CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
Daela feels sore throughout the next day; even the slightest movements, such as walking around the cottage, sting hotly.
So as Drakar moves around with agility, Daela can only glare at him in envy.
Why can the dragon not hurt like her?
It is not fair that she has to suffer the aftermath of their mating alone. His stamina had been cruel!, she thinks bitterly.
A deep crimson flush spreads across Daela's face as she recalls waking up with Drakar's manhood still buried completely inside her.
No matter how many times they rutted, Drakar still has that dark ravenous look every time he glances at her that tingles Daela's skin with cold goosebumps.
She will not survive another round of it; there is already no part of her body that Drakar has left untouched.
His marks nearly cover all of Daela's flesh—not true marks, but something close. Fingerprint bruises that seem to shimmer with residual warmth.
