Chapter 635: Work of a Dragon (r-18)

Phei’s descent was deliberate, almost ritualistic—each motion a slow, reverent offering laid before the wounded goddess he cradled with such solemn care.

His mouth traced the elegant curve of her ribcage, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses directly onto the flowering bruises Jonathan had inflicted. Vivid constellations of deep violet and fading ochre charted every brutal impact across her skin like a map of endured violence.

Where a savage kick had branded a

horseshoe-shaped

contusion

above her hip, his lips sealed over it with heated devotion, his tongue gliding softly to savor the fevered salt of her abused flesh.

Roxanne jolted a moan sharply—not from pain, but from a sudden, cataclysmic burst of ecstasy that detonated low in her belly from her pussy and where Phei had kissed.

A hoarse, fractured cry tore from her throat—"HHHNNNG—

haaaahhh!

"—as her body yielded utterly, surrendering without hesitation or conscious permission.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails biting through fabric to haul him closer against that tender, wounded place.

Her ribs surged sharply with every ragged

inhalation,

her stomach muscles tightening and rippling against his forehead while a fresh flood of liquid warmth spilled from her core, cascading in heavy rivulets down her inner thighs and tracing luminous paths over the generous swell of her backside.

Subnconsciously,

her hips began to circle in tiny, instinctive spirals, pressing her heated center against nothing but air as her thighs trembled and parted wider still, offering her most intimate depths completely to the man who

tended

her wounds with such worshipful precision.

Jonathan’s torment blazed like live current through his skull.

His eyes were frozen wide and unblinking, tears carving scalding paths through the grime on his face, he could only stare helplessly as Phei’s mouth drifted lower, across the soft, quivering landscape of her abdomen—faint handprints and curved imprints from belts and fists still etched there.

The boy’s warm breath ghosted over a particularly vicious mark near her navel, still raised and exquisitely sensitive, before his lips closed over it in a slow, drawing kiss.

Roxanne’s entire frame

seized

in a powerful,

rolling spasm

that arched her spine dramatically, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat.

Her thighs clamped together once with crushing force, then flared open even wider as another surge of molten heat poured from her swollen folds, coating her marked legs and dripping in thick, glistening trails along her cleft.

She’s responding.

The realization struck Jonathan like shattered glass driven into his gut—not mere jealousy, but a nauseating, soul-deep horror that clawed viciously at his insides.

She was truly feeling this.

For him. Her body answered with raw, undeniable honesty: outer folds plump and parted, her sensitive pearl visibly pulsing, inner walls visibly contracting in empty, rhythmic hunger.

Phei sensed it as well. His strong hands settled on her generous, mottled hips—not to restrain, but to support and venerate her as her knees buckled.

When she released a startled, half-broken

gasp—"Aaaah—!"

—he adjusted with effortless grace, drawing her full weight against his powerful thighs.

His mouth continued its sacred journey downward.

Along the outer curve of her hip, where concealed bruises from relentless kicks lingered, his lips dragged slow and searing, lavishing every discolored inch with open-mouthed reverence.

He lingered at the

exquisitely

sensitive crease where thigh met pelvis, exhaling humid, scorching breath over skin that should have recoiled but instead lifted eagerly toward him, a silent, desperate plea for more.

Lower still. Her knee, swollen and darkened from being dragged across unforgiving concrete, received feather-light yet insistent kisses that made the muscle in her calf twitch and leap. Her shin, etched with old scratches and fresh abrasions from being slammed against walls, felt the gentle, heated press of his mouth along every ridge and scar.

Jonathan strained uselessly against his invisible bonds, every muscle screaming to look away, yet his gaze remained mercilessly fixed on the sight of Phei kissing the delicate bones of her ankle, then the tender hollow behind her heel where Jonathan had once ground his boot in cruel frustration.

Each contact

whispered

quiet redemption:

This is how she should have been cherished.

This is what you stole from her.

When Phei finally rose to his full height, Roxanne trembled on the

precipice

of overwhelming overload—not from exhaustion, but from waves of sensation too vast and profound to contain. Her skin bore a delicate sheen of perspiration that accentuated every curve and mark.

