Page 28 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

“Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. Low and cracking. “Riding my cock like you need it to breathe. So full of me you can barely take it.”

His hand slides up my stomach. Between my breasts. Wraps gently around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. His thumb resting against my pulse, feeling it hammer.

“Nobody else gets this,” he says. “Nobody else gets to see you like this. To feel you shake on my cock. To hear these sounds you make. Just me.”

“Just you.”

“Say my name.”

“Cage.”

“Again.”

“Cage.“ I’m close. I can feel it building, that tightening, that wave. My rhythm goes ragged and his hands take over, gripping my hips, pulling me down onto him harder, deeper, and I can feel every thick inch of him moving inside me and it’s too much and not enough and I’m going to fall apart.

His thumb finds my clit. Presses. Circles.

I shatter. My hands fist in his shirt and I cry out and clench around him so hard he groans through his teeth and I feel the orgasm tear through me in waves, each one tighter than the last.

He grabs my hips and lifts me off him.

I gasp at the sudden emptiness. “What are you—”

“Hold still.” His voice is barely controlled. He wraps his hand around himself, slick with me, and strokes hard and fast and his eyes never leave mine.

“You need my scent,” he grits out. “I want my scent on your skin so deep that every alpha in this town knows you’re mine without getting within a hundred feet of you.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Do it.”

He comes on my breasts.

Hot. Thick. Pulsing across my skin in streaks, and the sound he makes is guttural and raw and barely human. His hand keeps working, drawing it out, and I watch it land on me and something primitive and omega in me lights up like a flare.

His. Scented. Claimed.

He drops his head back and breathes for three ragged seconds. Then he looks at me. At his cum on my breasts, on my stomach. At me straddling his lap, flushed and wrecked and covered in him.

His hand comes up.

He spreads it across my skin.

Slowly. Deliberately. His palm smoothing over one breast, then the other, rubbing it in, painting me. His thumb drags through it and circles my nipple and I moan and he watches his own hand marking me with an expression of such intense, primal satisfaction that I feel it between my legs.

“There,” he murmurs. His palm slides down between my breasts, across my stomach, spreading the slickness everywhere. “Now you smell right.”

“I smell like sex.”

“You smell like mine.” He cups my breast, his hand slippery and hot. Squeezes gently. “Every inch of you.”

I should find this obscene. I should feel some kind of modern, rational objection to a man literally rubbing himself into my skin like he’s marking territory.

My omega is purring so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

“You’re not done,” I say.

He looks at me. Questioning.

“You pulled out.” I shift my hips against him. He’s still hard. Of course he’s still hard. “I didn’t say you could pull out.”