No. She wasn’t.
That much was painfully, devastatingly obvious.
She shivered, a small tremor that went straight to his gut.
“You’re trembling,” he growled.
Without thinking, he stripped off his shirt. The heavy cotton was dry and warm, holding the heat of his skin. He wrapped it around her shoulders, then grabbed a heavy apron from the side table.
“Do you want me to bake for you?” she teased.
“Later,” he rasped, his restraint hanging by a frayed thread. “Your shirt is soaked. Take it off and put this on.”
He turned his head as she peeled off her tank top—but he still caught a glimpse of pink silk lace that did absolutely nothing to help his self-control.
His dragon stirred—a low, restless burn beneath his ribs.
He turned back just as she slid his shirt over her bare arms, the collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the pale, delicate curve of her skin.
The sight of her in his clothes—his scent marking her—almost undid him.
Then she gave him a small, reckless smirk.
“My skirt’s wet, too.”
The words landed somewhere between a complaint and a blatant invitation.
His jaw tightened until it ached.
He searched her gaze, looking for any sign of hesitation, but the heat in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
He didn’t hesitate.
His large, calloused fingers found the zipper at her hip. He fumbled with the metal for half a heartbeat before he caught it, working it slowly.
His breath hitched as the fabric gave way, the cotton apron lifting just enough to reveal a flash of pink lace beneath.
“That’s better,” he muttered, his voice low and territorial—the sound of a man who had stopped trying to fight the inevitable.
He let the wet skirt fall to the floor in a sodden heap.
He stepped into the space between her knees and pulled her closer, his hands anchoring her hips.
He had many, many plans for her.
And none of them involved baking.
Chapter 9: Sylvie
Rhavor leaned in, burying his face in the sensitive curve of her neck. His teeth grazed her skin—a slow, predatory crawl toward her ear that made every fine hair on her body stand on end. When his lips finally captured hers, it wasn’t a kiss; it was a total takeover. A searing, hungry rhythm of smoke, heat, and pure, unadulterated need. It was a physical claim that made her brain short-circuit.
He slid his hand under her loose apron, his palm cupping her breast through the thin silk of her bra. She felt the furnace-like heat of his large hands through the fabric as he squeezed gently, his thumb circling the hardening peak of her nipple. She gasped, the sound swallowed whole by his mouth.
The tip of his tail, smooth and leathery, brushed against her calves. It trailed higher with a teasing glide, coiling lightly at her inner thigh. The sensation waselectric, a strange, ticklish friction that made her breath hitch in a jagged line. He was now kneading her breasts with a rhythmic, almost feral reverence.
“You feel so good,” he rasped against her lips.
Sparks of pleasure radiated through her chest as he tugged on the taut flesh of her peaks. She melted, arching instinctively to press herself deeper into those massive, calloused palms.
