Because she'd come already, there was less pleading for him to go faster and more savoring the slow glide of his cock filling her, the gentle friction and pressure against her already slick and swelling inner walls. Where the nights he thought of, her suppressed moans had held desperation, but this morning they were redolent of velvet and fur, the richest and most sensual of fabrics brushing against skin.

She pushed up onto her hands, matching the shape of her body to his, wanting the feel of him over her, less draped like sensual fabric and more mounted like a stallion. Even if he didn't rut like one and chose a slower, deeper ride, it was still a mating, and the rampant emotion of celebrating his nameday called it a true one.

So instead of calling him a bastard this time, she called him, "My dragon knight," in a low silky purr that offered him the feel of her need (not for sex but for the feel of enduring commitment, of love, of mating) with the power of his summoning.