, drawn helplessly to the wet outline of her body. He nearly clipped old Mr. Henry at the crosswalk and almost took out the pharmacy’s mailbox.
“I got your eggs,” he grunted when they screeched to a halt outside the shop. His voice was so deep it rattled the dashboard.
“Perfect.” She smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Come in.”
Fuck.
His dragon paced, restless and demanding, claws scraping against the back of his mind. He wanted to press her against the nearest flat surface, peel those wet clothes off with his teeth, and forget every rule, every boundary, every “strictly business” promise.
He followed her through the back entrance, forcing his attention anywhere but the way her soaked skirt clung to her ass.
“Did you see much of the town?” he asked, grasping for something neutral—something that didn’t involve his teeth on her skin.
She laughed softly, the sound like sugar and warmth.
“In this rain?”
Her hair clung to her cheeks in damp spirals. She set a rain-spotted book on the counter, and he caught the title.
101 Ways to Work the Flame.
“What’s that?” he growled, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, I found it in the local bookstore,” she said, drying her hair with a towel, her arms raised in a way that pulled her shirt even tighter.
He remembered that book from his aunt’s kitchen, back when she had been an active baker. “It’s a dragon’s baking bible,” he said, his chest tightening despite himself. He didn’t want to admit how impressed he was. This human—with rain still dripping from her chin—was daring to attempt this?
“Those recipes in this book are ancient. And dangerous. You could burn yourself.”
The thought made him restless, a protective thrum under his skin.
She smirked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
His eyes darkened, the amber turning molten gold.
“They’re not for everyone,” he said gruffly.
“Well,” she shot back, her chin lifting in that stubborn way he was beginning to crave, “I’m not everyone.”
