Dragons do it dirtier, p.1
Dragons Do It Dirtier, page 1
DRAGONS DO IT DIRTIER
DRAGON SHIFTERS DO IT BOOK ONE
GEMMA CATES
CONTENTS
About Dragons Do It Dirtier
Prologue
1. Taylor
2. Bain
3. Taylor
4. Bain
5. Taylor
6. Bain
7. Taylor
8. Bain
9. Taylor
10. Bain
11. Taylor
12. Bain
13. Taylor
14. Bain
15. Taylor
16. Bain
17. Taylor
18. Bain
19. Taylor
20. Bain
21. Taylor
22. Bain
23. Taylor
24. Bain
25. Taylor
26. Bain
27. Taylor
28. Taylor
29. Bain
30. Taylor
31. Bain
32. Taylor
33. Bain
34. Taylor
35. Bain
36. Taylor
37. Bain
38. Taylor
39. Taylor
40. Bain
Epilogue: Taylor
Epilogue: Bain
Epilogue: Dex
Dragons Do It Nerdier Excerpt
Gemma Cates’ Newsletter
Also by Gemma Cates
About the Author
ABOUT DRAGONS DO IT DIRTIER
A good girl looking to get a little dirty
Taylor
I’m on a quest to prevent my revirginization.
My dry spell has become a drought, and I’m this close to buying batteries in bulk at the wholesale store.
But fortune smiles upon my neglected lady parts when I meet a man who looks like a model for a gym commercial, acts like he might have a few manners, and kisses like he can’t get enough of me.
I wouldn’t have thought it would be all that hard to convince a horny hottie to have sex with me.
I would be wrong.
A playboy dragon determined to keep it in his pants
Bain
I’m not looking for a mate.
Not now.
Maybe never.
But sex? Yes, and often.
Until I meet little blonde Taylor with the perfect pink lips, the lushest peach of an ass, and a taste for my whiskey.
I want her but I can’t have her, because she’s a good girl.
She deserves more than a fling with a dirty dragon.
She deserves forever, and I can’t give her that.
Note from the author: This book contains a sex-starved bookkeeper who’s afraid to trust her heart after her ex-fiancé smashed it into jagged little pieces. It also contains a reluctantly honorable whiskey-distilling dragon who doesn’t believe he deserves a second chance at finding his fated mate.
PROLOGUE
OF DRAGONS AND DRAGONKIND: A CURSED LINEAGE
Dragon shifters are always men.
It hadn’t always been so.
At some point in a long distant past, dragonkind had been like most other magical creatures, with both males and females born in roughly equal numbers.
But for many centuries now, only male children were born of a dragon mating.
According to lore, a male dragon betrayed his mate, a dragoness who was also a powerful witch. Her heart shattered by the deceitful actions of her unfaithful mate, she used her own death to power a spell. She magicked dragonkind, her intent to spare its females the desolation of an unnaturally broken mate bond.
What had been a blessing in her eyes, saving all other dragonesses from the despair she’d suffered, became a curse to all of dragonkind as fewer and fewer females were born until eventually none remained.
Dragons were forced to look elsewhere to find their mates.
As years passed, it became clear that there were very few females with whom they could create a mating bond.
As more time passed, civilizations grew and mankind spread across the planet.
Already declining in number, dragonkind faced a new challenge: concealment from the eyes of humanity.
With their numbers diminishing, the only dragons left were those descended from lineages capable of cloaking themselves from the nonmagical.
And they could only thrive if they could find mates.
So they hid among the humans, and they searched.
1
TAYLOR
I was getting laid tonight.
It was happening.
If I could ever make it from the deep, dark depths of the bar’s “overflow parking.”
Whatever the sign wanted to call it, it was a poorly lit field with a gravel path pretending to be a road.
I just had to go and pick a busy night for my revirginization-prevention project, aka Get Laid Now plan. Complete accident. The type of bar, on the other hand, not accidental at all. I’d wanted a local place that was anything but upscale.
I’d googled “dive bar” in my zip code, and Derek’s was the first place to pop up. Maybe bad lighting was just part of the package—and a long walk and ankle-twisting holes in the path.
I wouldn’t really know, not having ever been to a dive bar before. And not having friends who went to dive bars. Or friends of friends. Maybe my brother’s friends? Definitely no one in my admittedly very small social circle.
But my regular spots for happy hour drinks and tapas and dinner with friends weren’t getting me what I needed: laid.
As I carefully picked my path through the parking lot, I had the eeriest feeling that someone was checking me out.
Paranoia, your name is Taylor.
I probably was being watched, but that wasn’t weird. I was here to be watched. And hopefully picked up for some dirty—but definitely safe—sex.
