Better Than Chocolate (2 page)

Frissons of blazing awareness shook her body. The harder she trembled, the more her ass wiggled against the slick surface of the table, and the more her pussy pulsed with wanton arousal.

The men were always different. Blonds, brunets, redheads. With blue, green, and brown eyes. White men, Asian men, black men of all ages. Some had long, glossy black hair. Others sported no hair at all anywhere on their bodies.

They did share a few features, however. Rock-hard abs, chiseled chests, perfect faces ... and long, thick cocks. All eager to part her feminine folds and plunge deep into her aching pussy.

Only one man was the same in every fantasy. Her mystery lover. The one with the chocolate-colored skin and black eyes as dark as night. The one who devoured her with his gaze and touched her so tenderly she thought her heart would shatter.

The only one who ever even tried to kiss her mouth.

Hands fell upon her, touching her breasts, her ribcage, her thighs. Each talented stroke made her wiggle with fierce desperation. Lust built in her core, pulsing in her clit. She needed to be touched there—oh, there!—and someone generously obliged.

Tongues and lips followed the hands. She felt them everywhere, right up to her breasts. No one bothered to caress her neck or face. She bit down on the fleshy pad of her lower lip, hard, but she was past the point of wanting to shock herself into waking up.

The climax humming through her system formed a low, thrumming buzz in her pussy, causing the walls of her inner channel to clench and unclench in wicked agony.

Someone parted her thighs. She looked down to see a blond head pressed against her mound. A tongue speared her slit, pushing her folds aside, honing in on the entrance to her throbbing channel. She gritted her teeth and thrust her hips forward. Her belly jiggled like a plate of day old Jell-O, but she was past caring about that too.

All that mattered now was the impending orgasm. So close. And unlike in reality, completely free of embarrassing transformations into dragon-kind.

Six hundred and forty-three years of life, and she'd never been able to take a human lover. All those centuries, all that longing ... and the only thing she had to show for it was an occasional romp with a dragon male who took pity on her.

Unlike Silvana, none of the other dragons lost control of their human disguise when they fucked. She failed in that, too, like in so many other things.

But right now she wasn't failing at anything, because she wasn't responsible for doing a damned thing. She remained at the complete and utter mercy of male mouths, hands and—
Oh, God
!

She screamed at the first bold thrust of a cock into her soaking cunt. She didn't care whose it was, only that it stretched her to bursting and filled her thoroughly.

Teeth scraped her nipple. Long, luxurious licks traveled down her thighs. A tongue joined the fierce cock plunging into her, again and again. Grunts, groans, and moans echoed in her ear, some of them her own.

Sweat slicked her skin, dripped between her breasts. Tongues lapped it up almost as soon as it appeared. Pleasure built and built, sending her soaring with every powerful thrust.

As soon as one cock slipped out of her, another took its place. She could feel the difference between them, some shorter than others, some slightly thicker. Some men had hair, and their coarse curls matted with hers. Others were shaved, and she could feel the velvety skin of their balls as their sacs slapped against her slit.

Soon, nothing existed but the ecstasy of sensation coursing through her. Well, next to nothing. She remained hyper-aware of the man beside her, the one who ensnared her with a dark glance, demanding her full attention.

While another man's cock pounded her pussy to distraction, Silvana's gaze remained locked with that of her mystery man. He made no move to touch her, but the sinful intensity in those striking ebony orbs was enough to send her hurtling over the edge of restraint.

When her orgasm broke, causing every nerve ending in her body to spasm at once, she screamed. For a long, interminable moment, she was only aware of the trembling bliss hammering her senses.

Then she saw full, luscious dark lips hover over hers, struggling to break the dam of sensation keeping her from feeling their desperate touch.

She sensed nothing when the dark mouth covered hers, but she knew it was there. So she did the only thing that would allow her to take back control.

She bit down on the man's lower lip. Hard.

He pulled away.

Silvana's vision dimmed, and the dream world began to fade. It was then she heard the name echoing through the ethereal room in haunting intonations of her own voice. A name she didn't recognize, but one she'd shouted at the top of her lungs as she came.

