Page 49 of Chained to the Champion
She trembled beneath my hand, breath stuttered.
On impulse, I dropped to one knee, pressing my nose into the hollow there, letting her fill my lungs, dirt and iron, fear, defiance, but at the very heart, the wild honey-bright warmth that was only her. I licked her skin through a tear in her tunic, a trail of heated devotion, willing her to taste the words I could not utter aloud.
She gasped, hips arching toward me. “Zarvash?—”
My vow was a snarl against her flesh. “I would raze the arena to dust, rip every champion apart to keep you safe. For a single mark upon you, I would burn every stone in this cursed city.”
She tilted her chin, a warrior’s challenge, and the most fragile surrender. “Prove it, then.”
Her want was a dare. Every battle faded, leaving only us, bonded by wounds, by desire, by all that had not yet been spoken.
I lifted her, cradling her thighs around my waist, and carried her to the battered sleeping platform. She laughed, wild and bright with the kind of joy born from mortal danger and hard-won trust, the kind of laughter that braided hope into the marrow of my bones.
I eased her onto the rough bedding, following with a knee between her thighs. My tail wound around her ankle, not claiming, but promising, my strength was hers, my body a bulwark against the world’s cruelties. My cock ached, glands pulsing and heating. The musky perfume of Drakarn want hung like incense, more than claim: this was a prayer.
I tore at my tunic, claws slipping in urgency, the ache of wounds replaced by a sweeter agony. She wrestled with stubborn knots and grimy fastenings, her hands skimming my scars, her touch a challenge and comfort. Survival had left its marks on us.
She tossed aside her tunic, shoulders bare and dusted with freckles, every faded scar a story of strength. I nearly reeled at the sight. Her body was beautiful and flawed, more gorgeous than any star-strewn sky, closer than blood.
She shed her trousers until only a battered scrap of underwear hid the sweetest secret of her form. She met my stare, daring, trembling, radiant. Without breaking eye contact, she drew the final garment down, baring herself utterly.
“Is there anything here you want?” she taunted softly.
I knelt, overcome. “Everything.”
I straddled her, bronze scales against delicate human skin. Her hands mapped my chest, tracing the old wounds, the new lines written atop them. I pressed my face to her throat, inhaling where her pulse thudded wild.
I let hunger rise in my voice, truth and worship entwined. “Veshari.”
My cock brushed her thigh, painting her skin with the sharp, smoky essence of my longing. I let myself scentmark her hips, her belly, the tender skin below her ribs because to deny that urge would rip me in half.
She arched, grinding up, inviting more, the crown of my cock sliding through slick heat, separated only by bravado and the hush between heartbeats. “If you want me, fucking take me.”
Her challenge undid me.
With a flick of my tail, I coaxed her knees apart, circling under to cradle her hips, lifting her open. She watched me, unafraid, every inch offering itself for worship.
I pressed my cock, the scales of its root, the barely yielding tip, along her folds, letting my musk mingle with her own. At the tip, the sensitive lip rippled of its own will, caressing her enough for us both to gasp. But I pulled back. It wasn't time for that yet. Not when I needed the taste of her.
“Let me see you.” My voice was gruff as I nuzzled lower, dragging my tongue down the soft line of her stomach. “You carry the taste of battle, and you are so very ready for me.”
She set her jaw, almost insolent, vulnerable. “Is it enough for you?”
I let my grin flash, a warrior’s confidence, a lover’s awe. “It is more than enough.”
I parted her further, savoring how every pulse spoke of trust. My tongue, broad and hot, drew a slow line up her most sensitive seam. She bucked, shivered, hands flying to my head, grasping for horns I no longer had, clutching my hair instead.
My tail pressed against her, teasing the entrance, flicking and pulling at her clit and inner heat all at once. She writhed, a holy storm of need and delight, but never sought to flee.
“What— What are you—?” she gasped.
I rumbled my assurance into her flesh. My tail pulsed within, stroking with intoxicating precision, while my tongue danced in counterpoint.
Her thighs pressed my head, body bowing from the bed in shock. Pressure built between us, fury and gentleness entwined, until she shattered around my mouth, sobbing my name. It was a song of victory and surrender.
Still, I lapped at her, drawing every last aftershock forth until her hands, frantic, batted at my shoulders. “Enough. Zarvash—don’t. I need. God, let me breathe.”
I looked up, triumphant and humbled by her sweetness. My chin and jaw gleamed with her pleasure; my cock was a column of fire against her thigh.
