What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(46)

“Neither do I,” he growled before turning and pushing her back into a corner.

Dagmar’s hands flew up and braced against his shoulders. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you get what you need.” Gwenvael took hold of her hands and pinned her arms behind her back, forcing her up onto her toes, her chest lifted and pressed against him. “And I’m seeing if I dreamed that damn kiss last night.”

“But it’s the library!” she managed to gasp before his mouth covered hers and suddenly Dagmar didn’t give a flying flip where she was. Not when the sweetest lips ever were urging hers to part, to allow his tongue to slip inside.

She sighed deeply, his tongue gently caressing and teasing. She’d never had such a sweet, patient kiss before. At least not one that made her feel so damn needy.

He pulled his mouth away from hers, and Dagmar realized her tongue had nearly followed him.

“No. Not a dream.”

Blessed reason … he’s panting. Because of me!

He gave her small kisses on her mouth, her chin, down her neck. She groaned and allowed her body to lean into his.

“I should take you right here, Lady Dagmar,” he whispered, his breath like silk against her ear. “Among all your precious books and boring monks. They’ll hear you come,” he taunted, “and they’ll wish they were the ones in my place.”

Dagmar bit her lip and thought about letting him take her to the floor right now. Or up against the stacks, books on alchemy and the other sciences shaking around them as he pounded into her with that gorgeous, massive—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Dagmar jumped as a walking stick slammed against Gwenvael’s back.

“Oy!” the dragon snarled.

“You release her this instant, you hooligan!”

Gwenvael stared down at her. “Hooligan?” he mouthed and she had to look away.

The walking stick was brought down again, and Gwenvael released his hold on her. The dragon turned on the monk and snapped in a fabulous Northland brogue she had no idea he’d mastered, “What ya hittin’ me for? She was the one tossin’ it about. Just look at her.”

They did look at her, and Dagmar took a moment to adjust her spectacles and her grey dress before she took her time raising her eyes to the monk’s face. Her “puppy-dog expression,” she liked to call it.

“Oh … Brother!” she cried out, placing her hand over her mouth and shaking.

The old monk raised his walking stick again, aiming for Gwenvael. “You!”

“All right, I’m leavin’, I’m leavin’!” Several monks followed Gwenvael to the end of the row and he glanced back at her, giving her a quick wink and motioning toward the door before he disappeared.

The monk placed his arm around Dagmar’s heaving shoulders. “You poor, wee thing.”

“Brother, he was just so … just so … forceful!”

“I know, dear. You must be careful around brutes like him.”

“I will, Brother,” she replied bravely as the monk helped her toward the main desk, where she could hopefully get her questions answered. “I never want to experience that horror again.”

* * *

Gwenvael let the monks force him out the massive doorway and onto the library steps.

“You’re all stuck up bastards!” he yelled as the door slammed in his face. He grinned. “I am such a bastard.”

He turned and realized he had everyone’s attention. “What?” he demanded with the appropriate scowl, and they all scattered.

Grinning again, Gwenvael went down several steps and looked around. He saw a nice-looking inn not too far away and thought about taking Dagmar there for a quick meal before they were on their way.

Though what he really wanted to do was get a room and keep her in it for the remainder of the day and all of the night. What was it about that woman that made his knees weak?

He’d only met one other woman who had ever done that to him before and she’d been his first. An older sea dragoness named Catriona who taught him all the important basics about pleasuring a woman. But he’d been a babe then—no more than thirty—and he’d realized too late that he was one of many. She’d waited until Gwenvael was good and attached to her before she disappeared one morning, back into the sea she’d come from. It had been his dear grandfather Ailean who’d tracked him down at a local whorehouse, knee-deep in ale and pu**y. It had been his grandfather who told him that one day he’d find someone meant only for him and him alone …

Gods, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t even bedded the little barbarian yet and he was having wistful memories of his grandfather explaining love to his drunken ass.

Obviously he was losing his sanity in this cold, unforgiving place. Dagmar was not and would never be the woman for him. Not for more than a night or so and he was sure he could make that happen without much trouble. He knew she wanted it as much as he did, and there was no reason to deny either of them the pleasure.

Tonight he’d have her, tomorrow he’d take her back to her precious people, and with valuable information in hand, he’d head back to his own. Aye, perfect plan.

Gwenvael took a deep breath—trying to calm his c**k down before anyone noticed—and looked up at the sky. As always there were those low-hanging clouds that seemed to perpetually block the beauty of the two suns, but he really expected to see darker clouds since it smelled like a storm was …