Dagmar rested her hands on her lap, palms up. “Now,” she said, “aren’t you glad you asked?”

She did love telling those stories. They were all true, every word. She simply chose what to leave in or take out depending on her audience.

For instance, her father didn’t attack Dagmar’s first husband until The Reinholdt saw her face the day after her wedding. She’d tried to stay in her room, tried to hide what she’d woken up with after only one night with her husband. It wasn’t that Dagmar hadn’t been willing; she simply didn’t have the kind of responses her husband had been expecting.

Yet her servant at the time, a much older woman who’d also tended Dagmar’s mother, insisted Dagmar attend the after-wedding first meal as etiquette dictated. Dagmar would never forget the look on her father’s face when he saw her. Or the way her brothers leaped over the table to get their hands on her still-drunk husband. And they only waited until midafternoon to set their horses in motion because, according to her father, “We want the bastard to be nice and sober when them horses start moving.”

No, that part of the story was for no one else but her because at the time it had meant the world to her.

“I am glad I asked,” the dragon finally said. “It makes me feel much better about the legion Annwyl is sending to your father.”

“It does?”

“Aye. How a male treats his female kin shows me what kind of male he truly is. My father cleaved a dragon in half when he found out the bastard had been telling all his friends he’d been bedding my baby sister—which he had. But still, he shouldn’t have bragged about it as he did, so my father used the dragon’s own battle ax on him. Cut through him from the top of his head, straight through, splitting him into two distinct pieces. Keita mostly beds human males now. Dragon males avoid her.”

“Shocking.”

“Weak. If you’re too afraid to fight for what you want.” He smiled. “Now … Can I have that kiss?”

“If after all that talk of dismembering and cleaving in half you still want to kiss me, then be my guest.”

He moved up on the bed until his hands rested on either side of her waist.

“Come on now, dear,” he said in a high-pitched, elderly woman voice that made her laugh, “pucker up for me.”

She did, closing her eyes and pursing her lips like a fish. She heard him chuckle and then felt his breath against her mouth seconds before she felt his lips. They pressed against hers, firm and warm. Strangely gentle and almost unbearably sweet. With her eyes still shut, Dagmar relaxed her mouth and Gwenvael tipped his head to the side, his mouth slanting over hers. He didn’t rush her or push her, didn’t try to force his tongue into her mouth or push her back on the bed. Instead the tip of his tongue gently lapped at her lips. First the top lip, then the bottom, then between the two. The movement was slow and teasing.

Dagmar was well aware that Gwenvael the Handsome had kissed many before her. He would ease his way into her mouth the way he’d done with others. But she had no patience for this particular game of his and simply opened up. Perhaps once he got in, he’d leave her be and she could go back to finishing the message she needed sent to her father the following morning.

Gwenvael’s tongue sunk deep into her mouth and Dagmar placed her hands against his shoulders, ready to push him away. She didn’t want to start gagging, and she was already a bit bored, and she needed to get back to her … to her … uh …

Wait. What had she been doing before?

At the moment, she couldn’t remember any of it, nor could she care as her fingers tightened against Gwenvael’s shoulders, his chain mail harsh against the tips.

The dragon groaned, the sound of it rippling through her. His tongue tangled with hers and Dagmar’s body responded to it. Her ni**les hardened, her thighs tensed, and the walls of her sex clenched over and over, demanding something slide inside for it to grab hold of.

She would have been disgusted by her weakness if the dragon’s gentle teasing hadn’t also turned more urgent, more demanding. His hand slid around the back of her neck, holding her in place, the fingers squeezing and releasing the muscles there. His body moved in closer, his free hand gripping her hip.

Dagmar had to have more. She released her grip on one shoulder and dropped her hand to his lap. She whimpered when she felt the hard c**k beneath her hand. Even through the chain mail, she knew it was large and powerful. Built to make a woman promise anything if she could only play with it for a night or so. She stroked her hand against him and the dragon shuddered. She liked that, so she did it again. Now he whimpered and moaned while he still kissed her. Her hand continued to stroke him, over and over again, developing a rhythm he seemed to be enjoying immensely.

The dragon’s human form tensed, and then suddenly he was scrambling away from her, stumbling across the small room until he landed in the only chair they had.

He stared at her as if terrified. His eyes wide, his breath coming in short, hard pants, while his body trembled the tiniest bit.

The way he scrutinized her made Dagmar uncomfortable and she looked away, wincing when she tried to close her hand. She glanced down and saw that the bandage on her right hand had come off. She reached for the linen wrap lying on the bed as a brisk knock on the door told her dinner had arrived.

Gwenvael answered the door and let the servant girl in. She placed the food down, blue eyes flicking back and forth between the pair. She couldn’t seem to give them their food and get out of there fast enough.