The First Five Pages – How to Love Your Dragon

Five for Friday time. Booyah!! Today, it’s How to Love Your Dragon. Trust me, when you meet Yorick “Rick” Hayes, you’ll never recover. Honest

Chapter One

Sydney, Australia

 

Yorick “Rick” Hayes knew he was in trouble when the cop didn’t smile back. She was a very sexy cop, with a very sexy mouth, a very sexy throat, very sexy long blonde hair in a very sexy ponytail, and a very sexy body, all wrapped up in a very sexy, authoritarian cop’s uniform—complete with a not-so-sexy but very authoritarian gun on her very sexy hip.

If he weren’t three points away from losing his driver’s license altogether, he’d consider throwing caution to the wind and flirting his arse off. The trouble was, he was three points away from losing his license altogether—three points now hanging perilously in the balance, thanks to his rather childish desire to drive faster than the posted speed limit. And a veterinarian without a license was a veterinarian who couldn’t get to emergencies. Of which there were many, considering Rick was the only vet in North Shore Sydney who specialized in reptiles.

Who knew so many people in the snobby end of the city owned lizards? Not Rick. Not until he’d settled in Sydney and opened his own veterinary practice after finishing his degree. Then it was call-out after call-out after call-out. And so many were for reptiles, he’d seriously started to wonder if he was being pranked by his cousin—she of the Komodo dragon obsession. He wasn’t.

The snobby end of the city just seemed to have more pet lizards and snakes per head than the rest of Sydney, which, considering most pet lizards and snakes cost a small fortune to procure, made sense in a bizarrely financial way. Have ridiculous amounts of money, will spend it.

The snobby end of the city also had its fair share of pet dogs, cats, rabbits, ferrets, parakeets and hamsters, so on the whole, Rick was kept busy doing what he loved most—caring for sick and injured animals.

Well, loved almost the most. Loving very fine ladies was what he really loved the most. Ladies like the very fine, very sexy lady cop waiting for him to produce his license.

He stared at her from his place behind the steering wheel of his dilapidated pickup, unable to ignore the delicate subtlety of her top lip and the wicked fullness of her bottom. It was a very kissable mouth. It went perfectly with all her other verys.

Maybe if he smiled again?

He did.

She didn’t.

“You do realize,” she said, her voice smooth and throaty and far too no-nonsense, “you were driving ten kilometers over the limit?” Her sunglasses reflected Rick’s face like a bowed mirror.

Refusing to admit defeat, he smiled one more time, putting all his not inconsiderable, roguish, cheeky charm into it. “And who would have thought this old thing,” he patted the side of his door with his palm, “had it in her?”

His far too no-nonsense, very sexy authoritarian police officer didn’t react. Or respond.

Damn. Maybe he was losing his touch?

“License.”

The one word command, spoken with a slight American accent, of all things, sent a ribbon of equal parts nervousness and excitement twisting through Rick’s belly. The reaction was odd, he had to admit. He got why he was aroused—the cop was sexy, as he’d already noted, her body lush and firm in all the right places, her legs long, her hips curved, her breasts full, and the accent just topped it off—but didn’t understand why his body seemed to be thrumming with what he could only describe as nervous energy. Getting a speeding ticket wasn’t the reason, either. He’d received enough of those to know how that felt. No, this was different. This was…

“License.”

He blinked, the cop’s growled order jerking him back from the weird introspective moment. When in the hell did he get introspective?

Mirrored sunglasses regarded him.

Rick frowned, suddenly feeling flustered. “Err…”

With an exasperated sigh, the cop bent at the waist, raised one hand and removed her sunglasses, staring him hard in the face.

Fuck, he wished she hadn’t.

Her eyes were green. The greenest green eyes he’d ever seen. Thick, honey-blonde lashes and a smidgen of dark brown eyeliner only made them appear greener. They were stunning and mesmerizing and his dick stood instantly at attention.

