Just beneath where I need him.
I should push him away. I should remind him I’m not his. That this ends with shattered hearts and regret I won’t survive. I arch into him instead. His grip on my throat tightens, and his mouth finds my neck, his teeth grazing, tongue following.
He tips my head back, baring me to him, and he’s so hard against me. There’s no mistaking it.
The sound that spills out of me is humiliating. High and needy and nothing like the woman I pretend to be.
“We can’t,” I moan.
His mouth keeps moving. His teeth scrape. His tongue soothes. His breath burns me alive.
“Then tell me to stop,” he says.
His hand slips higher, until he’s palming my breast, and his other fingers flex at my throat again, tighter this time. Not enough to choke, but enough to remind me exactly how much control he has.
He grinds into me once, and I feel everything.
“Say it. Tell me who you really belong to.”
My lips part on his name, but before I can get it out—
I wake up gasping.
The room is pitch black. My sheets are twisted around my legs, my skin is damp with sweat, and my heart’s slamming against my ribs so hard it’s in my throat.
Between my thighs.
Everywhere.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no.
I press my hands to my face, but the dream is still clinging to me. His voice. The feel of him against my back. His hand sliding up my side. His other hand wrapping around my neck.
It wasn’t real. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real.
Outside my door, Cavall shifts and lets out a soft whine. I stumble out of bed, half-trip over him, and rush to the bathroom, flipping on the light and gripping the edge of the sink. The woman in the mirror is flushed, wild-haired, pupils blown wide like she’s coming down from something.
Cold water on my face does nothing. My hands tremble as I brace against the counter, trying to ignore the persistent ache between my legs, the way my whole body is still pulsing in time with a rhythm that shouldn’t exist.
I swear I don’t mean to slide my hand down. I don’t. But it’s already happening, and if I don’t do something, I’ll never survive living under the same roof as him.
A hiss leaves my mouth as my fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear, and I’m soaked, like my body hasn’t figured out I’m awake and he was just a figment of my imagination.
I press my other hand against my lips, biting down on my knuckles as I rub circles over my clit. I’m too sensitive, too worked up, and it takes seconds before I’m right on the edge. I imagine Lance outside the door. Ear pressed to the wood, listening, jaw clenched like he’s fighting something. His hand palming himself through his clothes, aching to come in and take what I’m giving myself instead.
My fingers slip lower, slick and frantic, and a broken sound tears out of me.
He’d hear that. His breath would go shallow. He’d think about what I look like right now: flushed and trembling, coming undone because of him. Because of the way he says my name. The way I know he’d touch me if I let him.
He’d lose control. Grip my throat like he did in the dream. Tip my head back, while telling me to come for him. Telling me I’m his, just for tonight.
The pressure crests too fast. My whole body locks as it crashes over me, and I come with a silent sob, biting down hard on my knuckles.
Afterward, I sag against the counter, my breathing choppy and my nerves humming like I’ve just committed a crime.
Logic filters back in slowly.
