Treasured by the Dragon

Ch 11: Touch

When we reach his room, my eyes go straight to his sprawling mattress.

It's been nearly two weeks since he first pulled me out from beneath and tortured me with the image of his toned frame pinning me down to his bed. I think of the night not too long ago where he had me in that very position, but spread upon a much more uncomfortable surface.

Not that I'm complaining, but I am eager to know how the experiences differ.

"Are you cold? Would you like me to fetch you a blanket?"

Cephias's voice is a warm purr on the back of my neck, and I bounce as all my nerves come to attention.

Get it together! I might be tired, but this is my only opportunity to sway Cephias before he leaves. I can't be drifting off to scenarios that will better serve me in the comfort of my bed.

"Oh, no, that's all right," I answer with a nervous chuckle. "I'll just sit by the fire."

"Let me stoke it then."

He walks me over with his hand on the small of my back. I slow a little to provoke a firmer hold, but the opposite occurs.

"My apologies," he says, sidestepping me and heading to the hearth on his own, "I forgot I can't touch you unless I accept your proposal."

He kneels down before the smoldering coals and looks up at me with a teasing twist to his lips. "Or was it I can't taste you?"

The hairs rise on my neck, and I swear I catch his tongue licking his lips with satisfaction.

"I...I believe it was taste."

"Good to know."

I clear my throat and tear my eyes from his predatory gaze. Instead, I walk over to the armchairs basking in the fire's glow. I take a seat and place my hands on my lap, pinching my knees to bottle up whatever is brewing inside me.

"There. If this isn't enough, I have blankets on my bed you can use."

"I think I'll be—"

Words lodge in my throat as Cephias undoes several buttons at the top of his shirt.

"Please excuse me, it was a hard day of work and I'm still a little overheated."

Instead of taking the opposing wingback, he grabs a nearby footstool and pulls it in front of me. He takes a seat on the velvet padding, his knees close enough to brush mine.

He's doing this on purpose, I think to myself in a shrill mental voice. I do not understand this man. He shuts things down the moment I try to be intimate, and now he's getting as close as he can without touching me. He even invited me to his room, walking around with the swagger of a peacock!

I huff and ball my hands into fists. I could use his apparent desire to sway him, but I also must hold my ground. I said no tasting until he accepts me. He needs to know flashing his muscles and licking his lips is not enough to sway me.

It is enough to make me a bit hot myself, but that's beside the point.

"So," I say, clearing my throat, "you wish to discuss marriage?"

"Discuss, yes, but I want you to go into this conversation knowing I'm still opposed to the idea. I doubt I can be persuaded. However, I will listen to any additional points you have and explore potential compromises."

Despite his flirtatious invitation to his room, he speaks with an even tone, and his face is dark with sincerity. The air surrounding us shifts, and though he still sits dangerously close, my chills of anticipation settle and my body loosens.