It’s not enough. Not for him. “Say what you want.”
My mouth goes dry, and I can feel my past pulling me back into its depths, and my words scrape against my throat on the way out. “Cyan, let me fulfill your wish, and milk you dry.” I whisper. “You’ve been dreaming about your cock in my mouth. Let me make your dreams come true.” His pupils blow wide, his breath hitching for half a second, and then he moves, belt unbuckled, pants and boxers down to his knees. Am I awake? No, not really, but doing this is better than my nightmares. I grasp his thighs, pulling him closer. He lets me take him into my mouth. The salty musk of his taste sends heat spiraling through my veins. With my lips wrapped around his width, he groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through me, settling in my core.
Tangling his fingers in my curls, he grips my hair. Then Cyan thrusts, “Fuck...”
I feel the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him, the burn of need tearing through me. I hear myself moan around him, feel my hand between my thighs rubbing myself off; I’m so close to coming, so fucking close and all of a sudden, he’s gone
***
I gasp, dazed, my body wound so tight it hurts. My fingers are wet and trembling, trapped in his grip. I blink rapidly; the haze is lifting. Fully clothed, Cyan watches me with his dark glasz eyes. I glance about the room, and that’s when it hits me. The fantasy of sucking his cock is a messed-up, fucking dream where my past and my present collided.
Shame slams into me, hot and vicious. “No,” I breathe. “No, no, no.”
I try to yank my hand away, desperate for any kind of friction between my thighs. But Cyan the bastard, doesn’t let go. His grin is slow, dark, and far too satisfied.
“Well,” he drawls, “that was quite the show, Dove.” I want to kill him. Or kiss him, or both.
“Do something,” I snap, voice rough with need, “or go to hell.”
He chuckles, low and sinful. “I’m already there, baby. And you?” He leans down, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “Looks like you’re right here with me.” I hate that he’s right. My body and mind just committed full-on mutiny and turned on me, just like he said it would.
I’m trembling, aching, teetering on the edge. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss. “I was so close.”
His eyes burning into mine. “Who were you dreaming about, Dove? Who had you so desperate you were rubbing yourself in your sleep?”
My face burns. “Shut up.”
With my free hand I reach down. He catches my wrist stopping me then with deliberate slowness, he lifts my sticky fingers to his mouth.
My breath stutters as his lips opens and sucks my slick fingers in, tongue teasing, tasting, owning the moment completely. My hips jerk up, muscles clenching—betrayal in every nerve.
“Ah-ah.”
He moves on top me in one smooth motion, pinning my wrists above my head. His weight settles between my thighs, his cock a hard, undeniable presence through his suit pants I close my eyes, savouring the contact. “You think I’d let you finish yourself after that?” His voice is smoke and gravel. “After I caught you moaning my name?”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
He brushes his beard against my ear. “Like you do every night.” Mortification crashes over me. Every night. The wretch he’s known. He’s listened. “You’ve been dreaming about me, haven’t you?” His tone is thick with arrogant satisfaction. “Waking up aching, running to the shower, hoping you can masturbate me out of your system.”
“I said. Shut up.”
His chuckle is dangerous as he rocks his hips, grinding against my soaked core. Sparks shoot up my spine, my body arching into him despite my anger. “Dove, just now you begged for it,” he taunts. “You begged me in your sleep. Why deny yourself when the real thing is right here?”
His hand slips between us, knuckles brushing my bare heat. I gasp, every muscle tightening. “Let me give you what you need,” he coaxes. “You just have to say it.”
No. Yes. No.I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed to wanthim.
Images flash—Lucilla’s glass shattering against the wall, the way she looked broken. Then there’s him and Elana. The idea of Cyan walking into someone else’s bed as easily as he walks into mine.
I should shove him off me, remind him that he’s a monster. Instead, my body presses closer, traitor that it is.
“Tell me what you want, lass,” his finger flicking against my nub again. “Come on Aria, say the words and I’ll make it good for you.”
“I can’t.”
His lips curve. “Can’t or won’t?” He tilts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. There’s hunger there, yes–but there’s patience underneath it. A terrifying kind of certainty. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, voice pure sin. “Say it.” My pride is hanging by a thread. My logic is already gone. All that’s left is heat and ache and this man pinning me like he owns not just my body, but the part of me that stopped running.
“Cyan…” My voice breaks on his name.