Her full, heavy breasts rose and fell with labored intensity, nipples drawn into tight, aching peaks.

Her pussy had transformed into a lavish, ruined masterpiece—outer lips engorged and flushed a deep, velvety rose, inner petals parted and luminous, rich cream flowing steadily from her pulsing entrance in long, silken strands that stretched toward the floor.

Her most sensitive

pearl

stood proud and exposed, twitching with every labored breath.

Her generous ass flexed and softened in unconscious rhythm, guiding more of that warmth downward until her hidden ring shimmered with it.

She reached for him with fierce, consuming hunger—palms gliding up the broad plane of his chest to clutch his shoulders, fingers digging deep as she pulled him down until her bare, mottled breasts molded perfectly against the firm wall of his torso.

The contrast ignited like lightning: her soft, heated, story-scarred skin against his rough, clothed strength.

Her heartbeat thundered wildly against his steady, anchoring pulse.

Then he lifted her.

Effortlessly

. One powerful arm curved beneath her quivering thighs, the other bracing her back, and she rose—weightless, held like something sacred and irreplaceable.

Her legs locked around his waist in an instant, heels digging firmly into the small of his back, drawing her drenched center flush against the massive, rigid

length

straining beneath his trousers.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from her throat—

"NNNGH—!

"—raw and utterly unprepared for the sheer heat and formidable girth pressing so intimately against her swollen folds.

She rocked against him on pure instinct, hips circling with greedy little motions, painting the fabric with glossy trails of her desire.

Her arms tightened around his neck, fingers twisting desperately into the hair at his nape with a strength born of raw need, as if he might dissolve if she loosened her grip for even a moment.

She buried her face in the warm hollow of his neck and shoulder,

inhaling

him deeply—clean skin, faint citrus, and that rich, earthy masculine musk that made her core tighten and spill even more profusely.

Her body had already given itself over completely—thighs shaking around him, backside rippling softly with each subtle roll, warmth pouring from her entrance in messy strands that soaked through his clothes.

Jonathan watched,

hollowed

and utterly destroyed, as Roxanne drank in this new presence—her breaths coming in quick, needy puffs against his skin, her body moving shamelessly against his hardness in search of relief from the deep, starving ache blooming inside her.

Her eyes remained closed, lashes damp with overwhelmed tears, but her face no longer held pain.

It radiated

awakening

—like a woman breaking the surface after years submerged in darkness, finally drawing life-giving air into lungs she had forgotten could breathe.

And then she whispered it—not to Jonathan, but to the man cradling her as if she were sacred. Her voice was shattered yet perfectly clear:

"I want to live."

Not merely survive. Not just endure.

Live.

Phei’s reply came without words. It was the gentle press of his forehead to hers, the possessive tightening of his hands on her wide hips, and the deliberate, rolling grind of his pelvis that dragged his thick, fabric-covered length firmly along her parted, dripping

folds

.

Roxanne cried out sharply—"Aaaah—!"—and clung tighter, her heavy breasts flattening against his chest, her heated center spreading more of her essence across the front of his trousers as her thighs quivered violently.

Her full ass flexed and softened with every slow grind, the valley between her cheeks now slick with the continuous flow from above.

Another powerful

rush

escaped her, drenching his bulge and tracing warm paths downward as her inner walls pulsed and tightened in helpless rhythm—clenching around nothing, silently begging for the deliverance only he could offer.

Jonathan’s suffering

plunged

into fresh, unbearable agony. Every gasp, every shiver, every eager press of her soaked heat against another man’s body drove another knife deeper into his soul. He had never drawn such sounds from her.

Never coaxed such overwhelming abundance. Never witnessed her body come alive and plead and embrace life the way it did now, wrapped around Phei like salvation made flesh.

And the

deepest

cut—the one that truly fractured something irreparable inside Jonathan—was the calm, absolute certainty in Phei’s gaze as he held her.

He would give her exactly what she had asked for. He would help her

live.

And Jonathan would be forced to witness every heated, gasping, reverent moment of it.