Page 29 of The Last Slayer
What he did—it reached beyond the physical. It went straight to my core and overloaded my senses until I saw nothing but stars and every fiber of my body contracted tightly in anticipation of the most intense orgasm of my life.
But he didn’t allow the release. Instead, he seemed content just licking me.
Frustration and pleasure rushed over me. I found that my voice worked again. “Fuck me, damn it.”
He laughed, the vibration caused by the sound enough to push me over the edge. I screamed, my back arching taut as a bow. Oh what a feeling! To be launched into the sky from the most powerful catapult in the world and know that you’ll be safe because your lover will catch you.
He didn’t stop. His tongue moved faster over my wet folds, and I writhed. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“No.” I gasped. “I can’t.”
“You will.”
And I did, again and again. Each time, I flew higher until I thought I would die from it.
Finally, he plunged into me, his sex stretching me tightly. My fingers dug into his back muscles.
He didn’t waste any time, moving in and out, each stroke more gratifying than the previous one. Pleasure washed over me like waves of ambrosia. I felt like crying, giving myself to him completely.
When I tensed and screamed my final release, he let go and allowed the ecstasy to claim him as well.
Finally I opened my eyes. It was Ramiel, of course. Sex—the real thing—floated around us like dandelion wisps. I’d never seen it out of the bottle before. I reached out, but it scattered at my touch, quick and skittish as a school of fish. Ramiel cupped a hand and Sex gathered and pooled in it, glowing moonbeam white. He spread it over my skin like warm oil. I shuddered at this further infusion of power. He licked his fingers clean, his pink tongue running over them leisurely. The sight reminded me of the things he’d done to me, and I bit my lower lip from moaning as the desire rekindled. His eyes grew dark and hot, but he didn’t make a move. To distract myself I rubbed a bit of Sex from my chest and put it in my mouth. It was amazing—delicious, as sweet and rich as freshly whipped cream. It filled my mouth with a smooth coolness that made my tongue tingle, like a meringue made from ice-cold sparkling water. I felt refreshed and surprisingly well rested.
“Happy birthday, Ashera.”
“I’m dead. I don’t think there’s much to celebrate.”
He laughed. “You’re hardly dead. Look.”
I blinked several times, and my brain began taking in my surroundings. People were gawking. He wasn’t on top of me. He was kneeling beside me, still fully armored. The wyrm carcass lay some yards away. It stank like a butcher shop that had just received a shipment of half-spoiled meat.
I raised myself up slowly. My clothes were tattered and soiled beyond repair, but I wasn’t naked. Thick slippery black liquid stuck to me. I sniffed and gritted my teeth. I was not going to hurl because of some dragon saliva.
So that was astral sex, the purely psyche-based mating. I’d never experienced it before, and I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. The orgasms were oh-god good, but I hated getting my psyche invaded—even if it generated a ton of Sex that didn’t taste gross, and my power reservoir felt replenished and brimming. Why hadn’t he taken more? He’d had some—he’d licked it off his fingers—but there was plenty to go around. He certainly didn’t have to give it all to me.
“Who are you?” I got to my feet. “Really.”
He rose with me. “As I told you, I am called Ramiel.” He bowed deeply, his hair brushing against the dark road. When he came up there was a faint smile on his face. “At your service.”
Maybe he really was Ramiel. “So…what are you?” I said.
“I am the Dragonlord of Besade and a triumvir of Lapslora.” He glanced at the chunks of metal that used to be my car. “Do you require transportation?”
Ramiel of Besade, legendary for killing Kyran, the slayer overlord. If he was telling the truth, I was dealing with a heavy-duty badass. Kyran had fought his way up to become defender of the race almost a millennium ago, and he had been the single biggest obstacle to the genocide of the slayers. Ramiel had been a mere two hundred years old—the youngest of all the dragonlords—when he’d decapitated the slayer overlord. The problem was I didn’t think “Ramiel” was honest. He was beyond gorgeous, as most supernaturals that have mortal shape are, and his entire being glowed as most creatures of nightmare do after Sex. It was something of a puzzle. Dragonlords couldn’t invade people’s dreams, and incubi couldn’t do what Ramiel had done. For now I’d consider him a dragonlord with incubus power—maybe he’d bargained with one of them…although I couldn’t imagine why he’d bother. And I needed to watch what I said and did around him. Messing with incubi was one thing, messing with demigods quite another.
“You don’t believe me.”
I crossed my arms. “You don’t exactly inspire trust.”
“I healed you at the expense of depleting my own magic.”
Touché. Still, something about him rankled. Maybe because he had been able to invade my subconscious twice in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe because he was a supernatural and I just didn’t trust his kind. “What do you want?”
He put a hand over his heart. It was completely unaffected, a gesture out of another age. “To ensure you are protected.”
Altruism? From a demigod? No supernatural does anyone a favor without an ulterior motive. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pay the price.
He continued, “What you did against the wyrm in the woods was magnificent. And to last so long against the second wyrm after the use of such magic was highly praiseworthy, much better than I expected.” He glanced at the wyrm carcass. “That was Nathanael’s creature, one of his best.”
