Her sea-green eyes were wet. The tears — the dragon’s tears, the tears that she had not shed in a century — were there. In her eyes. Not falling. Not yet. But there. Pooling. The evidence of an emotion that she did not understand. That she could not name. That was — not grief. Not joy. Not fear. Something else. Something that she had never felt.
"What happened?" he said.
His voice was soft. The question was genuine. The voice of a man who sees tears and who asks.
"I..." she stammered. Her voice broke. The word did not come. The sentence did not form. The Empress — the articulate, the eloquent, the ruler — could not speak. "I do not know. I have never..."
She trailed off.
The sentence hung. Incomplete. The thing that she had never — felt. Done. Been. The word that she could not say. Because she did not know the word. Because the word — for what she was feeling, for what she was experiencing, for what was happening to her — did not exist in her vocabulary. In a hundred years of life. In a century of power. She had never felt this.
Raven chuckled.
The sound was low. Warm. Not mocking. Not cruel. The sound of a man who understands. Who has seen this before. Who has — caused this before. In other women. In other beings. The moment when the wall falls. When the resistance crumbles. When the being — the proud, the powerful, the ancient — realizes that they are not what they thought they were. That they are not above. That they are not untouchable. That they are — a woman. A woman who can be held. Who can be touched. Who can be fucked. Who can be — owned.
"I have already fucked you, right?" he said.
The words were direct. Blunt. The words of a man who does not see the point of pretense. Who does not see the reason for euphemism. Who says what happened. Who states what was.
The Empress flinched.
The word — "fucked" — hit her. The way the cock had hit her. Two days ago. In the cave. The word that described what had happened. What he had done. What she had experienced. The word that she had not been able to think. To say. To acknowledge.
"Let us make it official," he said.
His hand went to her dress.
The elaborate dress. The silk. The steel. The scales. The ceremonial attire of an Empress. His fingers found the neckline. The square cut. The bodice. He pulled. Not gently. Not carefully. The fabric — the silk, the steel threading — tore. The sound was loud. RIPPPP— The dress split. From the neckline to the waist. The bodice opened. The fabric fell away. Her chest was exposed.
Her breasts.
Massive. The mounds — the enormous, heavy, full mounds — were bare. The nipples — dark, large, stiff — were visible. The areolas — wide, the dark skin contrasting with the pale — were there. The breasts — freed from the bodice, freed from the confinement — settled. Heavy. Solid. The weight of them. The sheer, physical, undeniable weight of flesh that was larger than a human head.
Her hairy pussy.
Below. Her lower half — the scaled half, the thick, powerful thighs, the dragon legs — was still covered. The dress — torn at the waist — hung. The skirt. He pulled. The fabric — the silk — came down. Over her hips. Over her thighs. The scales — sea-blue — were revealed. The thighs — thick, muscular — were bare. The pussy — the hairy pussy, the bushes that he had touched, that he had pulled, that he had entered — was visible. The dark hair. The thick, long, silky hair. The mound. The lips. The place where the blood had been. Two days ago.
She tried to cover.
Her hands — her large, scaled, clawed hands — went to her body. To her breasts. To her pussy. The instinct. The modesty. The gesture of a woman who is exposed and who is trying to hide. The gesture that she had not made in a hundred years. Because she had not been exposed in a hundred years. Because no one had seen her body in a hundred years.
He pulled her hands away.
His hands — human-sized, smaller than hers — on her wrists. He pulled. The hands came away. The breasts were exposed. The pussy was exposed. The body — the massive, scaled, powerful, ancient body — was bare.
"Stop," she whispered. Her voice was shaking. "Please. I—"
He shut her up.
His mouth found hers. The kiss. Not gentle. Not soft. Not the kiss of a lover. The kiss of a taker. His lips on hers. His tongue — the human tongue, small compared to hers — went into her mouth. The French kiss. The deep, invasive, claiming kiss. His tongue found hers. The dragon’s tongue — long, thick, the muscle of a predator. The two tongues — his and hers, human and dragon — met. Touched. Wrestled.
She moaned.
"Hmm...!"
The sound — muffled, the moan into his mouth, the vibration of her vocal cords against his lips — was the first moan. The first sound of pleasure. Not from pain. Not from shock. From the kiss. From the mouth on hers. From the tongue in her mouth. From the contact that was — intimate. That was — different. From the cave. In the cave, there had been no kiss. No mouth. No tongue. Just the cock. Just the penetration. Just the taking.
This was different.
This was — a kiss. A kiss from the man who had taken her. A kiss that was — claiming. That was — marking. That was — making official.
He pulled back.
His mouth left hers. The saliva — the mixed saliva, his and hers — connected them. A strand. Thin. Clear. The strand stretched. Broke. Fell.
Her lips were swollen. Her tongue was out. Her eyes — the sea-green, the slitted pupils — were glazed. Dilated. The look of a woman who has been kissed and who is — affected.
"My lord..." she whispered. The word — "lord" — came naturally. Without thought. Without effort. The word that she had never used. For anyone. In a hundred years.
He kissed her neck.
His mouth found the scaled skin. The sea-blue scales on her neck. He kissed. His lips on the smooth, cool surface. His tongue traced the edge of a scale. The sensation — the warmth, the moisture, the softness of his mouth on the hard, smooth scales — was new. Different. The scales were not insensitive. They felt. They registered. The warmth. The wetness. The touch.
She shivered.
"Ahh..." she breathed. The fog — the visible breath, the condensation — hung before her lips. White. Dense. The exhalation of a dragon whose body was responding. Whose temperature was rising. Whose arousal was — building.
His hand went to her breast.
The massive mound. His hand — human-sized — was small on the flesh. He could not hold it all. His fingers sank. The flesh — soft, heavy, warm — yielded. His hand disappeared into the breast. The way a hand disappears into dough. He squeezed. The flesh compressed. The nipple — dark, large — pressed against his palm. He found the nipple. His fingers caught it. He pinched.
"Ah—!" she gasped. Her back arched. Her body — the massive body — moved. The response. The nipple was sensitive. The system had said so. ’Cervical sensitivity, clitoral sensitivity, tail base sensitivity.’ And now — nipple sensitivity. Another weakness. Another point. Another place where the dragon was — vulnerable.
He squeezed.