So, okay. I may have borrowed a book. Without asking. From a very locked cabinet. In a very private study. That belonged to someone who really shouldn't leave a window open when there's a rain barrel conveniently placed right below it.
Whatever. Their fault.
It's the Illustrated Almanac of Carnal Knowledge.
Not just any edition, mind you. This one has gold-trimmed pages, soft leather binding, and illustrations so lush I swear some of the characters wink at you. Full body diagrams. Foldouts. Position-by-position breakdowns. Some pages even have those little flaps you lift to see what's happening underneath. I mean—educational, really.
I plop down next to the fire, unroll my blanket, and start flipping through like it's bedtime reading.
The Dragon glances over. "What is that?"
I grin. "Research."
He narrows his eyes. "Is that… Is that the Third Contortion of Seraphine's Saddle?"
I nod, licking my thumb to turn the page. "It's got all the classics. Plus some things I'm pretty sure defy both anatomy and morality. Look at this one. Page 17. 'The Heaving Orchid of the Eastern Archipelago.'"
He peers. Freezes. "That woman's spine is doing something spines should not do."
"She's flexible," I say, smug. "And motivated."
"Her partner is hanging from a chandelier."
"So?"
He blinks. "You've never even seen a chandelier."
"I could improvise. Rope. Tree branch. Your horn."
He makes a strangled noise.
"Okay, but this one—this one's my favorite," I purr, flipping to a particularly detailed centerfold. "Position 46: The Cursed Librarian. Requires a ladder, three belts, and a very strong sense of balance."
"That's… that's not a position. That's a liability lawsuit waiting to happen."
I wiggle my toes and grin wider. "You're just mad none of your kind have positions. You dragons just mount and torch."
"We court," he protests. "With songs. And aerial duels. And—"
"—then you screw mid-air and fall out of the sky?"
"NO," he huffs. "There are ledges. And rituals. And it's very dignified."
"Uh-huh. Do you at least have diagrams?"
"No."
"Then this book wins."
He covers his snout with a claw and groans. "How are you real."
I lean back, flicking the book open to another favorite. "Page 88. The Sacred Sluice of the Temple Twins. Requires twins. Obviously."
"You are not using twins."
"Well not real ones. Obviously. That's unethical. But, like. Cosplay counts."
He curls his tail tighter. "I should burn that thing."
"If you do, I'll recreate it from memory. With diagrams."
He gags.
I blow him a kiss. "You love me."
He mutters something about degenerates and bad karma, but doesn't move away. I keep reading. Research, after all, never stops. Especially when it's got pop-up illustrations.
I cradle the book to my chest like it's sacred scripture. "This," I declare, flipping back to the frontispiece where some idiot scribe wrote 'For the Instruction of the Curious and the Edification of the Flesh', "this was the only book I ever read at the temple."
The Dragon side-eyes me hard. "You mean stole."
"Borrowed. Spiritually. With intent to return. Probably."
He lifts a scaled brow. "You can't read."
I scoff. "I can too!"
"You once mistook a grocery list for a love poem."
"Okay, yes, but it was a passionate list. Peaches. Honey. Cinnamon. I felt seen."
He snorts.
I flip the book open again and pat a particular page with reverence. "Fine. Not read read. But I know the pictures. Every page. Every shadow. Every expression. This one—page 22, The Folded Blossom—taught me more than all those dried-up priestesses ever did. No offense to them. Except offense."
He looks down at the diagram in question. "That's… that's not a blossom. That's… Are those ankles behind her ears?"
"Yes! You need a wall for that one. And trust. And ideally, a thick rug. Because once you're folded, there's no going back unless someone unfolds you."
"I can't decide if that's beautiful or a spinal tragedy."
"It's both," I say proudly. "Art and injury. That's what love is."
He groans like his bones are aching from sheer secondhand flexibility.
I tap the book again. "They never let me in the sacred scriptorium, you know. Said I was too loud. Too fidgety. Too curious. But this little gem was stashed behind a tapestry in the incense closet. I used to sneak in, light a stick of the cheapest sandalwood, and study it like a devoted scholar."
"Did no one notice you were missing?"
"They thought I was doing penance."
He glares. "And what were you actually doing?"
I wink. "Educating myself. Thoroughly. With occasional practice sessions."
He slaps his tail over his snout and moans. "You absolute menace. You're the reason the temple burned down, aren't you."
"Allegedly," I say, turning the page to Position 63: The Pierced Serpent. "But in my defense, the candle was very close to the drapes and I was demonstrating an advanced variation of The Drowning Dolphin. You need mood lighting for that one."
"I need brandy," he mutters.
"You need to appreciate how cultured I am. This is classical eroticism. Temple-grade. Museum-worthy. There's even marginalia."
"There's a drawing of a satyr in a wine barrel with a speech bubble that just says 'more.' That's not marginalia. That's a crime scene."
I smirk. "I am the marginalia."
And then I curl back up with the book, humming, tracing my finger along the gold-inked spine of a sketched lover in mid-thrust. The fire crackles. The Dragon mutters something about karma and back pain.
Life is good.