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His voice isn’t quite as deep as it is in dragon form, but when he speaks those words, my body instantly heats. It’s rebellion, yes, but it’s something else, too—a perverse delight that ripples through my stomach, tinged with guilt because I shouldn’t like it when he says those horrible things.
“You don’t own me.” The words don’t sound nearly as strong or defiant as I hoped they would. “You can’t own a person, a soul.”
But he’s distracted again, running his fingers along his sinewy forearm. It’s flecked with hair, like his chest and legs. Right above his cock, there’s a light dusting of curly dark hair as well. He’s far less hairy than most men, but the mere presence of the hair seems to fascinate him. He takes a handful of his silky black locks and examines that, too.
“I don’t like this form,” he states. “I can almost feel my wings, but they aren’t there. I am stuck to the ground, like a slug on a stone. And I’m so small, like a rabbit that must hide under rocks. Still, I’m larger than you. How tiny you must feel! How defenseless.”
“Keep calling me weak and defenseless, and I’ll show you how it feels to be kicked in the balls.”
Despite the deepening gloom, I can tell he’s looking at me with sudden interest, his attention transferred from his own body to mine.
Without warning, his fingers glide up my bare thigh. His hand is deliciously warm, as if he’s being heated by a furnace within, and I’m cold, so I don’t protest.
“Your skin,” he murmurs. “So soft. I can feel it much better now.”
He picks up my arm and traces the bones of my wrist and fingers. I barely breathe, charmed by the curious, careful way he handles me.
“Am I frightening you?” he asks.
“No.”
“Your heartbeat is quicker than usual.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Angry, then?”
“At you? Always.”
He chuckles, then shakes his head. “My voice sounds different.”
“You still sound like yourself. Just not so huge. You don’t have lungs the size of rowboats anymore.”
His hand clasps my neck suddenly, and I gasp. But it’s not a chokehold or a caress. He’s still exploring.
His palm moves lower in the dark. Glides down my neck to my collarbones, along my chest. And then… over my breasts.
I don’t know why I let him do things to me in the dark that I would never allow in the light. Night softens my reason, awakens every bit of my skin and makes it exquisitely sensitive. Besides, it’s cold out here under the rocks, on the beach, and he’s warm. So deliciously warm.
He pulls up the band of pink fabric around my chest and cups my naked breast with his bare hand.
My pussy thrills, warm and swollen and wet. My nipples tighten, both from cold and arousal.
“You did not run from the voratrice,” he whispers. “You stayed, and you tried to help me. I cannot deny that I was moved by your sacrifice.”
“I still hate you,” I breathe. “And you hate me.”
“Of course.” But there’s something in his tone that makes me want to be sure.
“And I’m still the last one you would dance for at the start of mating season,” I prompt him. “If such a thing can even happen now.”
He pauses for a second, then resumes fondling my breasts, almost absently, as if their smoothness and weight are a comfort to him. “There will be mating. I have felt the first signs of the heat coming upon me, and I feel it even now. We know that the enchantress can alter forms. I simply have to visit her again and impress upon her the importance of doing exactly what I asked. She will reverse this spell, and perform the one I requested.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
His hand slips lower, traveling down my stomach. “Then we may have to mate in this form and see what results from the coupling.” He moves aside the cloth I tied around my waist, slides his hand into my underwear.
Fuck, he’s going to touch my clit. I lean back on my hands, trying not to whimper as his fingers creep nearer.