Nothing eerie about someone checking out my assets.
The whole point of my getup was to draw the eye and bring in some viable prospects.
The heels I could barely walk in.
The skirt that squeezed my plush peach into an almost-smooth, not-quite-perky-but-trying rear.
The push-up bra that made my D cups practically pop out of my shirt.
All because I’d been suffering a lengthy dry spell. This was me on the prowl, or at least the best I could manage. Probably a dance club would have been better, but…no.
Loud music, bright lights, sweaty people grinding up on each other. My nose wrinkled involuntarily.
If I couldn’t even think about it without cringing, then no way was I pulling off a dance club.
I glanced down to make sure I didn’t have any nip slips in the offing. I was usually a boyfriend-jeans-and-ballet-flats kind of girl. Or maybe skinny jeans and booties with a fitted tee.
Not tonight. This evening, I was all T and A.
Who knew it was so much harder than it looked?
To start, walking in three-inch heels was no picnic. Thank the good Lord above I’d passed on the four-inch strappy sandals the salesgirl had flashed at me. I told her I wanted date shoes, not a six-week stint in a cast.
I sighed. It was all a lot of work, this hunting-for-a-man business. And I didn’t even want the whole man. I really just wanted his penis.
Cock. I whisper-mouthed the word from my romance books, just trying it on for size. Nope, didn’t think that was going to work for me.
I paused, checking the girls again. It took a good bit of concentration to both offer a tempting view of my boobs while simultaneously keeping them from popping out of my shirt. Maybe there was a trick to it. I made a note to google it later.
But not tonight. Tonight I’d be getting down and dirty with some lucky guy.
Maybe.
Again, this had all been much more difficult so far than I’d realized.
On top of the heels and the potential boob-flashing, my peach wasn’t happy about the lack of jiggle. Compression was not my bottom’s friend.
Penis hunting was so. Much. Work.
Also, I really wish “plush peach” hadn’t been my grandmother’s favorite description for the family curse/gift of a very round bottom. It was in my head, and it wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Here I was, trying to feel sexy, trying to get myself in the right mindset, and thinking about my bottom as my peach wasn’t really doing it for me.
My gran was before her time. She’d never even heard of an emoji, let alone the variety with sexual connotations. I wish she had, then maybe peach would feel pornier. Instead, I heard her voice advising me on ways to minimize the plushness of my peach.
“I love you, Granny,” I whispered. “But you do not need to be in my head while I’m trying to prevent my revirginization.”
I narrowly avoided wiping out for the third time when I was distracted by the appalling thought that I’d just told my gran, dead and in heaven though she might be, that I was looking for some action.
“Whatever. I need this.”
Contrary to any of my lame work friends’ lame opinions, I definitely needed this.
Also, that was exactly what I got for working at a bookkeeping firm: work friends who refused to be my wing girl at a dive bar and judgy comments about picking up men.
I’d been tempted to tell Tammy in client relations that she needed to shush about my bad choices, because if I had to replace the batteries in my vibrator one more time, I might cry.
A year of battery-operated sex was too long, and I refused to allow the humiliation of a fai led engagement to murder my sex life.
But I didn’t tell her any of that. Not a word of it, because she’d have had a coronary. I just told her about the dive bar and looking for “some fun,” and she’d gone all judgy on me.
No more shared confidences with uptight Tammy. And Louise? No, I hadn’t even been tempted to tell her. She’d have started praying for my soul right there in the middle of the break room.
I needed new lunch buddies.
The kind who’d listen without judgment as I confided juicy details about my recent string of steamy dreams.
I fanned my suddenly warm face.
I couldn’t even say the word “cock” out loud; I’d sure as heck never been the kind of girl to ask a man to “fuck me hard now.”
Except in those dreams.
I’d definitely never said anything half so risqué to my ex-fiancé. He’d been a lights-off, under-the-covers guy.
Well, minus that time I walked in on him and Susie doing it in his living room. Broad daylight, no covers in sight.
But with me, it was all dark, all the time.
I’d already started to suspect he wasn’t quite so into all my curves as he’d claimed, especially since Susie had a scrawny rear and itty-bitty titties. And I’d gotten a good look because she’d been riding him like a champ, reverse-cowgirl style. Thank you for the label, Google.
Yeah, William hadn’t ever inspired fuck-me-hard-now dreams. Not sure who had, because other than being a big son of a gun, I didn’t know much about my dream lover. I never saw his face.
Those dreams had been a sure sign of my need for some real-life physical contact…or a reflection of the quality and quantity of romances I’d been reading lately. But probably mostly my hormones rampaging and demanding some penis.
The other thing that was new about these dreams?
