Page 9 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

“I’m not.”

The road climbs. Trees close in on both sides. The rain eases slightly at altitude, turning from sheets to a heavy mist. My property starts about a mile before the cabin. I own the whole eastern face of this ridge, have since the seventies. Everything up here is mine. The timber, the creek, the trail system I cut myself. And now her.

My dragon rumbles.

I hear her breathing change. Shorter. Faster. That scent again, blooming in the cab like someone lit a candle made of everything I want.

“Cage.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t… this isn’t normal for me. I’ve never reacted to an alpha before. Not like this. My doctor said I was low-responsive and I just thought, I thought maybe I was one of those omegas who never—“

“You’re not low-responsive.”

“Clearly.”

“You were waiting.” I look at her. “For me.”

Her lips part.

I should keep driving. I should take her to my house, show her the spare room, give her space, behave like a civilized man instead of a dragon who’s been waiting a century for the woman sitting two feet away.

“Come here,” I say.

“What?”

“Slide over. Come here.”

“You’re driving.”

“I’ve been driving this road for forty years. I could do it blind. Come here.”

She hesitates for exactly one second. Then she unbuckles and slides across the bench seat and she’s right next to me, her thigh against mine, her scent so close and so strong that my vision flashes gold.

I drop my right hand from the wheel.

It lands on her knee. She inhales sharply. I slide higher. Past her knee. Up her thigh. My fingers find bare skin above her boots and she makes a sound—quiet, desperate, involuntary—that almost makes me pull the truck over.

“You’re so responsive for me,” I murmur. “Only me.”

“Cage—”

My hand slides under her skirt. Higher. She’s not wearing underwear anymore because I destroyed them and I’m keeping them and that thought makes my dragon purr with satisfaction.

My fingers find her. Slick. Hot. Swollen.

She whimpers.

“That’s it.” I push two fingers inside her and her hips buck against my hand and I keep my eyes on the road, barely. “Ride my hand, baby.”

“Oh God—”

“What did I say about that?”

She chokes out a laugh that turns into a moan. My thumb finds her clit, the knuckle pressing and rolling as she rocks her hips. The wet sounds filling the cab are obscene. Her hand grabs my forearm, nails digging in, and she starts to move. Grinding against my fingers. Taking what she needs.

“Yeah.” I curl my fingers inside her. “Just like that, baby. Take it.”