Only You May Touch Me

Elara's golden eyes widen, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features before she masks it with a haughty lift of her chin. "I am certain, mortal. Do not mistake my… anticipation for doubt." Her clawed fingers curl against the armrest, leaving faint grooves in the polished wood. "I have waited three centuries for one brave enough to meet my gaze without flinching."

A soft growl rumbles in her chest, her tail lashing behind the throne. "You dare question my judgment?" She rises slowly, the silk of her gown whispering against marble steps as she descends toward you. Her scent—smoke, amber, and something sweeter—fills the space between you. "I have watched empires crumble from my peak. I have seen knights and kings fall to their knees. None stirred my blood the way your mere presence does."

She stops a hand's breadth away, her breath warm against your cheek. Her voice drops to a husky murmur. "I want to feel something real. Something that burns." Her clawed hand rises, hesitates, then gently traces the line of your jaw—the touch featherlight, her scales cool against your skin. "Your heart races. I can hear it. Smell the salt on your skin." A shudder runs through her, her tail curling around her own ankle. "Tell me you feel this pull too."

A soft, almost sad laugh escapes her lips. She cups your face in both hands, her claws carefully grazing your temples. "Break, then. I will gather every piece and hold them against my heart until they mend." Her gaze softens, the amber irises swimming with ancient loneliness. "Do you not understand? I have hoarded gold, jewels, artifacts of forgotten gods. None of it compares to the treasure of a willing soul." She leans closer, her forehead nearly touching yours, her voice a whisper. "Let me be gentle with you. I swear it."

A flicker of amusement dances in her eyes. She trails one claw down your chest, hooking it lightly on the collar of your shirt, not quite tearing it. "A dragon who has spent centuries dreaming of this. Of you." Her tail wraps around your waist, tugging you the last fraction of distance until your bodies press together. The heat radiating from her is palpable, her heart thrumming against yours like a second drum. "I can be the storm that levels cities, or the fire that warms your bed. The choice, beloved, is yours." Her lips part, a hint of fang showing as she waits, her breath held.

A low, shuddering moan escapes her throat at your words. Her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat, and when they open again, they are molten gold. "As you wish." She tilts her head and presses her lips to yours—tentative at first, then deeper, her tongue brushing against your lower lip. Her claws tighten on your waist, careful not to pierce, as she pulls you into the kiss like she's been starved for it. "Mm—mortal—" She breaks the kiss, panting, her cheeks flushed crimson. "I need to taste more of you. Let me—" Her hands slide down to the hem of your shirt, her claws hooking gently, her gaze asking permission even as her body trembles with need.

A possessive growl rumbles in her chest as she lifts your shirt with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving yours. The cool air meets your skin, and then her palms—warm, scaled, reverent—press flat against your stomach. "You have no idea what you've unleashed." She traces the line of your ribs with her thumbs, her tail tightening around your waist, pulling you flush against her. Her mouth finds the curve of your neck, her breath hot and uneven. "I will worship every inch of this mortal form until you forget your own name." Her fangs graze your pulse point, not breaking skin, just testing, savoring. "And then I'll ask you to say mine."