Katie
The sun filters in through the gauzy curtains at the ass crack of dawn, waking me from a sleep that could have been anywhere between eight and twelve hours. Jonesy was true to his word. I feel the weight of it as his arm hangs over my waist, his palm holding my breast like a goddamn stuffed animal. I close my eyes, deciding it was too much effort to move him, and not because I hadn’t had sex in over a year and this was the closest I’d gotten. I will myself to sleep for a few more hours at least, but as I shift, I feel his nose burrow into my neck, his legs tucking in as he pulls me even closer against him.
Damn, he’s irritatingly good at this. And he’s right, I had another full night’s sleep with no dreams of masked men chasing me until I’m captured and—
His hips roll into me, the feel of his dick, yet again, growing in the crease of my ass. His hand squeezes my breast, and my nipple tightens as he lightly pinches it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck, princess,” his sleepy voice mumbles out.
Is he having a sex dream about me?
“Look at you,” he hisses, my panties growing damp.
What. The. Hell.Unless he calls anyone else princess, he is definitely having a sex dream about me.
Damn, I miss sex. I miss it so much.
Why am I letting him do this? Why am I enjoying it? This is Jonesy. Jacob Jones, whom I’ve known since I was eighteen. Who kissed me at a party and never called me after years of friendship. Who went away to war to come back with not even an apology for ghosting me. Jacob Jones, who has been the bane of my existence ever since he got back and knows how to push every single button—
He pinches my nipple harder, and I squirm, a desperate moan escaping my lips.
“Take it, dirty girl.”
My hips answer his demand by pushing back against his hard-on, rolling my ass up his length.
His hand slides down my stomach and grips my hip, his fingers knotting around my lace panties until his hand snaps back, the fabric cutting into my skin before it rips clean off.
I bite my knuckles, holding in a silent scream. I can’t move. I can’t stop him. I know I should. I should wake him and end this. And yet I staysilent as he handles me roughly, gripping my ass punishingly hard, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh between my neck and shoulder.
His rough hands bring me closer to coming than I have in months. Months. No release. Nothing. And now, the man who has hated me, the man whom I have hated, is bringing me to the brink of coming without even touching between my legs. This can’t be the answer to my problems.Hecan’t be the answer. And yet, he’s got my pussy crying out to be touched like he’s the only man in the world who wouldn’t be too scared to do it how I like.
Rough.
Unrelenting.
Chase me.
Mark me.
Why did it have to be him? I can’t even blame being too tired to think properly, since he’s fixed that as well, the asshole. I’ve slept through the night precisely three times in the last year, and every night was with him—four times if you count after I had my nightmare in Ohio. What am I supposed to do with that information? Have him move in? Ridiculous. One or both of us would be dead within a week.
“Keep your socks on,” he murmurs sleepily. His sleep talk is giving me whiplash. “Don’t want you having cold feet.”
“Cold feet. Right,” I mutter. Like I couldn’t have cold feet. Telling him about my unhingednew sexual fantasies could have him running for the hills. He could discredit me as a doctor, as a friend. What if he told our friends? It would kill me to lose them. I need them now more than ever. And although I don’t think Jonesy is vindictive like that, I don’t have a great history with men. My father left when I was four, devastating my mom, who has continued to have a string of boyfriends, usually lasting a few months at a time. I hated it growing up. At best, they’d ignore me, accepting I was an inconvenient baggage that came part and parcel with dating my mother for a few months, and at worst, they paid a little too much attention when I hit puberty.
“Oh shit,” I hear Jonesy mutter before letting go of my ass.
I roll over to face him, and he has the decency to blush, his lips parting in an awkward stutter.
“I...I didn’t mean to do that. Not without your permission. I was sleep walki—touching. Sleep touching.”
“Sleep touching?” I repeat.
“Yeah, sleep touching.” He swallows hard but doesn’t move.
“You owe me a pair of panties.”
“I . . . I what?” he splutters.
