“You know what I want.”
“Say it.”
I can feel the heat of his hand so close to where I need him. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
I want to strangle him. I want to kiss him. I want him to stop being such a smug bastard and just give me what I need.
“Please.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softer, almost tender. “You’re mine, Sierra. You know that, right?”
Instead of flinching at his possessive words, I melt.
“Yes.”
His hand finally slips beneath the lace, finding me slick and wanting. He makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through me.
“Fuck, Sierra. All this for me?”
He strokes through my folds, slow and deliberate, learning every part of me before giving me what I need. Then he’s pushing inside. One finger, then another. Stretching me open while his thumb presses exactly where I need it. My back bows off the mattress. I’m gasping, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, heat coiling tight in my belly and?—
I wake up alone. Heart pounding. Thighs clenched. Absolutelydrenched.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stare at the ceiling, morning light peeking through the gap in the curtains, and wait for my pulse to slow down. It doesn’t.
He’s on my couch. Right now. Twenty feet away, separated by one locked door and whatever shred of dignity I have left.
And I just had the most vivid sex dream of my life about him.
Apparently my body didn’t get the memo about trust issues. It’s ready to climb that man like a tree while my brain is still running background checks.
I throw off the covers and head for the bathroom. A cold shower sounds like exactly what I need.
Or a lobotomy. Either works.
When I finally emerge into the living room twenty minutes later, Matteo’s still asleep. His huge body is crammed onto the couch, one leg dangling off the edge, the other bent at an angle that looks painful. He looks softer in sleep.
I think about the dream. Then I aggressively stop thinking about the dream.
I tiptoe past him, avoiding the squeaky floorboard under the living room window, and slip into the kitchen. Coffee first. Then I’ll figure out what the hell I’m doing.
It’s been weeks since I slept that hard. Weeks of lying awake, staring at the ceiling, jolting at every creak in the floorboards. But last night, with Matteo’s bulk folded onto my too-smallcouch and a locked door between us, something in my nervous system finally unclenched.
I don’t trust him. Not completely. But some animal part of my brain apparently decided he could keep me safe long enough for me to get seven hours and a dream I’m never going to speak of out loud.
I dump an obscene amount of sugar into my mug, add a splash of cream, and carry it to the sliding glass door that leads to my balcony.
I step outside and settle into my usual chair. This small slice of heaven is my favorite part of this apartment, maybe my favorite part of my whole life. The potted plants lining the railing catch the morning sun, their leaves stretching toward the light like they’ve been waiting for it. I check them over as I drink my coffee. A yellowing leaf here, a drooping stem there. Nothing serious. I take care of my plants. Pay attention before problems become disasters.
I wish I had room for a real garden. Somewhere I could plant rows of desert marigolds and zinnias and maybe a few climbing honeysuckle. I love to help maintain the garden at my parents’ whenever I’m over there, but it’s not the same as having my own.
Someday.
When I finally open my flower shop, maybe I’ll have a shaded growing space out back. Somewhere I can get my hands dirty and spend hours with my plants without anyone asking me to smile more or wondering why I can’t just get a “real” job.
