“I am glad I asked,” the dragon finally said. “It makes me feel much better about the legion Annwyl is sending to your father.”
“It does?”
“Aye. How a male treats his female kin shows me what kind of male he truly is. My father cleaved a dragon in half when he found out the bastard had been telling all his friends he’d been bedding my baby sister—which he had. But still, he shouldn’t have bragged about it as he did, so my father used the dragon’s own battle ax on him. Cut through him from the top of his head, straight through, splitting him into two distinct pieces. Keita mostly beds human males now. Dragon males avoid her.”
“Shocking.”
“Weak. If you’re too afraid to fight for what you want.” He smiled. “Now … Can I have that kiss?”
“If after all that talk of dismembering and cleaving in half you still want to kiss me, then be my guest.”
He moved up on the bed until his hands rested on either side of her waist.
“Come on now, dear,” he said in a high-pitched, elderly woman voice that made her laugh, “pucker up for me.”
She did, closing her eyes and pursing her lips like a fish. She heard him chuckle and then felt his breath against her mouth seconds before she felt his lips. They pressed against hers, firm and warm. Strangely gentle and almost unbearably sweet. With her eyes still shut, Dagmar relaxed her mouth and Gwenvael tipped his head to the side, his mouth slanting over hers. He didn’t rush her or push her, didn’t try to force his tongue into her mouth or push her back on the bed. Instead the tip of his tongue gently lapped at her lips. First the top lip, then the bottom, then between the two. The movement was slow and teasing.
Dagmar was well aware that Gwenvael the Handsome had kissed many before her. He would ease his way into her mouth the way he’d done with others. But she had no patience for this particular game of his and simply opened up. Perhaps once he got in, he’d leave her be and she could go back to finishing the message she needed sent to her father the following morning.
Gwenvael’s tongue sunk deep into her mouth and Dagmar placed her hands against his shoulders, ready to push him away. She didn’t want to start gagging, and she was already a bit bored, and she needed to get back to her … to her … uh …
Wait. What had she been doing before?
At the moment, she couldn’t remember any of it, nor could she care as her fingers tightened against Gwenvael’s shoulders, his chain mail harsh against the tips.
The dragon groaned, the sound of it rippling through her. His tongue tangled with hers and Dagmar’s body responded to it. Her n**ples hardened, her thighs tensed, and the walls of her sex clenched over and over, demanding something slide inside for it to grab hold of.
She would have been disgusted by her weakness if the dragon’s gentle teasing hadn’t also turned more urgent, more demanding. His hand slid around the back of her neck, holding her in place, the fingers squeezing and releasing the muscles there. His body moved in closer, his free hand gripping her hip.
Dagmar had to have more. She released her grip on one shoulder and dropped her hand to his lap. She whimpered when she felt the hard c*ck beneath her hand. Even through the chain mail, she knew it was large and powerful. Built to make a woman promise anything if she could only play with it for a night or so. She stroked her hand against him and the dragon shuddered. She liked that, so she did it again. Now he whimpered and moaned while he still kissed her. Her hand continued to stroke him, over and over again, developing a rhythm he seemed to be enjoying immensely.
The dragon’s human form tensed, and then suddenly he was scrambling away from her, stumbling across the small room until he landed in the only chair they had.
He stared at her as if terrified. His eyes wide, his breath coming in short, hard pants, while his body trembled the tiniest bit.
The way he scrutinized her made Dagmar uncomfortable and she looked away, wincing when she tried to close her hand. She glanced down and saw that the bandage on her right hand had come off. She reached for the linen wrap lying on the bed as a brisk knock on the door told her dinner had arrived.
Gwenvael answered the door and let the servant girl in. She placed the food down, blue eyes flicking back and forth between the pair. She couldn’t seem to give them their food and get out of there fast enough.
“Eat,” Gwenvael ordered her. “I’ll get you more ointment for your hand.”
Before she had the chance to tell him that wasn’t necessary, he was already gone.
“Where are you going?”
Éibhear the Blue, youngest son to Queen Rhiannon and Bercelak the Great, cringed when he heard that voice behind him.
That voice. That damn voice!
“To see my father.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He stopped. “Shouldn’t you be training?”
“I was. But my commander told me I could take off the rest of the day.”
That was probably because no one in her unit would fight against her anymore. In less than a year, the spoiled brat had become a one-woman wrecking team.
“Well, go find something else to do.”
“I’d rather go see Grandfather.”
Éibhear flinched. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He is my grandfather.”
Exactly the problem. Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith, wasn’t blood, but she’d been accepted by his parents and siblings as Briec’s daughter. And, in the process, they’d turned her into nothing more than a spoiled little brat … and his niece.
