His lips moved to my neck—light, slow, maddeningly soft.
My knees weakened.
My fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
Heat spiraled low inside me.
The kind that scares you and pulls you in at the same time.
I whispered his name—barely a sound—just a breath.
And he answered it with a low groan that went straight through me.
Everything blurred?—
Hands.
Warm skin.
His mouth at my throat.
My pulse pounding in my ears.
That overwhelming feeling of wanting something I denied myself when awake.
Wantinghim.
My eyes snapped open.
Heart racing.
Skin flushed.
Every nerve on fire.
The dim morning light seeped through Shani’s curtains. She was snoring softly beside me, blissfully unaware.
I buried my face in my pillow and let out a muffled groan.
Because holy hell.
I was turned on.
Frustrated.
Angry at myself.
Angry at him.
Angry at my subconscious for betraying me like that.
Of all the things to dream about?—
of all the versions of Leo Montgomery to show up while I slept?—
It had to bethatone.
The one who touched me like I was something precious.
