Page 17 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t stop teasing me, I swear to God…”

“What did I say about using that name?”

I groan. “Cage. Cage. Please.”

He rewards me. His tongue presses hard against my clit and two fingers push inside me and I cry out and grab the headboard with both hands. He curls his fingers, finds something inside me that makes my vision white out, and his tongue matches the rhythm.

Then his other hand slides lower. Behind. Just like in the garage. One finger pressing gently, circling, not pushing inside, just there, that constant pressure, and the combination of his mouth on my clit and his fingers inside me and that pressure behind me is so overwhelming that my thighs start shaking.

“Come,” he says against me. A command.

I do.

The orgasm tears through me from three directions at once and I scream and my hips buck against his face and he holds me down with one arm across my hips and doesn’t stop, licking me through it until I’m shaking and oversensitive and pushing at his head.

He pulls back. Looks up at me from between my thighs with gold eyes and wet lips and an expression of such raw possessive satisfaction that my stomach drops all over again.

“Now,” he says, “you’re ready.”

He rises over me. Settles between my thighs, his weight braced on his forearms, and I feel him. The head of his cock pressing against me, thick and burning hot, and my omega instinct kicks in so hard my vision blurs. Every cell in my body screams yes.

He pushes in slowly.

The stretch is overwhelming. He’s bigger than anything I’ve taken before and my body resists for one breathless second before something biological clicks, something omega and ancient and sure, and I open for him. My back arches. My hands find his shoulders. My nails dig in.

“That’s it.” His voice is strained. His arms are shaking. The tendons in his neck stand out like cables and I realize he’s holding himself back with everything he has. “Let me in, Mara. All of it.”

He sinks deeper. Inch by inch. And I feel every. Single. One.

When he bottoms out, we both stop breathing.

He’s buried to the hilt. I can feel him everywhere, so deep it’s almost too much, pressing against places inside me I didn’t know existed. His skin is scorching. His eyes are pure molten gold, no brown left at all, and there’s a shimmer of dark scales running up his forearms, across his shoulders. Smoke curls from his nostrils. Thin. Almost invisible. But I see it and it should scare me and it doesn’t.

It makes me clench around him.

He groans like I just broke him.

“Do that again,” he grits out, “and this is going to be over very fast.”

I do it again.

He snaps.

His hips pull back and drive forward and I scream. Not from pain. From the absolute, devastating fullness of him hitting something inside me that lights up every nerve in my body. He sets a pace that’s hard and deep and relentless, his hands gripping my hips, tilting me up so he can go deeper, and the sounds filling the room are obscene. Skin on skin. Wet, raw, slapping. My moans tangling with his growls.

“So good.” His voice is barely human now. Low and rough and cracking at the edges. “So fucking perfect. Made for me. You know how long I waited for this? For you?”

“Tell me.”

“Decades.” He thrusts deep and holds there and I gasp. “Decades of nothing. No one. And then you walk into my garage smelling like everything I’ve ever wanted and I’m supposed to be civilized about it?”

“Don’t be civilized.” I pull him closer, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels pressing into the small of his back. “Don’t you dare.”

He growls. The sound vibrates through his chest into mine and he buries his face in my neck and breathes me in and fucks me like he’s trying to make up for those decades of empty.

“My omega.” His teeth graze my throat. “Mine.”