But not just his dick. It was like every single cell in his body zeroed in on every single cell in hers. The urge to open his door, bury his fingers in her hair, bury his face in the side of her neck and breathe, just breathe, was so overwhelming, he found his hand on the door handle before he could blink.

What the hell?

Jerking his hand back to the steering wheel, Rick stared at the cop, his breath caught in his throat, his cock ramrod straight, his heart smashing against his breastbone.

What in the hell was going on?

The cop looked at him, green eyes holding his stare with unwavering intensity. And then he noticed the slightest shift in her body, and his stomach rolled. She was reaching for her gun.

Oh crap.

“License!” he burst out, squirming in his seat in an attempt to snare his wallet from his back pocket. “Yes, license.”

The cop’s stare dropped to his lap, no doubt to make sure he wasn’t going to produce something nefarious, like his own weapon, and Rick had to bite back a groan. There wasn’t a hope in hell she would miss the wood he was sporting. Not with the way he was thrusting his hips upward in his so-far-utterly-futile attempt to retrieve his wallet. Bloody hell, since when was it so hard to pull a folded rectangle of leather from a pocket?

“Err…” The ridiculous sound vibrated in his throat, his focus fixed firmly on her face as he fought with his wallet. He writhed a bit to the left in an attempt to make more space between his arse and the car seat. Of course, that meant his bloody inconvenient erection whacked against the bottom of the steering wheel. He hissed in a sharp breath.

“Are you okay, sir?”

Her question didn’t help. Damn it, the sound of her voice was like some sort of aural Viagra. His dick got harder, his heart beat faster and that urge to crawl from his truck and…and…do things to her got way urgent. Wickedly horny things. Downright filthy things. Things like lick her cunt until she came on his face…things like bend her over the bonnet of his truck and bury himself up to the balls in her sodden sex…things like riding her back as she soared above the clouds in—

Rick blinked. Above the clouds? Ride her back? What the fuck?

He squirmed some more in his seat, flashing her an apologetic smile. “Just…let me…I can’t seem to get…”

Damn it, why was she still looking at his crotch? It wasn’t helping. Not one little bit.

“I think you’d better get out of your vehicle, sir.”

Rick froze. His heart smashed into his throat. Out of the vehicle? Fuck no. No no no.

“Err…I don’t think—”

The cop’s green stare slid back to his face, her expression unreadable. “Out of the vehicle, sir. Now.”

Oh no, this is not good. Not good.

“Err…”

Her fingers closed around the grip of her Glock. Her nostril flared. “Sir, I’m not asking.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!

Rick stared at her through the window. He had two options. Do as she ordered and get out of his pickup, or ram his foot on the accelerator and drive.

If he went with option one, if he climbed out of his truck, thus removing the barrier of metal between them, he knew beyond any doubt he would throw himself at her and proceed to do all those things his suddenly psychotic libido was telling him to do. Right up to the point where she pulled her gun, jammed it against his temple and blew his suddenly psychotic brains out. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. There was something so potent, so compelling, so bloody intoxicating about the female police officer. Even now, still strapped into his seat, his stare locked on her face, every fiber in his body screamed at him to take her, claim her, fuck her, mate with her…

Fuck a duck, he was in trouble.

“Sir?”

Just that single word question passed her lips, and if Rick didn’t know any better, he would have said it was strained. A plea for everything he wanted to do to her.

He knew better.

He planted his foot on the accelerator and took off.

As fast at his old pickup would go, which, given that he liked speed and had spent an inordinate amount of money on the engine, was ridiculously fast.

He floored it, shifting gears with the skill of a frantic fugitive desperate to escape capture. Which he was. But better that than shot trying to hump a cop on the side of the road.

What the hell was going on with him?

Shooting a look in his rearview mirror, he saw the female officer running back to her vehicle. His mouth turned dry. His cock throbbed, still as hard as ever. She was following him.

Of course she was following. What did he think she was going to do? Wave him off? Shrug and chalk him up as “the one that got away”?

Rick’s already rapid heart rate kicked up a notch. Damn it, what the hell did he think he was doing?

