Page 5 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

“Please—”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know, I—”

He makes a sound that’s barely human and puts his mouth on me.

I cry out so loud it echoes off the garage walls.

He’s not gentle. He’s not tentative. He licks me like he’s been starving for exactly this. The stroke of his tongue is long and flat and devastating, and his hands grip my thighs to hold me open when I try to close them because it’s too much, too intense, too—

His tongue pushes inside me and I nearly come off the hood.

“Cage—”

He groans against me. The vibration makes me sob. He licks deeper, his nose pressing against my clit, and I realize he’s not just going down on me. He’s tasting me. Savoring. Like I’m something he’s been craving so long he’s forgotten how to be civilized about it.

He pulls back just enough to speak. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. You have no idea.” Then his tongue is on my clit, hard and focused, circling and pressing, and his hand moves and I feel his thumb push inside me, one thick finger stretching me while he works my clit with relentless, devastating precision.

I’m shaking. My hands press against the hood of the car. My boot heels are digging into his back and he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Then his hand shifts. One finger slides lower. Behind. Pressing gently at first, then—

“Oh my—what—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t stop. His tongue swirls my clit, his thumb moves inside me in slow circles, and that other finger presses just barely inside and the combination of sensations is so overwhelming that my vision goes white and my spine locks and I hear someone screaming and it’s me. I’m coming so hard I nearly pass out. Then there’s a rush of liquid and he groans like I just gave him everything he’s ever wanted.

He doesn’t pull away. He laps at me through it, gentler now, drinking me in, making low satisfied sounds that vibrate through my entire body.

I lie on the hood of a car in a stranger’s garage in a town I’d never heard of two hours ago, and I stare at the ceiling and try to remember how breathing works.

He stands up slowly. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are still pure gold, and there’s a flush along his cheekbones, and he looks at me like I’m the most important thing he’s ever seen in his life.

Rain hammers the garage roof. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Somewhere outside, Dale’s tow truck rumbles away, and the sound nudges my brain back toward something resembling reality.

I’m stranded. In a town I’ve never been to. My car is dead. It’s late afternoon and getting dark. I have a suitcase in my trunk and no idea whether this town even has a hotel.

I sit up slowly, tugging my skirt down, pulling my ruined shirt closed as best I can. My legs are shaking.

“Is there a hotel in town?” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone who just ran a marathon.

His expression changes. Something possessive flickers across his face.

“You’re not staying at a hotel,” he says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re staying with me.”

I should argue. Every rational brain cell I have left, which is maybe four, says I should argue. I just let a man I met fifteen minutes ago ruin me on the hood of a car in his auto shop. In what universe does going home with him make this more reasonable?

But my omega, my supposedly low-responsive, barely-there, never-reacts-to-anyone omega, curls up inside my chest and purrs.

Yes. Him. Go with him. Stay.

I open my mouth to say something sensible.

What comes out is: “Okay.”