Playing With Fire

Playing With Fire

Dragon Romance

Amy Faye

Published by Heartthrob Publishing

Hot erotic shorts by Amy Faye, Published by Heartthrob Publishing

www.gold-miss.com

© 2017 Amy Faye

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

admin@gold-miss.com

Smashwords Edition

If you want news about new novel releases, you can sign up for my mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/cmQY05

Preview...

I didn't have to wait long for him to become interested. I'd spent the better part of two hours reeling Lance Yovanovich in. It's not my specialty by any means, but I like to think that I can land a man when I want to, and this time, I had to make sure, because it was an important next part of the plan.

He wasted no time in moving towards me.

You're feeling nostalgic? Is that it?

I shrug. What can I say? I'm a sentimentalist.

He grinned, his jaw hard and his eyes harder. His arms laced under my knees and he lifted me up off the ground, as if it were no problem. For a man his size, maybe it wasn't. I can feel him, half-hard, already grinding against me.

I've never been a slut. At least, I never thought of myself as one. But then again, maybe it's because I never put myself in the position to be one. Now that I'm acting like one, and I have no illusions about it, there's something freeing about it.

You shouldn't tease boys, he says. The words come out as a threatening growl. I shiver at the sound of them, in spite of myself.

Who says I'm teasing anyone? You can fuck me now.

There's an instant's hesitation. I can see him holding himself back, and I desperately want to find out what he's holding back from. He puts more weight on me, pressing me into the gallery wall. The lights are right in my eyes and it's a little bit blinding. I close them.

His face buries itself into the crook of my neck and then his teeth bite down. I groan out my pleasure and try to rock my hips forward, even suspended as they are by my knees. I press against a shaft that's halfway hard, separated only by a few thin pieces of fabric. I feel it twitch, inching closer and closer to full stiffness.

There's a noise below me, between us, and then I feel a movement between our hips, and then I feel him pressing against me again. This time, there's less between us. When his fingers pull aside the front of my dress, and the crotch of my panties along with it, there's nothing at all.

He doesn't take a long time in getting me ready. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it. If I were as big a slut as I want him to think I am, maybe I'd think it was normal. Either way, I'm not going to argue.

It hurts when he enters me the first time. It hurts, but at the same time, it feels good. I shiver and then he's moving. For a moment I try to maneuver myself, to meet his thrusts, but I'm caught between the wall and his body.

This time, I don't bother to hold back. He hits a spot deep inside me and I yelp in pleasure. He hits it again, and I let my voice loose entirely. There's nobody to hear, and it doesn't matter if they did. I'm here, aren't I?

His hips move faster. More vigorously. For an instant, I try to hold back, but there's not much hope of making it last. He thrusts into me again, deeper still. My brain starts to go foggy, and then I feel his cock bury inside me. I feel the telltale spreading warmth of his seed spilling inside my pussy. Feel it spread out through my body. I shudder as an aftershock of orgasm hits me again.

Then, with my body slowly going limp, he adjusts me in his arms and starts to carry me upstairs.

1

For some people, the thrill of the hunt is everything. I'm one of them. I swallow hard and look around the room.

There are a lot of hunters in the world. Some of them take it seriously; for others, it's a hobby. There's nothing really wrong with either view.

Some people hunt animals; some hunt treasure. Some hunt fame, and some hunt other things entirely. There's a famous song by Ace of Base about a woman whose entire goal in life is to find another man to sleep with. At least, that's how the singer paints it. Who the hell am I to judge?

There's nothing moral separating me from the amateurs. The people who really just enjoy it. I got into this business because I enjoyed it, so it's not like I can criticize.

I'm a professional. Would you like to know the big difference between a professional and a motivated amateur?

What are you going to eat tomorrow if you fail?

If there's no safety net, everything's different. At first, everyone wants the net there. They want something to fall back on. They want someone at home, making sure that they don't get stranded. They are afraid.

There's nothing wrong with that. The only problem I have with it, the only problem, is that I could never stomach it, not any more. This is my safety net, and the high that you get with it… the only comparison I can make is sex with and without a condom. Knowing that it's that much more of a risk, that things could go horribly wrong any moment.

Nobody goes back to wearing a raincoat once they've gotten used to it raw, and nobody ever goes back to treating hunting as a hobby after they've gotten a taste for doing it for real stakes.

I take my time. The thrill is important, but there's nothing thrilling about being a fuck up. Part of being a professional is knowing that failure–ultimate, long-term failure–isn't an option. Setbacks happen, but you must recover.

Everyone in the room is ignoring me. That's the way I like it. They're all centered on their conversations, and I'm sitting back. Of course, eventually, there will have to be eyes on me, and that's the entire goal.

I step out from the corner and walk a loop around the room. It's a large room, and the small walls that sit spread around it make another, smaller room inside. The walls only cover half the space, or perhaps even less, but anyone would know that it's an outer and inner chamber.

I take another mouthful of whatever I've got in my glass. It's dry and tart and something that a wine-snob would go nuts over. But I don't hunt wine, and when I do, I don't do it by taste. An amateur enjoys the spoils of their labor in the end. A professional, on the other hand, finishes the job when it's done. Whatever they've got going on, when it's finished, they get rid of the rest of it and walk away.

Sometimes, there are passion projects. I don't have any going on right now. For that matter, I don't have any on the near horizon. I work one job, and keep another in planning, unless I'm in a transition or someone's paying a very big check.

In this case, the check means that I've got enough time to finish up and lay low a while. That's good, because Anatoly Yovanovich is not a man I want pissed at me. The more that I can avoid working with his eyes still on me, the better it's going to be.

I pass by one of the half-walls and see one of his sons, the youngest. The one who was putting on this whole shindig.

He's the only one not dressed up. Everyone else is in thousand-dollar suits and dresses that show all the way up their hips. I'm not any exception to that. If anything, I'm setting the standard, which comes in large part from the fact that a very reasonable part of this plan relies on sleeping with the man.

If I have to sleep with someone, well, there are definitely worse options than Lance Yovanovich. He's not doing anything special right now, of course. He's standing there, talking. But he stands a full head taller than most of the men he's with, and with a straight, almost military bearing.

I see his eyes flick across the room as he laughs at