Silvana bolted upright in bed. The remnants of the dream dematerialized like smoke in the breeze. She stifled a sob and pressed a hand to her lips.

The other, she shoved between her thighs. The cotton fabric of her pajamas was soaked through at the seam, and the pungent scent of her juices filled her bedroom. She rocked against her hand, tempering the aftershocks of orgasm and rubbing her well-sated clit with the heel of her palm in distracted little circles.

"Rafael,” Silvana murmured, giving her lower lip a smooth stroke with her thumb just as he'd done. She could imagine his soft, gentle touch as vividly as though he was in the room. It felt like he'd imprinted himself on her skin. Or maybe on her psyche.

At least her mystery man now had a name, for all the good it would do her. He wasn't real. None of what she'd just experienced had been real.

"Rafael,” she repeated, finding she liked the way his name rolled from her tongue. Exotic. Rich and delectable, like the man himself.

She shivered violently as a swift early morning breeze flew in through her open window and began to dry her moist skin. Her entire body shuddered at the memory of all those wanton hands, all those thick, fabulous cocks.

But when she tried to recall specific faces or features, she could only bring to mind one man.

"Rafael.” The sound of her own voice gave her strength, and she clung to that small comfort. This was the physical world, and in her apartment, she was the one in charge. “If I ever find out you're real, you son of a bitch, I'll ... I'll..."

She paused, suddenly feeling foolish. Frankly, she didn't know what she'd do, because he wasn't real.

But on the microscopic chance that he was, she'd think of something. Something at least as cruel as the torture he inflicted upon her every night.

And if he was very lucky, maybe just as pleasurable too.

[Back to Table of Contents]

By ten a.m. the next morning, Silvana felt like she'd crawled out of her own grave. Which wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been a vampire, but for a dragon, it was worse than being shot with a dozen arrows. She knew, because only a couple of centuries earlier she'd had to perform some nifty mid-air maneuvering to avoid a volley of projectiles sent her way by a mob of angry villagers. Given the choice, she'd subject her tough hide to steel-tipped arrows any day over this utter, bone-melting exhaustion.

Her feet felt leaden, her eyelids drifted shut of their own accord, and her hands trembled each time she reached for anything resembling chocolate.

Chocolate glaze, chocolate fondant, chocolate truffles ... every delectable item made her think of rippling dark skin, sinewy muscles, and eyes as black as sin.

"Hey, lady! I ordered that éclair two minutes ago! New York traffic moves faster than this. What's wrong with ya?"

Silvana pivoted sharply, nearly twisting her ankle in the process. The tray of cinnamon buns that perched precariously on one outstretched hand wobbled, threatening to topple over. Her free hand shot out just in time to catch it from falling.

She'd reacted on instinct alone, forgetting she hadn't bothered to put on a second oven mitt before retrieving the precious pastries from the hot oven. Pain, molten hot and laden with a million pinpricks, shot through her palm.

She yelped and hurled the tray toward a nearby counter, where it landed with a loud metal thud, skidded across the slick surface, and toppled into a carton of milk. The carton overturned instantly, spilling its contents into a basket of steaming fresh baguettes she'd placed there temporarily while she dealt with the morning rush.

Nerves revved up to the max and agony flaring into a mini atomic explosion up her arm, Silvana whirled on the customer behind the counter. About a head shorter than she was, the man wore a tight leather jacket and had obviously used about half a bottle of hair gel in a feeble attempt to hide a bald spot.

"You want an éclair?” She shoved the oven mitt clad hand in the glass display and struggled to grab a fluffy pastry between thumb and mitt. She couldn't feel the delicate shell very well, and ended up squeezing it too tightly, which caused the pastry to burst. Creamy yellow filling oozed down her mitten.

She slapped her gooey hand on the guy's leather jacket, and wiped it down the middle of his shirt. “One éclair, on the house."

"You fuckin’ mental, lady?” The man took a step back, his eyes wild and unfocused. “I'll sue! I'll have you arrested! I'll call the fuckin’ cops on your crazy ass!"

