Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

look at you…I’m coming across the table at you.”
    The news flash stopped her cold. Then heated her up.
    As the inferno got cooking, she stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. What was wrong with her? She’d been so busy hiding her own reaction she hadn’t noticed his. But she was noticing now and…holy crap. He was one big ball of sexual energy. Throwing off so much heat, she could smell his arousal.
    And suddenly, his physical distance—the strict no touch, no eye contact policy—during dinner made sense. Myst swallowed as her gaze drifted over him, picking up small details and body cues. Color burnishing his cheekbones, tension vibrated through him. One hand curled around the arm of the chair, he had the thing in a death grip, threatening to rip it right off the upholstered side. And as Myst watched, his chest rose and fell, the rhythm so fast she couldn’t stand it.
    Screw etiquette. She needed him. Right. Fricking. Now.
    With a soft growl, she shoved her dessert aside. He glanced up, heat making his eyes shimmer in the low light. Thunder boomed, rattling the windowpanes, and she leapt from her seat. She went up and over, sending plates and utensils flying. Fine china collided with cut crystal, skidding across the tabletop.
    Bastian groaned and drove his chair back. The thing hit the wall with a thud, and he stood, catching her mid-flight. Relief came in a blinding wave as she made contact. She slid her hands into his hair. The soft strands pushed between her fingers, driving her headlong into desire. With a desperate moan, she took his mouth, slipped her tongue deep inside to devour him.
    He didn’t deny her, gave her all she demanded, satisfying her one wet stroke at a time. He murmured in between kisses, praising her as his hands tunneled beneath her waistband. As his palms met her skin, she surged, begging him without words to strip her bare. Nipping her bottom lip, he answered the call, pushing the pants off her hips.
    The black fabric slid down her legs and hit the floor. A second later, his thigh pressed between hers and…
    Oh, yeah. Naked, beautiful man.
    He’d pulled the disappearing clothes trick. Now, they were skin to skin, nothing between them but heat and desperate need.
    “Bastian, now! I can’t wait…now, please.”
    “ Bellmia …my beauty.” His eyes glowing like twin emeralds, he swept the plates off the table. They crash landed on the floor, splintering into shards as he sat her down on the table edge. “Spread your legs…wider, baby. Let me in.”
    Lying back, she arched her spine, twisting against the tabletop, and let her knees fall open. He growled, moved in and, hooking her legs over his forearms, grabbed her hips. She sobbed his name as he thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt inside her. Delight echoed on her wild cry, rippling out in a spastic wave that went on and on and on. She moaned when he retreated and came back.
    Again and again: giving, taking, possessing her so completely she didn’t know where he ended and she began.
    He set a fast pace, and she begged for more. Unzipping her hoodie, he pushed her tank top up, baring her breasts. Arching her spine, she presented herself like a gift. The heat of his mouth closed around her nipple, and she burned for him: urging him on as he suckled, rolling his hips, working himself deep inside her. Bliss came and Myst took it all—loving Bastian’s fierceness, craving every part of him, knowing she would never get enough.

Chapter Thirty-one
     
    The storm blew itself out as the Meridian normalized just before dawn. Bastian’s greediness settled along with it, shifting him from single-minded need into caring mode. Myst was exhausted, on the verge of sleep in his arms, needing a bed and about twelve hours of REM to recover from their night together. But he couldn’t make himself move. He wanted to stay camped out in front of the fireplace in the nest of blankets he’d made for them on the living room floor.
    He should feel bad about that. About the hours spent on hardwood and the Oriental rug: loving her, pleasing her, being pleased in return. And he might have if Myst hadn’t been as needy as he—so demanding he hadn’t had time to move them to the couch, never mind his bedroom.
    “Too far away,” she’d said. “I need you. Please, don’t stop.”
    And God. There’d been no resisting her. Or denying himself.
    He’d taken full advantage, lost all control, drowning in his desire for her. With the