Page 6 of Dragon Heir

Holy dragon eggs. I must have completely repressed that uncharacteristically naughty dream, but staring at those broad shoulders and muscular arms brings it all roaring back. His hotness is on full display this morning in a white sleeveless top worn over loose, drawstring gray trousers. How can he be so ice cold and scorching hot at the very same second?

I spin away, hoping he can’t see the lava-tone of my face. Taking a steadying breath, I ask, “You like hotcakes?”

“You don’t have to cook for us.”

“I know. I thought it would be fun on our first day as roommates—oh, crap!” I hurry to the iron, where the steam has stopped curling up. When I open it, the sandwiched batter lifts to the top part of the iron and stays there. It’s a little darker and harder than it should be, but oh well. That’s what he gets for scaring the fire out of me.

I try to pry the wedge off the top of the iron only to find it cemented on. Damn. I make little grabs for it, pulling back quickly before I burn my fingers each time. True strides across the kitchen, grabs my waist, lifts me straight off my feet, and sets me on the floor a few feet away. I’m so shocked by the fact the guy just scooped me away from the griddle iron like it was an attacking demon that I just stand there, gaping.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he growls. His hands linger on my hips for another second, and I open my mouth to make a smart-ass comment, but the tingle of his touch has me stuttering. Damn, it feels good. Before I know what I’m doing, I start to lean back against his chest.

True steps away so quickly I have to pinwheel my arms so I don’t fall on my ass. He yanks open drawers until he finds the silverware, then starts prying the cake loose with a fork. Within minutes, it’s a shredded pile of scraps on a plate, and the top side of the iron is covered in bits of dried batter.

He turns and hands me the plate of scraps. “Here’s your hotcake.”

“Wow,” I say, then crack a grin. “Thanks for making me breakfast. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

“I’m not.”

Okay then. Still not friendly in the morning.

“Good,” I say. “Because you’re not doing a very good job of it. No offense, but this hotcake looks like crap. You could really stand to up your cooking game.”

I give him a wink to show I’m kidding, trying to get the guy to lighten up.

I’m rewarded with a slight flaring of his nostrils. Annoyance? Amusement? Honestly, I’ll take either from the guy. When he responds, though, he just sounds bored. “I’ll have to work on that.”

“You do that,” I say, sloshing syrup onto the batter shreds. “Just a little tip, though. You might try washing that mess off the iron before using it again. And a little more butter probably won’t hurt. I’ll leave you to practice that while I go enjoy my coffee and this delicious breakfast on the veranda.”

I turn to slink out of the room, only to walk straight into Pax’s bare chest. My plate hits his iron abs like I was intending to smash it there, and batter bits go flying in all directions. Syrup trickles down the ridges of his muscles. Damn if he hasn’t been eating right over the summer.

“What’s this I heard about coffee and hotcakes on the deck?” Pax asks, a smile in his voice as he looks down at me with a sleepy grin.

My mouth waters, and for one absolutely insane moment, I consider licking off the drop of syrup rolling toward the waistband of his pajama pants. Oh, hell no. It’s like my chastity goal woke up a raving sex-beast that’s been sleeping in my vagina, and now no one is safe. Guess that’s what I get for moving in with two sexy-as-fuck men.

I clear my throat and lift my plate, which only contains a mangled bit of breakfast carcass. “More like scrambled hotcakes.”

“Oh, Nessie,” he says, using the nickname that only he calls me. “It didn’t feel right being away from you this summer, but this feels right.” He squeezes my shoulder and slips past me, leaving me needing a cold shower and a lobotomy. Somehow the brief brush of his skin on mine ignited a coal of heat in my belly. Now I’m imagining Pax’s hands gripping my wrists, his broad chest pinning mine to a mattress. And then I spot True leaning against the counter and watching me with an expression I can’t quite identify.

The heat in my belly ramps up a notch, and I squeak, “Excuse me.”

I spend way too long in the shower, hoping the cold water will put the raving sex monster back to sleep. When that doesn’t work, I give up and hold the stream of water on my clit until I come in a quick burst.

I get ready as fast as I can, but both guys are already standing in the living room waiting for me when I come hopping out of my room on one foot, trying to get a slipper on the other. “I’m ready, I’m ready!”

I look up, surprised to find True standing next to Pax with a backpack on.

My heel finally slips into my shoe, and I straighten. “Oh, True. Are you going to DLSA too?”

“I am,” he says, and duh. Pax met True while he was training for the program this summer. It stands to reason that True is a student too even though he looks too old for it. I can’t help but wonder if he tried something else and failed—maybe Scholar school, which has a terrifying failure rate, and now he’s back to square one. A mixture of curiosity and sympathy rises in me when I think of how hard failure must be for a man like True.

It might explain the surliness though.

On my way to class, Pax takes my hand, as we often used to do in the village back home. Unlike back then, a warm shimmer of heat climbs my arm and settles in my heart. Absence definitely made that dumb old thing grow fonder.

“Nervous?” I ask my bestie.

“You’re going to be in a whole different section,” he frets. “Who am I going to cheat off now?”