Those huge, rough hands of his slid over my chest, stroking and rubbing and sparking fireworks when they grazed my nipples; fireworks that shot straight down to my thing... and this time, it wasdefinitelyme who moaned. I was shameless, but it didn’t matter since I was still dreaming and didn’t have to feel guilty or anxious about a thing. And that freedom? I was clinging onto that with everything I had, determined to do everything I could not to wake up, not until… until everything peaked.
And oh, God. I needed to… to peak.
I needed friction.
I needed itbad.
My thing was swollen and pulsing and so hard that it was dripping out of the tip. Not dream-dripping, but for-real dripping—no matter how stubbornly I was holding onto sleep, I could still feel it getting all slick and wet and starting to make a mess in my sheets—but since Iwasdreaming, there was no guilt about that, none of the nauseating nastiness in my stomach that I usually got whenever I became hard down there. That sick, ugly feeling never happened when Tyson was around to take charge of it for me, but dreaming was the next best thing because it meant I could rub myself against the mattress and no one would ever know, not if I cleaned it up afterward.
I squirmed, trying to move in a way that would give me something to rub against, but I was locked tight against Tyson’s hard body behind me and couldn’t. His firm hold was wonderful and maddening at the same time, and I squeezed my thighs together as tight as I could—squeezing my bottom, too, which always gave me a little jolt of stolen pleasure—then thrust my hips anyway because I just couldn’t hold still.
My shaft rubbed against the frustratingly too-light weight of a blanket.
It wasn’t enough.
I kept trying anyway, twitching and moaning in frustration as the good-but-not-good-enough feel of it teased my thing, the blanket sliding against my tip and tangling around my length, making me crazy.
“Always so horny,” Tyson murmured, which should have made me feel guilty except it was true and helikedit, I knew he did, so all those words did was make my problem even worse. Because he was right—he was always right—I was so,sohorny.
I clutched Tyson’s thick arms, his skin so hot under my palms that it almost felt real, and tried to push them down to make him touch me where I needed it.
I couldn’t budge them.
Shouldn’t I be able to?
Shouldn’t my dream let me have everything I wanted?
Nothing worked that way though, not even in dreams, I knew that, and the more I squirmed, the more Tyson’s arms tightened around me, holding me in place.
“Please,” I moaned, squirming. Because maybe if I asked nicely?
Hot breath played over my neck as a low, sexy laugh vibrated through the hard body behind me. “You having a good dream, baby?”
Yes. But it was so good that Ineededrelief.
Then those strong, callused hands of his started moving over my body again, the feel of his touch so good that I forgot to be frustrated... except that he was touching me everywhere but where I needed it most. He was avoiding my thing like it didn’t even exist. I could feelhisthough, pressing against me from behind and making me feel so greedy I could have cried.
I wanted it.
Ialwayswanted it.
Why was he being so mean?
I whimpered, rolling my hips even more shamelessly as I twisted and squirmed in his hold, not to get away—never—but in a desperate attempt to push my thing against something… anything… the bed… his body…anything. But maybe the reason I couldn’t get any relief in my dream was because even asleep, a part of me knew that I shouldn’t. That it was always so much better when Tyson decided what I needed and what I’d get. Then, whatever happened with my thing, it wasn’t me, it was him. I didn’t have to feel guilty because he was in charge and he always made me feel so good, always touched me the way I wasn’t allowed to touch myself. He touched me in new ways, too; ways that were dirty and wicked and made me want to beg him to never, ever stop. Like right now, when it all felt so real… so exciting… sofrustrating… so… so…
Another low laugh cut through the dirty soundtrack of low moans and panting desperation around us.
Me again?
Probably.
“Fuck, baby. You’re getting desperate, aren’t you? You’d better be dreaming ofme, sweetness.”
Of course I was. Ialwayswas.
“Tyson,” I whined, wondering why he was torturing me in my dreams when he was always so good to me in real life. “Please.”
I needed him and I was greedy and I wantedmore.
