Not just the stunning form of the woman before him—all honed curves and honeyed hips—but the woman beneath it.
He can see her.
The woman who isn’t dictated by pain.
Who doesn’t weaponize her wounds.
Who doesn’t wield words like weapons.
Who allows herself to laugh.To live.
But holy fucking Stars she makes him work for it.
Jax takes him, slowly sinking onto his cock like she’s feeling the pleasure of every inch of him.
“I lied earlier,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Ronyn lifts his brows in question.
“It’s not moderate,” she moans in a breathy pant. “It’s fucking perfect.”
Shock.
That’s what he feels. Absolute shock.
Is this the first time she’s complimented him?
Tarrakai purrs his approval through Ronyn’s mind.
The fucking ego on this dragon.
Jax’s movements interrupt his thoughts—and she grinds.
Slow, steady, rhythmic.
Her hips move like a wave: rolling forward, pulling back, her clit grinding against him, chasing more friction.
Breaths move through her in the same motion—a hypnotic wave.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Ronyn tries to move his hips to deepen her pleasure, to touch her breasts, but her hand slams into his chest, the other swatting his hand away. “Don’t,” she instructs, eyes closed in pleasure. “Don’t move. Just let me ride.”
Rejection stings like salt in a fresh cut.
Don’t move.
Don’t participate.
Her hands work her clit.
Her head falls back in pleasure, taking him deep.
