To Wake a Dragon: A Venys Needs Men Book (Tropical Dragons 3) by Naomi Lucas

Author:Naomi Lucas [Lucas, Naomi]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

13

Alpha’s Claim

Once again, something is tugging on my hair, but this time it hurts.

And I know who it is.

I stiffen. He must be behind me because I’m still facing the fire. I squint my eyes as they adjust, but only a little because the flames are already beginning to die. My throat tightens. Already? It frightens me. The fingers in my hair distract me though.

Something cool drenches my head, and I jerk, flinging my hand to protect my wound, but it’s caught in a firm grip before it can land on my head. “What’re you doing?” I twist to face Drazak.

His dark pupils reflect me and the flames. His scales twinkle a deep purple. “I am cleaning the wound. You will not touch it while I do.” He keeps my hand hostage. “Lie back down.”

Slowly, I do as he says. Part of me doesn’t want to get up anyway. I know I’ve been sleeping a lot, but I still feel exhausted. I’ve been hurt before, had long bouts of recovery, but it was nothing like this—like a slow-building sluggishness spreading throughout my body. Maybe it’s the cave or the darkness… Maybe it’s the bond or the wound. Maybe it’s none of those things or all. Regardless, I bring my hands up and rest them under my chin and cheek.

Drazak’s fingers return to my hair, combing through it with his claws. Sometimes more water is added, and sometimes there’s a spike of pain, more than the usual throbbing, but overall, it’s soothing and threatens to lull me back to sleep. For a time, I can forget everything. He doesn’t know it, but it’s the best gift he could give me.

My skin prickles from his ministrations, and I bring my knees into my body. Pleasure blooms. A sneaky, comforting pleasure right in the core of me. I can feel myself becoming wet, and it only worsens when he runs his nails over the top of my scalp.

I moan into my hand, unable to help myself.

His fingers stop moving, and I could cry from their loss. “Don’t stop,” I beg.

He goes right back to it. He starts again with my scalp, avoiding my wound, and ventures to the hidden skin behind my ears. He rubs it so softly it almost tickles, before trailing my hairline with the pad of his fingers. The tips of his nails graze my neck several times.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s stoking a heat within me. The heat I’ve been denying since I first touched him. I curl my legs harder into me.

His nails leave my neck, and I whimper in protest, but his hands gather my hair, making sure it’s loose enough that it doesn’t tug where I’m hurt. He undoes the last of my braids and brushes my strands. When I think he’s done, when he has piled all my hair up by my head, I force myself to rise.

His hand presses down on my shoulder. “Not yet. I am not done.”

My heart thumps. I’ve never been taken care of like this.

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