Page 127 of Sinister

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PETRA

It’s hot. Too hot.

I toss and turn in bed, shoving the sheets off my body in search of some sliver of coolness in the thick, oppressive night. But instead of relief, I’m met with more warmth—arms sliding around my waist, breath hot against the back of my neck.

And there he is. As if haunting my every waking thought wasn’t enough, now he’s invading my dreams.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, still half-asleep.

“Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily, sweet Petra?” he whispers into my ear.

“We shouldn’t . . . this isn’t right,” I mumble.

“How can something that feels so good be wrong?” he says, his lips ghosting down my neck.

I turn to face him, and suddenly the room glows with a soft, otherworldly light. Everything feels hazy and surreal, like the air itself is soaked in moonlight. And yet I can see him perfectly—his face illuminated, his eyes gleaming a brilliant blue as they meet mine.

“Sin,” I whisper.

“My sweet, sweet Petra,” he murmurs.

He leans in, lips brushing mine in a kiss so light it barely lands before he’s trailing lower, kissing his way down my body. I realize then that I’m only in my nightgown, the fabric barely shielding me from the heat of him.

He undoes the buttons at my bodice slowly, deliberately, and where his fingers linger, his mouth soon follows—kissing, licking, sucking the skin beneath.

A soft gasp escapes my throat.

I want to tell him to stop. To stop haunting me. To stop living in my thoughts like some lingering fever. But the moment he closes his mouth around one nipple, a wave of sensation pulses through my body—and the words vanish.

This is just a dream, right?

Dreams can’t hurt.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

He continues teasing, touching me with the same hunger that fills my own thoughts. His hands slide down to my ankles, fingers curling around them as he pushes the hem of my nightgown higher, over my hips, until I’m bare to him.

He kisses the inside of my thigh, slow and reverent.

And suddenly, I realize . . . this is my mind reimagining what happened last time. Reconstructing the way he made me feel. Trying to recapture something I haven’t been able to reach on my own since. But instead of touching me with his fingers . . .

He does something entirely unexpected.

He puts his mouth on me.

I jerk in surprise, hips lifting off the bed.

He laughs softly against my skin, breath fanning over my most intimate place. “Easy,” he breathes, “just one taste. Give me one taste.”

I don’t know how my mind could dream this. I’ve never even imagined something like it. But since it is a dream, since nothing is real, I let it happen.

I open my legs for him, welcoming him between them. His shoulders press against my thighs, anchoring me as he kisses me again—deeper this time.

And then his tongue slides over me.

I cry out softly, my hands tangling in his hair. The sensations are sharper, deeper than last time. Every soft flick and slow swirl makes my body tremble. He kisses me like he kissed my mouth—hungry, aching, wild.