“Saving my arse,” he muttered, shifting back a gear before flinging around a corner and flooring it again, just as a siren began wailing behind him. “Hopefully by the time she catches me, this…this thing going on with me will have—”

His cellphone burst to life, the sound of the Beatles singing I Am the Walrus telling him it was his receptionist on the other end of the line.

He snatched the device from the passenger seat where he’d tossed it at the start of his journey, connecting to the call with a jab of his thumb before slamming the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Rose? I’m kinda in a situation here.”

“You’ve got an emergency call-out, Doc. A dog mishap. Pretty bad one by the sound of it. The owner’s close to being hysterical.”

The news was sobering. And had all the effect on his dick that a cold spoon smacked against its engorged head would.

Rick never thought he’d be so happy to lose an erection.

Repeating the address of the patient three times to cement it in his head, he told Rose to prep for surgery then disconnected the call. Gone was the feverish need to flee the cop. All that mattered now getting to the animal who needed him.

Fast.

Ten minutes later, the wail of the siren behind him an inescapable reminder of his pursuer, Rick screeched to a halt in the driveway of a rather massive McMansion.

And saw the emergency straight away.

Oh fuck.

A beagle was hanging facedown from the house’s short wrought-iron fence, its side impaled on one of the ornate spikes.

The second Rick opened the door, the poor animal’s yelps and whines filled his ears, its pain reaching into his heart. A tingle rippled through him, the kind he always experienced when confronted with an animal in torment or agony. It spoke to him on a level he never questioned, an instinctual understanding of the situation and what needed to be done. His heart slowed, his breaths grew deep and, as he alighted from his pickup, his head cleared.

All that existed was the dog and Rick.

Ignoring the elderly woman kneeling by the beagle’s hanging head, her sobs and pleas for help a distant whisper, Rick placed his hands on the dog’s chest. The animal’s tortured yelps quieted immediately. Its heartbeat vibrated through his palms, an erratic, weak beat that sank into Rick’s belly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The voice yelling at him was from his cop. On a deep level, one he would need to examine later, his body responded to her just as it had when she’d removed her sunglasses. His groin stirred, his pulse quickened, his every nerve ending thrummed. But only for a moment, recognition of her, an awareness of her, before the reason for Rick’s existence—the care of wounded and sick animals—drew his full attention once again.

He lowered his head, drawing his eyes level with those of the impaled beagle. “It’s okay, mate.” He spoke in a low murmur, feeding the dog his calm through slow, gentle strokes of its chest. “I’m going to get you off this.”

He raised his hand to the beagle’s muzzle, smiling as the dog licked the back of his fingers, an acknowledgement of Rick’s presence. “That’s a good boy. I know, I know.”

Lifting his gaze to the woman kneeling beside him, he gave her a reassuring smile. “This is your dog, yes? You are Mrs. Beaumont?”

She nodded, tears wetting cheeks soft and wrinkled with age. “I don’t know what happened. I let him out to do his business and then he was yelping.” She paused, fresh tears chocking her voice. “I rushed out and found him like this.”

Rick touched her shoulder with a steady hand. “He’s going to be okay, Mrs. Beaumont. I promise. What’s his name?”

The old woman’s stare jerked to the hanging animal, her lips moving soundlessly for a second before the answer found its way from her throat. “Barney. His name is Barney.”

Rick stroked her shoulder, studying her face. “Barney will be fine, Mrs. Beaumont, but you have to do something for me, please. I need to move quickly.”

For a moment he was overwhelmed with the tangible scent of her grief. It wrapped around him and streamed through his nose and mouth, a testament to her love for her dog. It wasn’t the first time Rick had experienced such a sensation when dealing with a distressed animal owner. He’d come to expect it, even used it to help soothe the person’s fear, but never had it hit him so hard. For a moment, all he could do was drown in the sour-ash odor—and then it was gone, nothing but the heavy scent of summer jasmine and the copper tinge of the Beagle’s blood flowing through his nose.

 

 

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