I’m lying on something soft that yields beneath me, supporting my weight perfectly. And I’m not alone.
I feel him before I see him.
His hands slide up the inside of my thighs, spreading them wider.
His breath, hot against my skin, as he settles between my legs.
Ohhh.
I should stop this before it goes any further.
But dream-logic doesn’t care about should. Dream-me just arches into the touch, shameless and wanting.
His mouth finds me.
The first slow drag of his tongue makes my entire body shiver, a deep moan barreling up my throat.
Holy—
My brain braces for clumsy. For rough. It gets neither. His tongue is broader than a human’s, textured in a way that sends sparks up my spine with every stroke. He explores.Tastes.
His claws brace on my hips, holding me steady with just enough room to squirm. Like he wants me to move if I need to. Like he wants to feel me respond.
And God, do I respond.
My hands find his hair, the dark strands silky-rough beneath my fingers. I twist my grip, and he makes a sound against me that vibrates straight through my core.
“Mih-kay-lah,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “Tor-vakh. So sweet. So ready.”
And somehow, impossibly, I understand him.
Every word.
Not just the meaning but the weight behind it. The hunger, the restraint, thedevotion.
“Don’t stop,” I hear myself say, my voice breathless and wrecked. “Please, Sarven, don’t?—”
He doesn’t.
He doubles down, his tongue circling, pressing, finding the exact rhythm that makes my thighs shake.
I’m grinding against his mouth now, chasing the building heat, and he lets me. Encourages it with the tilt of his head, the flex of his claws on my hips, the approving rumble that rolls through his chest.
More, I think.Need more. Need?—
His tongue slides lower, then back up in one long stroke, and I feel the orgasm start to build in the center of my belly.
“Yes,” I gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Right there. Just like?—”
The dream flickers.
Reality bleeds through in fragments: cold stone beneath me, the weight of exhaustion in my limbs, the distant echo of dripping water.
But thefeelingdoesn’t stop.
The heat. The slick warmth between my thighs. The desperate, aching need that’s been building for days without release.
I’m half-awake now, caught between worlds, and my hand, my own traitorous hand, slides down beneath the scale-tunic without conscious thought.