I’d definitely, one hundred percent, never ever had a dream-inspired orgasm so strong it woke me up—and had my coochie still clenching with pleasure.
I fanned myself again.
Awesome? Yes. But also unsettling. And surely another sign I needed some real-life sexy times.
Since I wasn’t anywhere near ready to date another cheating bastard, casual sex was the answer.
I could do casual.
I could, because I needed this.
Finally, I hit proper pavement and better light.
I stopped in front of the door to Derek’s, clutched the tiny crossbody purse with my driver’s license, bank card, cash, lip gloss, phone…and condoms, and took a breath.
I could do this.
I needed penis, and Derek’s was bound to be full of it.
I let out a breath.
The first reasonably friendly, reasonably attractive man who showed interest was getting a warm welcome.
I opened the door and walked inside.
2
BAIN
She was cute, the tiny woman I followed in from the parking lot.
More than cute. Sexy.
All soft curves and wavy dark blonde hair. She was like a damn pinup girl with that exaggerated hourglass shape.
Not very graceful, but with an ass and tits like that, did it matter? I wanted to bury my face between her plump breasts. Grab her lush ass and pump into her while she begged for more.
And those lips. Full and pouty, covered in some shiny stuff that made them look wet. They’d look amazing wrapped around my cock, sucking me off.
But she wasn’t why I was here.
I wanted a dirty fuck, and she had nice girl stamped on her forehead. That’s what made her sexy-cute instead of fuckhot.
I looked again. The fuck-me heels, the tight skirt, the low-cut top. Damn. She was sexy-cute and fuckhot. Better to steer clear of that one.
Even if she had whispered “cock” as she’d wobbled her way along the path.
She’d also been having a conversation with her deceased grandmother and giving herself a sex pep talk.
She was a nice girl in wolf’s clothes, and that wasn’t what I needed.
Not tonight.
Maybe never.
3
TAYLOR
I wasn’t having any luck.
Granted, I’d been here about five minutes and I’d spent the last three of them in the bathroom touching up my lip gloss. Which was a very attractive peachy-pink color. I’d almost gone with the candy-apple-red shade, but the makeup counter woman had said it was perhaps a bit much with my fair complexion and honey-colored hair.
Probably should have bought it anyway, but I’d just scooted over to the nail section and picked the brightest, boldest red polish I could find.
Not that the saleslady would ever know, but I’d felt a rush of rebellious triumph. And that red looked good. I held my hand up to the light.
A woman with improbably luxurious lashes standing one sink over looked at me like I was cuckoo, so I quickly washed my hands in the basin, towel-dried my gorgeously polished nails, and skedaddled so we wouldn’t walk out of the bathroom together.
At which point I was faced with the same dilemma that had driven me to the bathroom in the first place.
Making sexy eyes at strange men was harder than I thought it would be.
Making plain ol’ eye contact with strange men might even be beyond me. I hadn’t dated since college and that had been ages ago. Even then, William had approached me. He’d asked me out. He’d done the little bit of chasing that had happened.
Dang, but that was not the world I currently lived in.
I needed some liquid courage.
Avoiding all eyes, male and female, I headed toward the salvation of my evening plans: the bar.
Small problem. Me. I was the small problem.
The bar was packed, and I wasn’t the sort of person who shoved and pushed. I also wasn’t the sort of person people made room for. I might be five six in heels, but in everyday life I was five three, and I acted like a five-foot-three person. A five-foot-three, not-pushy person.
I sighed and channeled my inner nonintroverted, tall, assertive self. She didn’t really exist, but I pretended long enough to wedge myself between two more aggressive women.
But then I couldn’t catch the bartender’s eye. Her gaze kept sliding right past me.
I wanted booze.
I needed sex, and for sex to happen I had to make eye contact with a walking penis.
And before I could make eye contact, I needed me some damn liquor.
I got up on my tippy-toes and leaned forward just as far as I possibly could without touching the sticky surface of the bar, and—
Someone groped my peach.
I toppled onto the sticky surface of the bar. I didn’t linger. I unstuck myself and even ignored any potential damage to my top, because someone needed a lesson in manners. The kind where I might just have to practice that thing my brother Thom had showed me that one time in high school.
I turned around, ready to target the molester’s twig and berries with a focused attack if he didn’t apologize. But I was greeted by an interesting sight.
A mountain was standing next to a mole.
A gorgeous, dark-headed mountain of a man with muscles like you see on gym commercials, and he had his huge hand wrapped around a smaller man’s neck. The smaller guy had a twitchy nose and small, squinty eyes. Total mole.
Mountain man’s large fingers flexed, and the mole man squeaked. “I’m sorry.”
My apparent rescuer’s fingers flexed again as he prompted, “For…”
