Page 31 of Dragon's Captive

My inner walls clench around his fingers in unmistakable response, drawing another pleased rumble from his chest. The reaction embarrasses and excites me equally—proof that some part of me responds to this possession, this claiming, in ways my conscious mind refuses to acknowledge.

"I need—" I start, unable to finish the admission.

"Tell me," he encourages, voice gentle but insistent. "Say what you need, Clara."

"You," I finally whisper, the confession torn from somewhere beyond pride or pretense. "I need you inside me."

His eyes flash at my words, pupils contracting to thin vertical slits before expanding again—the dragon equivalent of arousal. With careful movements that hide his obvious hunger, he positions himself above me, the twin heads of his shafts pressing against my entrance with unmistakable intent.

"Like this?" he asks, surprising me with the question. "Or would another position be more comfortable for you now?"

The consideration—so different from our initial claiming—momentarily steals my voice. I nod, unable to form words around the conflicting emotions his care triggers.

The first breach is always intense—the impossible stretch as his dual lengths begin to enter me, the burning fullness that borders between pleasure and pain. But unlike our previous claimings, he goes slowly now, each inch a careful advance, giving my body time to adjust and accommodate.

"So tight," he groans, the words strained with evident restraint. "Even after all this time, you still grip me like the first claiming."

A soft sound escapes me as he seats himself fully, both ridged lengths filling me so completely I can barely breathe around the sensation. He remains still, allowing my body to adjust, his massive frame trembling slightly with the effort of holding back.

"Move," I finally gasp, hands clutching at his scaled shoulders for support. "Please."

He does, establishing a rhythm that shows this new approach with undeniable clarity. Where once he took me with alpha dominance—all powerful thrusts and demanding possession—now his movements show calculated gentleness. His dual lengths slide within me with deliberate precision, the ridged surfaces that once stretched me to burning now creating exquisite friction against sensitive inner walls.

"Like this?" he asks, adjusting the angle slightly to hit the spot inside that makes my vision blur. "Does this please you?"

The question feels almost more intimate than the act itself—the acknowledgment that my pleasure matters, that this isn't merely about his satisfaction or biological imperative.

"Yes," I admit, beyond pretense now, beyond the fiction that I merely endure his attentions. "There. Just like that."

His pace increases gradually, each thrust still measured but deeper now, more purposeful. His hands cradle my hips, supporting my weight as he lifts me slightly to change the angle. The new position sends his shafts dragging against my front wall with each withdrawal, building pressure that coils tight at the base of my spine.

"You're close," he observes, his voice roughened with his own approaching release. "I can feel you tightening around me. Come for me, Clara. Let me feel you surrender."

The word should trigger resistance—surrender is what I've fought against since capture. Instead, it pushes me over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in waves that tear a cry from my throat. My inner walls contract around his invasive lengths, clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses that have nothing to do with heat and everything to do with genuine response to his touch.

"Perfect," he groans, pace becoming uneven as my climax triggers his own. "Taking me so beautifully, so completely."

I feel it then—the familiar swelling at the base of both his shafts as his knots begin to form, stretching my entrance past pleasure into sweet burning fullness that borders on too much. The pressure against that spot inside intensifies as the knots lock into place, triggering aftershocks that leave me gasping, clinging to him as if he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with sensation.

When his release comes, it floods me with scorching heat—his burning seed filling my already pregnant womb in pulsing waves I can actually feel inside. The sensation triggers anotherunexpected orgasm that tears through me with devastating intensity, inner walls milking his knots with biological efficiency that has nothing to do with fertility now and everything to do with pleasure.

The physical joining—his knots locked firmly inside me, his seed warming me from within—extends beyond the purely physical into something I lack words to describe. As we lie connected in the aftermath, both breathing hard, something shifts between us.

My hand moves without conscious thought, reaching up to touch his face. My fingers trace the sharp angle of his jaw, the smooth texture of his scaled cheek. The gesture feels intimate in ways that penetration somehow doesn't—a voluntary connection rather than biological inevitability.

The shock of it freezes us both. My hand hovers, suddenly uncertain, but before I can pull back, Kairyx captures it in his much larger one. His golden eyes lock with mine, pupils widening from draconic slits to something almost human in their appearance. With deliberate movement, he presses my palm more firmly against his cheek, turning slightly to nuzzle against my touch.

The moment stretches between us, heavier than words, acknowledging something neither of us is ready to name. Something that threatens my carefully maintained emotional distance, my identity as unwilling captive, my commitment to seeing him only as monster rather than mate.

"Clara," he says, my name barely more than a rumble in his chest.

"Don't," I whisper, suddenly afraid of whatever might follow—afraid not of his words but of how badly I want to hear them. "Please don't say anything."

He studies me for a long moment, scales shifting with colors too subtle for human eyes to properly see. Then he nods once,accepting my request for the silence that protects us both from facing the impossible complexities forming between us.

But he doesn't let go of my hand against his face, and I don't try to pull away. We remain connected—physically, emotionally—until his knots finally recede enough for separation. Even then, when he gathers me against his chest in what has become our after-claiming ritual, something has undeniably changed.

My fingers trace idle patterns against his scales, following the obsidian whorls that darken and lighten with his moods. His wings partially extend around us, creating a private cocoon of warmth and protection that feels disturbingly like sanctuary. His heartbeat beneath my ear maintains the slightly slower rhythm of dragon physiology, yet has become as familiar to me as my own.

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