But I’m not an animal. I don’t have to follow my instincts when my instincts are leading me somewhere I don’t want to go.
The minutes crawl by like hours. I count my breaths and try to relax my muscles one by one, starting with my toes and working my way up. It’s a technique Fern teaches to patients who struggle with anxiety, and it usually works on me, too. Tonight, it does nothing except make me more aware of my own body. More aware of the heat building between my legs and the way my nipples have hardened into little pebbles, sensitive against my shirt.
I flop around uncomfortably, and the friction of the sheets against my skin makes me bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I hear Bryan get up from the couch.
My breath catches in my throat as his footsteps cross the main room. They’re heading toward the kitchen, I tell myself. He’s just getting water. That’s all. There’s no reason for my heart to be racing like this. No reason for my body to be tensing with anticipation.
But the footsteps stop right outside my door.
I go completely still. The mate bond senses his proximity, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to call outto him. Not to invite him in. Not to throw open that door and drag him into this bed and let him do all the things my body is screaming for.
A long moment passes. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door. Hell, I can practically feel his body heat through the wood. He’s standing there, probably fighting the same war I’m fighting, probably losing just as badly as I am.
Then his footsteps retreat back to the living room, and I finally let myself exhale.
This is torture. Pure, undiluted torture.
I don’t know how long I lie there after that, trapped in a state of frustrated arousal that refuses to fade, no matter how many times I tell myself I don’t want him. Eventually, exhaustion wins out over everything else, and I feel myself sinking into the fuzzy edges of sleep.
The dream starts the way dreams often do—in the middle of something, with no clear beginning.
Bryan is here. In this room, in this bed, with his body stretched out beside mine like he belongs there. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminates the hard planes of his chest and the dark line of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. His eyes are fixed on me, making my breath stutter.
“I’ve waited ten years for this,” he mumbles as he reaches for me. “Ten years of wanting you and not being able to have you. Ten years of dreaming about what it would feel like to touch you again.”
His hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back as he brings his mouth to my throat. The first press of his lips against my pulse point sends electricity racing down my spineand pooling between my legs. He kisses a path along my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue darting out to taste me, and I arch into him with a moan I couldn’t suppress if I tried.
“Bryan.” His name falls from my lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.
His breath is hot against my ear as his other hand finds the hem of my shirt and slips beneath it. His palm is rough and warm as it slides up my ribcage. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you need it as much as I do.”
“I want it.” The words come out broken and desperate, stripped of all the anger and resentment I’ve been carrying. “I need you. Please.”
He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it aside, then takes a moment to just look at me. His eyes travel over my breasts, my stomach, and the curve of my hips, and the hunger I see there makes me feel like the most desirable woman who has ever existed.
“Perfect,” he breathes as he traces a finger along the underside of my breast. “Absolutely perfect. Just like I remembered.”
His mouth finds my breast, and I cry out as he draws my nipple between his lips. He sucks and teases with his tongue, flicking the hardened peak until I’m writhing beneath him with my fingers digging into his shoulders as I try to pull him closer. He moves to the other side and lavishes the same attention there, sucking and nipping until both peaks are swollen and aching. By the time he lifts his head, I’m trembling with need.
“More,” I beg. “I need more.”
He kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue around my navel before continuing lower. His fingershook into the waistband of my underwear and drag them down my legs, leaving me completely bare underneath him. The way he looks at me—like I’m something precious and rare—makes my heart race so fast it’s almost painful.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he says as he settles between my thighs and pushes them wider apart. “About how you’d taste. About the sounds you’d make when I finally got my mouth on you.”
The first stroke of his tongue tears a moan from somewhere deep inside me. He licks me slowly at first, exploring every fold and ridge like he’s mapping uncharted territory. When he finds my clit and circles it with the tip of his tongue, my hips buck off the bed, and I have to fist my hands in the sheets to anchor myself.
“Bryan.” His name comes out strangled. “Oh God, don’t stop.”
He hums against me, and the vibration sends shockwaves through my entire body. Two fingers trace my entrance, teasing but not entering, and I’m so wet I can hear it when he finally pushes inside. He pumps them in and out as his tongue works my clit in tiny circles, and the dual sensation is so overwhelming I think I might shatter into a million pieces.
“You’re dripping for me,” he growls against my flesh as he curls his fingers and hits a spot that makes my vision go white around the edges. “So ready. So desperate to come on my tongue.”
“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore. “Please, I can’t—I need—”
“Then take it.” He curls his fingers again and sucks my clit between his lips. “Come for me, Skylar. Let me feel you fall apart.”
