Read Online CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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his hands straight at his sides. He never moved a limb all night. And if he dreamed, the dreams fell over the precipice of his subconscious and were lost the way the waterfall in the lobby fell from its great height and disappeared in the foaming aquamarine pond at its sculpted base.
THE THIRD NIGHT
Molly floated in a flushing pink dream of sex. Hormone typhoon, she thought at the edge of waking. Stop it , she thought, dream something else . But the dream was too exciting and blessedly real for her to stop it. She felt every inch of her body ripe and full to the bursting point with lustful feelings. Her muscles clenched and unclenched creating a wave of yearning that washed down through to her core.
She fantasized a lover with long, silky hair that swung on each side of his face as he moved above her, his weight familiar, his warmth increasing her own. The hair of his legs slid along her own bare calves and inner thighs and she sighed in her sleep, twisting a little to better position herself to open and receive him.
Then a car door banged shut nearby and Molly came up from the reclining seat of the Chrysler like a shot. She was trembling, the heat that had been spreading outward from
her thighs now creeping into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.
Her heart beat fast and strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal, her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a girl.
Before losing her virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down, massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt like to make love.
After having sex the dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below. Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated, gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her breath caught in her throat, her hand lodged between her legs, back arched.
She wished fervently to be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious. Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.
She'd die if Cruise knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body. Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling on down his legs to his feet.
A trembling thrill rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.
Crazy. She had to get out of the car before she did something incredibly
THE THIRD NIGHT
Molly floated in a flushing pink dream of sex. Hormone typhoon, she thought at the edge of waking. Stop it , she thought, dream something else . But the dream was too exciting and blessedly real for her to stop it. She felt every inch of her body ripe and full to the bursting point with lustful feelings. Her muscles clenched and unclenched creating a wave of yearning that washed down through to her core.
She fantasized a lover with long, silky hair that swung on each side of his face as he moved above her, his weight familiar, his warmth increasing her own. The hair of his legs slid along her own bare calves and inner thighs and she sighed in her sleep, twisting a little to better position herself to open and receive him.
Then a car door banged shut nearby and Molly came up from the reclining seat of the Chrysler like a shot. She was trembling, the heat that had been spreading outward from
her thighs now creeping into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.
Her heart beat fast and strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal, her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a girl.
Before losing her virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down, massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt like to make love.
After having sex the dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below. Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated, gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her breath caught in her throat, her hand lodged between her legs, back arched.
She wished fervently to be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious. Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.
She'd die if Cruise knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body. Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling on down his legs to his feet.
A trembling thrill rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.
Crazy. She had to get out of the car before she did something incredibly
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