“I want more, Rhavor!” she whimpered, her hands gripping his massive arms as she bucked back against him.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he grunted, his protective instincts warring with the dragon’s demand to take.
“You won’t... please, Rhavor.”
As the first ripple of her climax bucked her hips, he carefully added a third finger. His large arm held her steady against the storm. She rode his fingers, her body clenching around him as she cried out his name. The climax hit her hard, and she shuddered in his arms while his thumb never stopped its relentless circling. He kept up the slow, deep strokes, drawing out every last drop of her release.
As the aftershocks finally faded into a heavy, warm lethargy, he withdrew slowly, reluctant to leave her warmth. He licked his fingers clean, his eyes locked on her flushed face.
“You taste so fucking amazing, my little berry.” He pulled her closer, his voice a rough rumble. “I always want you to come with my name on your lips.”
He slid her lower, and her ass bounced against his straining erection.
“What about you?” she asked, her voice small but searching.
“Only if you want to,” he said, his voice a low vibration that made her bones ache. He reached out, his fingers trembling—a rare fracture in his iron-clad composure—as he started to button her shirt.
Sylvie brushed his hands away and reached down. Her fingers worked the metal teeth slowly, teasingly, until she tugged the denim open.
His massive dragon cock sprang free, thick and ridged, pulsing with a need that had been coiling in his gut all day. It was deep, amber-gold, and veined with armored coils that thrummed with a heavy, primal heartbeat.
“It looks even better in the daylight,” she whispered, her gaze locked on the sight. She didn't ask permission; she simply reached out, fascinated. She wrapped her hand around the base—her palm barely circling the impressive girth—and Rhavor jolted at the touch. His hips bucked up, a reflexive, primal jump.
She leaned down, her full lips brushing the tip in a feather-light kiss before her hands took over with fierce intent. She gave a firm, possessive squeeze, her fingers exploring the texture. She began to stroke upward slowly, her thumb tracing the subtle ridges that spiraled along the underside like the grain of a polished tree.
She felt the hum before he even spoke—a low, mechanical thrum that vibrated against her palm.
“They vibrate when I'm deep inside you,” he groaned, his fingers nearly reaping the blanket and the moss beneath. “To give you pleasure.”
“It's so hot... like it's alive with fire,” she breather, her thumb pressing into the heat.
“Dragon blood runs hot,” he gasped. “I can go all night, sweetheart. For you.”
She moved higher, her nail catching on the sensitive, curved barb at the tip. Rhavor let out a deep, jagged growl, his eyes turning a glowing, predatory amber. “That’s for claiming,” he rasped, his voice thick with the dragon’s instinct. “It hooks so you can't go anywhere. I want you to feel every bit of it.”
She gripped him harder, his hips rolling into her hands as she felt the knot at the base begin to swell. She started pumping him faster now. She twisted her wrist at the top, smearing the slick precum over the flared head, fascinated by how it swelled and darkened under her touch. Her strokes grew bolder, alternating pressure, one hand joining the first to work the length she couldn't cover alone. She explored every inch, her nails grazing the shimmering scales at the base, sending sparks up his spine.
Her kneading skills were being put to a much more dangerous use now. Her fingers dug into the softer skin at the base, massaging the swelling scales in slow, circular motions. She was molding him, her thumbs pressing deep into the heated core where his essence throbbed hottest.
“The scales... they're locking,” she noted breathlessly, her eyes wide as she watched them expand and shift under her pressure.
“Because I’m close,” he growled, his tail twitching violently against the earth.
She shifted to a corkscrew motion, one hand spiraling up the shaft while the other cupped his heavy sac, kneading the scaled skin with a feral reverence. She flicked her tongue over the barb, then resumed her hands' work—fingertips dancing along the length like electric sparks on scales.
He thrust up into her expert touch, his body arching off the blanket. “Fuck, you're perfect,” he growled, his voice breaking.
The deep, rhythmic presses at the top pushed him over the edge. The barb flexed, the head swelled, and she milked him without mercy—long, slick glides and tight, unrelenting twists.
"Sylvie!" he roared, his hands ripping the moss from the earth under the blanket.
He came with a sound that echoed through the trees, erupting in thick ropes of hot seed that shot into the air, sparkling like molten gold in the last rays of the setting sun. She didn't stop, her strokes drawing out every last drop until he finally shuddered, spent and heavy against her.
“Did you like it?” she asked, looking up at him with a triumphant, naughty smile.
“Fuck, it was perfect. Your hands are a menace, my little baker.” He pulled her up, crushing his mouth against hers in a fierce, claiming kiss.
“I don't mind kneading you again sometime,” she whispered against his lips.
