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Right now,something elseinvolves me moving my body on top of Aiden. We’re in his bedroom, which is about the size of a damned basketball court. I’m pretty sure Aiden is more than just the CEO of Vipera Consolidated. I think he’s royalty. I think he’s a count or a duke or whatever for some European country or maybe a country that used to exist but now is a cultural rather than geopolitical entity. I heard his valet, a sweet older Russian man named Peter, call him Highness once. I’ve also seen a number of men bow to him and it wasn’t a business culture thing.
Right now, he’s certainly royalty to me. He can be my king, my sultan, my emperor, or whatever. I hold his broad, muscular shoulders and move my hips back and forth, up and down, and even side to side a little bit. It takes so little effort for this man to make me lose control, and all I can do is just give in. Sex with him still has a profound, dreamlike quality to it. I think that makes it seem like I’m not aware of what’s going on but that’s not the case.
It’s more like I’m not aware of anything that isn’t important. How my clothes come off, how Aiden’s clothes come off, how we end up on the sofa near the fireplace instead of the big overstuffed high back chair or, for that matter, on his enormous bed—those things don’t matter much to me, and I don’t follow them with the same clarity as the way his cock feels inside of me and how it feels to move for his pleasure as much as mine. Oh, that’s another thing. I swear when I focus on pleasing him, things feel better for me. Isn’t that crazy? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like when I have sex I’m ordinarily selfish and self-serving, but when I think about what makes it good for me, I don’t often think in terms of how good it is for the man I’m with.
But I think about it now as I carefully control the movement of my hips, gripping him with my pussy and focusing on lifting up and down in a way that strokes him to maximum stimulation. He moans and gasps and sighs underneath me, and I feel pretty damned accomplished knowing that I can make this powerful and incredibly sexy god of a man feel this good.
I keep an eye on his facial expression as I ride him, and the way his brow furrows and his eyes close makes me feel like a sex queen.
“Oh yeah, baby,” I say, planting my hands on his powerful chest and grinding on him in circles and figure-eights. “You like that?”
“I love it, Brooke,” he moans.
“Yeah? Are you going to cum inside me, Aiden?”
He chuckles, more in disbelief at how good he feels than in amusement. “I’m going to cumveryhard for you, Brooke.”
“Yeah?” I say, increasing the pace of my movements. “Are you going to fill my pussy, Your Highness?”
He stops suddenly. His eyes snap open and meet mine. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong or gone too far. I begin to apologize, but before I can, I am on my back and Aiden is the one in control. Aiden is the one moving above me like he’s the master of sex and I’m the luckiest woman on Earth. I am the one screaming in ecstasy as Aiden fulfills his promise and cums very, very hard for me, filling my pussy to overflowing and making me his in every way it’s possible to make a woman belong to a man.
“Yes, Aiden!” I cry out. “Yes! Cum inside me! Fill me up! I’m yours! I’m yours, Aiden.”
“My love,” he says as he sighs and continues to pump into me. “My true mate.”
I feel a touch of discomfort at his sentiment, but no more than a touch, because I feel the same way about him. I don’t say the words aloud, but they feel as real to me as though I had screamed them. It’s a crazy thing, if you think about it, being referred to as a mate rather than a… I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like a normal thing.
But is sure as hell seems like a good thing to me.
* * *
Aiden
My love.
My true mate.
God, what a fool I am. God, what an idiot. Why the hell do I say that?
True, the pleasure was utterly breathtaking, but I’ve felt pleasure before. It was beyond anything I’ve felt, but not something I can’t understand.
But the emotions involved—they are what I can’t understand.
I know what it means now to be fated for someone, but I still don’t understand it.
What the hell does it mean to be the Chosen One?
I curse myself for not asking the Ancient One about it while I was in his presence. I could return to the caverns, but it doesn’t necessarily make sense to do that. The only real possibility for information I can think about is to look at the archives, the family library. It’s the size of a small college library but, thankfully, we had everything catalogued electronically a decade ago.
I access the database and search for anything related to a dragon chosen one. I get a number of results from classical literature about heroes who are the chosen one to defeat a dragon or any other monster. I look through the listing and the only one that doesn’t fit that bill is a children’s book from the late 1800s. I can’t tell if it’s written by a human or a dragon. The title isDragon Rhymes. That doesn’t help, of course. I print the listing and then pick up my phone to call Petyr.
I put my phone down. Frankly, I’m embarrassed to recruit help to find this book. It’s not the idea of him retrieving the book that bugs me but that he’ll know I’m calling for nursery rhymes. If I do that, he might ask why or if there’s a child. In any case, I’m not ready to reveal anything about this Chosen One business.
I leave my office and head downstairs and onto the grounds. It’s always an interesting thing to walk like this because walking past anyone in this place means having to endure their immediate snapping to attention or, worse, the momentary fear that maybe they’re about to be reprimanded. I don’t think I’ve ever reprimanded anyone other than the people who could be called management for the estate. I suppose it’s possible or even likely they use me as a bit of a boogeyman when they correct someone, but this is something I’ve dealt with for as long as I can remember, at least as far back to five or six years old.
However, some of the children on the estate don’t have that problem at all. Some of the adults who grew up on the estate don’t have that problem either. Like Charlotte, they treat me with respect but not as someone removed from them and on some entirely different plane of existence. I make sure to say a few encouraging things. I tell someone cutting flowers that the roses look beautiful. I tell a man carrying boxes that what’s most important to me is that he remains safe even if the job takes longer.
The man smiles and assures me he’s okay. A few feet behind him, I see a young woman regarding him with a smile, her cheeks colored a pretty pink, and I understand that he’s showing off for her. I smile and remark to her that I rarely see men as strong or hardworking as the man carrying the boxes.
