Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

to her in his own language, returning the sentiment without hesitation. “I see you, too.”
    She nodded, the tension leaving her on a long exhale. “Bastian, will you do something for me?”
    “What?”
    “Be honest with me. Tell me everything I need to know to understand you. Your kind. The world you live in.” A worried look on her face, she chewed on her bottom lip. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and…oh, baby. What a distraction. It sent him on a mental side trip, making him remember how good she tasted. How badly he wanted inside her again as she said, “I can’t stay here without understanding what it will mean for me. There can’t be any secrets between us.”
    Bastian frowned. No secrets? Talk about a foreign concept. Dragonkind was secretive by nature…needed to be to survive in a world where humans outnumbered dragons by thousands to one. But Myst was his mate. He wanted to trust her. To share his life. To open his heart without fear or reservation.
    Question was…would she want him after he told her about the hungering? About his fertility cycle, the uncontrollable need, and the risk to her?
    Fuck Rikar and this theory.
    Nothing was certain. Except one thing. Myst would run from him if she knew the entire truth.
    So where did that leave him? Cooked. Yeah, that about summed it up.
    “Bastian?”
    “Share a meal with me, bellmia, ” he said, stalling for time. “Let me feed you as a male should and…I’ll explain.”
    At least, a little. Mostly all, but…some truth was better than none. Right?
    Closing his eyes, Bastian buried his face in her hair and, breathing her in, hugged her tight. God forgive him. He was selfish. The lowest of the low to take what should be hers by right to give.
    But complete honesty was a commodity he couldn’t afford.
    Not tonight.
    Not until the hungering passed and he settled onto an even keel again.

     
    The chocolate soufflé looked delicious. Too bad Myst couldn’t taste a thing.
    Despite Daimler’s talent and the gourmet meal, everything tasted like sawdust. Her taste buds had gone on strike, picketing the entrance to her mouth: little signs raised, jostling for airtime, lobbying for another dish altogether. One that started with a B. And ended with an N.
    Myst swore she could hear the little buggers chanting…give us a B. A. S. T. I. A and N!
    Shifting in her seat, she searched for relief from the physical discomfort and blocked out the mental noise. For the fifth freaking time. The insistent voice occupying the back half of her brain yelled louder. Her heart revved up another beat, thump-thump-thumping against the wall of her ribcage. She fidgeted some more and twirled her fork in her fingers, watching the silver sparkle in the candlelight.
    God, what was wrong with her? Feeling supercharged by the Fall Storm was one thing. The restlessness she understood. But the crazy sexual need?
    She’d never felt anything like it. And it was getting worse.
    Each moment walked her closer to meltdown. The urgent rush buzzed in her veins, making her hypersensitive, imprisoning her on lust’s razor-sharp edge. She tried to shut it out and be sensible. But fantasy wouldn’t leave her alone. Was it normal to envision leaping over fine china to wrap herself around Bastian?
    Her eyes half closed, Myst nearly moaned as the image flooded her mind. Hmm, that would feel so good: sitting in his lap, him deep inside her while she stroked his tongue with her own.
    Heat bloomed between her legs. She squirmed again, accusing herself of nymphomania. But, man, there was just something about Bastian. She was hyperacute, aware of him on a level she’d never experienced before and…
    Yeah, so much for restraint. She was officially pathetic. Had ticked all the boxes on her love-struck stupid list. Now, she was falling down the rabbit hole with no way of ever climbing back out.
    Terrific. Just…peachy.
    Camouflaging another squirm, she stabbed her soufflé. She imagined it was her libido. The thing needed deflating before she embarrassed herself. Attacking Bastian wouldn’t go over well. Mr. Starched-and-Pressed would keel over in a dead faint if she ruined his culinary masterpiece. Yeah. That would be good for a lecture…or five. Daimler would have a cow and then send of her off to etiquette school to learn some manners.
    Still, she considered it. Getting dressed down by the elf might be worth it. Whip cream had arrived with their dessert and…
    She bit her bottom lip. God,