Page 19 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

He opens the towel slow, and I brace, my whole body tensing for the inevitable flinch when he sees the soft roll of my stomach, the stretch marks painting my hips. It doesn't come, because he doesn't give me a reason to feel embarrassed.

His mouth brushes the curve of my hip, and a low growl rumbles against my skin, the vibration running through me. Then he moves slowly up my side and over the swell of my belly—the part I fucking hate. Instead of avoiding it, he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below my navel and lets his hand settle over my stomach, warm enough that my muscles jump beneath his palm.

"You keep bracing," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Stop deciding what parts of you I want to worship."

Heat rushes through me, and for once, I don't have a response ready.

He takes his time, his mouth moving slowly over my stomach and up my side while his hands follow the curve of my body. There's nothing hurried about the way he touches me, and somehow that makes every pass of his hands feel more deliberate.

When his mouth closes around my nipple, a sound slips out of me before I can stop it. His tongue moves over the sensitive peak before he sucks harder, and my back arches beneath him. A low, satisfied rumble vibrates against my skin, sending another rush of heat straight through me. I'm already wet and aching, and he's barely started.

"There," he praises, his voice thick. "That's it. Good girl."

Good girl.

Something about hearing it from him gets past every defense I have left, and I let go.

He kisses a scorching path down my belly, lingering, before nudging my thighs apart. He settles between them, parting my wet pussy with his thumbs like he's revealing something precious. My slick, swollen clit is completely exposed. The first circle of his finger over it sends a jolt through me so powerful my hips lift off the bed. He watches my face the entire time, his focus absolute.

"Fuck," I gasp out, the only word I have left.

"There you are," he says, a predator who's finally cornered his prey. He circles my clit, his fingers so hot I feel like I'm burning from the inside out. "Let me hear you."

I'm so wet there's no hiding how much I want this. He sinks one thick finger inside me and the feeling of being stretched, filled by his heat, burns every coherent thought from my mind. He adds a second, curls them until he finds my G-spot, and drags them against it. A strangled scream tears from my throat as my thighs start to shake uncontrollably. His thumb never stops its ruthless circling, and the pressure coils in my gut, tight and desperate, until I can't even draw a breath.

"Soren—" My voice shatters. "Please—"

"I know, baby. I've got you. Come whenever you want. You don't have to earn it… not today."

That's the fucking key. Not today. The implication that other times I will, but that this first time is a gift. It's too much. The locks I've spent a lifetime building on my pleasure fucking disintegrate. I scream his name as my orgasm rips through me, my pussy clenching and pulsing around his fingers in violent waves. A raw, guttural cry is torn from my throat as I come apart, shattering completely. He doesn't stop, pushing me through every aftershock, his thumb a merciless anchor on my clit until I'm boneless and utterly spent. Only then does his hand go still, cupping my pussy while I tremble back into my skin.

"Good girl," he says, the words a balm on my wrecked senses.

I'm crying again by the time he gathers me against him, and I couldn't tell you exactly what I'm crying about. He settles me against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around me, and stays there while my breathing slowly returns to normal.

I only realize later that we spend nearly an hour on aftercare, because for once I don't check the time.

Soren wraps me in enough blankets that moving becomes optional, puts a mug of tea into my hands, and brings a plate of cut fruit over to the bed before settling behind me against the headboard. I lean back against his chest, tucked between his legs, while the weight of the blankets presses pleasantly over me. Somewhere beneath all of it, I finally stop feeling like I should be doing something.

He offers me a slice of pear. My first instinct is to make a joke about being hand-fed fruit by a dragon, but I'm too tired to hide behind one, so I open my mouth and let him feed me.

"What's your favorite book?" he asks after a while.

"Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier."

"Why?"

The question catches me off guard. "I first read it when I was sixteen, and I've reread it every autumn since." I take another piece of pear from him. "I don't know. It became this little tradition that was just mine, I guess."

"So autumn is your season."

"Definitely."

He asks where I like to read, whether I still have the same copy I bought when I was sixteen. They're ordinary questions, but he listens to the answers instead of waiting for an opening to talk about himself. By the time I realize how much I've told him, I've also noticed something else.

A low vibration hums through his chest against my back.

I stay still for a few seconds, listening. It gets stronger when I settle more comfortably against him.