His annoying, spoiled, never-stopped-talking niece.
“Your mother doesn’t want you flying.”
“She doesn’t want me doing anything.” He could hear the frustration in her voice, understood it himself. At ninety-one winters he’d been in few battles. Most of them sudden skirmishes that had involved mostly human troops—very easily killed, those humans—and very few dragons. Like Izzy, he was ready for more. Ready to earn his name. Although he’d always enjoyed being Éibhear the Blue, he was ready to be something a little more substantial. Éibhear the Benevolent perhaps. Or Éibhear the Strong.
He had big plans for his future, and they didn’t involve some brat who thought she was a warrior. He still couldn’t believe her unit commanders wanted to send her into combat. She’d only just turned seventeen, and, more importantly, Éibhear saw how the men in the troops—and several of the women—looked at her. She’d be at great risk out there alone, without any kin to watch out for her. To care for her. To hold her close and smell her hair and lick that delicious-looking scar on her neck …
“Dammit!”
“What?” She stood in front of him now, never letting him ignore her—no matter how hard he may try. No one had a right to be that pretty with a severely bruised eye and a just-healing busted nose.
He simply needed to remember that she was his niece. Exactly right. His niece!
His nubile, firm-breasted, perfect-ass niece!
“What’s wrong, Éibhear?”
“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, come on.” She grabbed his arm. “Take me with you. I promise I’ll be quiet and won’t braid your hair.”
“No.” He tried to pull his arm away, but the girl did have a grip on her. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could still feel the grip she’d had on his tail once, many months ago. It was one of those memories that woke him up in the middle of the night—sweating.
“Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeee!”
“No!” He yanked his arm away. “Go play with your friends.”
Light brown eyes looked up at him through those damn long lashes, her full lips lifting slightly at the corners. “But … I’d rather play with you.”
Snarling, Éibhear pushed past her, stomping off to a clearing so he could shift and take flight in peace!
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she yelled after him. And he might have believed her, if only she hadn’t been laughing when she said it.
Dagmar stretched, waking up yet again. She’d been napping off and on for the last few hours. Each time she woke up she was still alone and her body was still reacting to that kiss. If he’d come back to her, she knew she would have taken him into her bed like so many women had done before her. But so far the dragon hadn’t come back.
No, he’d probably found someone else. Someone fuller in the h*ps and prettier in the face. Though that was probably best for both of them.
Dagmar moved her right hand, waiting for the searing pain she’d been experiencing since she’d rubbed her palm on his leggings. But there was no pain. Nor was she able to move her hand very well. She blinked, bringing her hand closer to her face so she could see. It had been properly bandaged again, and she could now feel the fresh ointment underneath.
Squinting, Dagmar looked around the room and saw Gwenvael sitting in the only chair, staring out the only window.
“Gwenvael?”
“It’s me. You’re safe.”
“Are you … is everything … I was just—”
“Go to sleep, Dagmar. I’ll wake you when the two suns rise. Until then”—the blur that was Gwenvael turned his head to look at her—“go to sleep.”
It was something in his voice, a seriousness she’d never heard from him before, that had her nodding and turning onto her side, away from him.
“Good night, Dagmar.”
“Good night,” she whispered.
Had he been with another? Her instincts told her no, but she could be wrong, trying to turn her hopes into truth. Would she blame him if he had?
Who was she kidding? Of course she would!
Damn her. Damn her and her festering feet!
Several of the bar wenches in the pub had made it perfectly clear he’d have a warm, welcoming bed to stay in this night, if he so wished. But for some unknown reason, he’d turned them all down and returned to The Liar. She wasn’t a liar simply because she lied whenever it suited her. She was a liar because she’d been pretending she was something she was not.
Cold? That woman was not cold, no matter what she wanted the world to believe. Dagmar Reinholdt was contained. A quiet volcano waiting to go off.
And why should that bother him, one may ask? Because his response to her disturbed him. Between that kiss and a few strokes of her small, bandaged hand over his chain-mail leggings, he’d almost come like he’d never come before.
Even now he could still feel her touching him. And the thought of what direct contact would do to him had caused an ugly buzzing in his head he couldn’t seem to stop.
And that was her hand, mate. Imagine what that sweet p**sy of hers would do to you.
He needed his mind to shut up now. If he started thinking about that he’d be doomed. They both would.
Gwenvael glared across the room at her sleeping form. Gods, what have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 11
He knew it made no sense for them to be in a dress shop. He may have only had an hour or so of sleep, but he was clear enough on that point. This was Dagmar after all. He couldn’t imagine her willingly going into a dress shop unless her father had his war ax to her head.