I curl up on the bed, pulling the heavy quilt over me. Wellsy presses against my back.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t claim me immediately. Instead, images dance behind my eyelids.
I dream of hands.
Three sets of hands.
I’m in a bed, vast and soft. Knox is in front of me, his whiskey-and-ginger scent washing over me. He’s kissing me, his mouth hot and demanding, his hands tangled in my hair.
Rhett is behind me, his chest pressed against my back. His cinnamon-and-espresso warmth seeps into my bones. One of his hands is on my hip, the other cupping my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple with agonizing slowness.
And Boone... Boone is between my legs.
I’m surrounded by them. Protected by them. Consumed by them.
In the dream, there’s no anger. No debt. No ranch. There’s only the heat of their bodies and the rhythm of their breathing. They pass me back and forth, touching me, tasting me, possessing me.
I’m not Saramaria the lawyer. I’m not Saramaria the failure.
I’m just theirs.
I moan in my sleep, arching my back into the dream hands. The pleasure builds, a slow, rolling wave that threatens to pull me under.
“Let go,” a voice whispers in my ear. It sounds like Boone. Or maybe Rhett. Or maybe all three of them at once.
I shatter in the dream, crying out as the pleasure breaks over me.
I wake up with a gasp.
The room is dark. The fire in the small stove has died down to embers.
My heart is pounding. My body is hot, flushed with the aftershocks of the dream.
I lie there for a moment, disoriented. I reach out, my hand searching the empty space beside me.
I’m looking for it before I even realize what I’m doing.
The gray sweatshirt. The one Blue keeps stealing.
The one that smells like Boone.
My hand hits the cool sheets. Nothing.
I sit up, blinking in the gloom. The bed is just a bed. There’s no pile of masculine fabric on the corner. There’s no scent of pine and mint.
Just the smell of Pearl’s lavender detergent and the rain outside.
The loss hits me with a force that knocks the breath out of my lungs.
It’s a sweatshirt. It’s a piece of clothing. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
I feel... empty.
I miss the weight of it. I miss the texture of the worn cotton against my cheek. I miss the scent that made me feel safe, even when I was angry at the man who wore it.
I wrap my arms around myself, hugging the robe tight.
