"Don't stop," I pant. Except, when I squeeze my eyes shut, there's light around the edges, and the pleasure, her touch, her smell, it all starts to ebb. "No," I grind out. "Not again." Not another dream. This can't be a dream. It felt too real.
Then, as if the gods heard my plea, the warmth returns. Soft warm curves envelop me, lips press against the side of my neck, soft and plush. "Fuck yeah," I hiss, returning to the dream I never want to leave. The one where my wife wants me back. Theone where she finally lets herself have what she wants. The one where she stops fighting me and gives in.
"Tell me what you need," she murmurs against my skin, and her voice is different—softer, vulnerable in a way she never allows herself to be when we're awake.
"You," I rasp, my hands sliding down her sides, feeling silk and skin. "Just you. Always you."
She shifts, straddling me now, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric between us. My hands grip her hips, and she rocks against me once, twice, drawing a groan from deep in my chest.
"Like this?" she asks, and there's something almost shy in her voice, like she's testing the waters of something forbidden.
"Exactly like that." My fingers dig into her thighs. "You're everything I want."
She leans down, her hair falling around us like a curtain, and finally her mouth finds mine. The kiss is hungry, desperate, all the tension we've been holding onto for weeks spilling out in one devastating moment. She tastes like honey and sin, and I'm drowning in it.
"I want you," she breathes against my lips. "I've wanted you since?—"
"Since when?" I need to hear her say it.
Her eyes go dark with want, and her hand slides down between us. Then light starts creeping in again, the warmth beginning to fade.
"No," I grit out, trying to hold onto the dream. "Not yet. Please, not yet."
But the darkness is dissolving, and the last thing I feel is her body pressed against mine, real and solid.Wait.My consciousness surfaces slowly as I cling to the remnants of the dream. The warmth, her scent, the feel of her pressed against me. It's all still there. For a blissful, disoriented moment, I thinkI'm still dreaming. Then cool air hits the wetness that's seeped through my boxers, and my eyes flash open. She'shere, on my side of the bed, her body curved into mine as the pillow wall lies scattered across the floor like a broken promise.
I go completely still, my mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of the dream with reality. Fuck. It felt real because part of it was real.
I feel the moment her breathing changes, and I know she's awake. For a few agonizing seconds, neither of us moves. Then her fingers flex, freeing her hand from my boxers. She spreads her fingers, evidence of my arousal coating them, as awareness sets in.
Her eyes snap up to mine. "Did you..." Mortification covers her face. "Did I..." She sits up and pulls the covers around her, shielding herself from me like I'm some sort of beast. "Why didn't you stop me?"
The blame in her voice cuts deep. I don't like how she keeps me at a distance, how even after everything last night, the kisses, the admissions, agreeing to keep her name on the contract, and she still put that damn wall of pillows between us when she came to bed. I'd come up late, after drinks with Dar and Santiago, to find her fast asleep on her side of the divide, like nothing had changed. I try to remind myself that she is giving me more than she ever has, but that thought is hanging on by a thread. This push and pull is fucking draining. She's looking at me right now, like I'm a fucking monster who took advantage of her, like I orchestrated this somehow.
"I was asleep," I defend. "Forgive me for not maintaining constant vigilance against my own wife."
"Don't call me that."
"It's what you are," I point out, and I can hear the edge creeping into my tone.
She flinches, and I hate that too. Hate that we're here, in this moment, taking steps backward when we'd finally moved forward.
"How long?" she asks, unable to look at me. "How long were you awake before...before you…"
I'm off the bed, unable to sit still with the accusation she's throwing at me. I pace to the side of the bed, running both hands through my hair, trying to breathe through the frustration building in my chest.
"Jesus, Asha." I turn to face her. "You think I, what? Laid there and let you…" I break off, shaking my head. "I woke up maybe ten seconds before you did. I was dreaming, and our bodies…" I gesture helplessly between us. "We're married. We've been sleeping in the same bed for two weeks, and if you touch me, I'm going to react."
"You should have stopped me the second you realized?—"
"I barely realized what was happening before you woke up!" My voice rises, and I have to force myself to stay calm. I don't want to fight. "You crossed to my side of the bed, Asha. You. I didn't pull you over here. I didn't touch you first. I was asleep on my side, where I've stayed every single night, respecting your precious pillow wall."
She looks away, her jaw tight. "I know. I just?—"
"Just what? Needed someone to blame?" The words come out harsh. "I'm trying here. I'm trying so damn hard to give you space, to let you set the pace, to be patient while you work through everything. But you can't keep doing this. You can't kiss me like you did last night, agree to tie yourself to me in business, and then treat me like I'm taking something from you every time we get close."
"I'm not."
"You are, and that's fine. You can hate me the way you always have, hate our situation—fuck, hate all of it—but I neveragreed to hating you. I never could because I never have." The words hang between us, and her lips part like she might refute it, but no sound comes out. I grab the towel from the chair, my movements sharp. "I'm taking a shower."