With the numb tips of her fingers, Silvana yanked off the dirty mitten and tossed it at him. It bounced off the shiny top of his gelled head, leaving a ball of yellow cream to smear down his cheek. “Do what you gotta do. In the meantime, get the fuck out of my shop!"

The man stumbled toward the exit, a stream of obscenities drifting in his wake.

Silvana struggled to ignore him and bring her blood pressure down to normal levels. At the moment, it hovered somewhere close to nuclear.

Gritting her teeth and pasting a tight smile onto her face, she turned to her sole remaining customer, a little old lady with purple hair who stood plastered against the far end of the glass counter.

"And what can I get you?"

"N-nothing. I was ... j-just look ... look—looking,” the woman stammered before grabbing her walker and hobbling toward the exit.

Silvana cupped her burnt hand in the other and watched her go. It took the old lady close to a minute to cross the eight feet to the exit. She was nearly out the door when the phone rang.

"What?” Silvana barked into the receiver.

"I told Paul Miller all about you. He's coming to dinner tonight."

Silvana leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and smacked her head against the brick as hard as she could without passing out. “Ma! I told you I didn't want to be set up again. Do you remember Colin Jackson? Or Stan Flint? Or Wesley ... whatever his name was?"

Dana McCurdy tsked into the phone, and the sound echoed down the line reverberating like a mix between a sibilant hiss and a motherly sigh of displeasure. “What will it hurt? He's such a nice dragon. Owns his own firm, you know."

"Ma!” Silvana rubbed the bridge of her nose. The headache that had been building behind her eyes now hammered the spot just below her eyebrows, threatening to melt her eyeballs until they leaked down her cheeks. “I own my own company too. I don't need a male of any species to take care of me."

"Oh, shush. He owns a real firm. An accounting firm, like a decent dragon who still respects his tradition and cares about accumulating wealth should. Not a pastry shop in SoHo."

"There's nothing wrong with owning a pastry shop in SoHo,” Silvana heard herself say. But as her gaze flew across the store and encountered only empty space where customers should be, she knew she couldn't handle having this argument again.

Not now, when the
Burnt Toast
pastry shop was so close to falling into financial ruin and bringing Silvana, and her dreams, with it. “I gotta go, Ma.” She lifted the phone from her ear.

"You are coming to dinner tonight, right?"

She sighed, stared at the plastic receiver, and finally mumbled, “I'll be there,” before hanging up.

What was she supposed to do? Her family meant well. She knew that. And no matter how insufferable her mother became, Silvana understood that the mama dragon loved her daughters—all eighteen of them.

As the youngest, though, Silvana had always benefited from Dana's smothering brand of love more than anyone else. And as the only daughter who still lived in New York, she felt responsible for her aging parents. They wouldn't live forever.

Already, their one thousand, four hundred and twenty years were starting to show. Their scales weren't quite as glossy as they used to be. Their teeth not as sharp. But they still knew how to hoard treasure, which, according to Dana, was the only thing that mattered.

Another skill Silvana had never mastered. She squandered every penny that fell through her fingers. She'd barely graduated from culinary school, but while there, she'd learned she had a real passion for dessert. So she'd taken what little money she'd managed to save on her own and opened
Burnt Toast
.

Baking, she could handle. It wasn't easy, and she tossed out more raw ingredients than ended up going in the finished baked goods, but she could manage it.

Customer service, on the other hand, was a skill that clearly eluded her. The éclair asshole should thank his lucky stars she chose to throw an oven-mitt at him instead of burning him to a crisp like she'd have done in the Middle Ages.

Damn technology, forensics, and all the other crap that came with living in the twentieth century. She missed pitchforks and good, old-fashioned burnings.

Blood roared in her ears. Her temples throbbed, and her palm twitched in agony. She stared at the angry pink welt that spread from the middle knuckle all the way down to the heel of her palm. With a sigh, she ran the burn under cold water until some of the pangs of torment receded, then wrapped a bandage around her hand and turned off the ovens.

She didn't bother to remove the half-baked pastries. Whatever was in there would keep, and if they didn't, well, what was one more ruined batch in the scheme of things? She, on the other hand, was about ready to keel over.