him cry out. She’d come in, gotten into his bed, and put her arms around him. And then—
He’d half-woken from sleep and in that almost-dream zone had known her completely. Had found her utterly familiar and sought her without hesitation, his mouth desperate for hers.
He’d known how they kissed, that she liked this much pressure, this much tongue. He’d known what her hair felt like between his fingers and what her tears tasted like when they slid along his lips.
And then he’d struggled fully to wakefulness and her face was a near stranger’s face, the silk of her hair unfamiliar. Something in him recoiled and he was beset, suddenly, by that awkwardness that had occasionally overtaken him mid-encounter in his sexually busier days, particularly with women he didn’t know well. When he’d let things go too far and then come with a snap to his senses—fading drunkenness or a ringing phone breaking the spell.
It had been like waking from a dream of love to the reality of solitude.
He let himself drift back toward sleep, and in those vague, cloudy moments just before he lost himself, there it was again, like a half-remembered dream.
He could taste her, feel her against him. A vivid, desperate craving rose in him.
What kind of voodoo was that?
He couldn’t remember her consciously, but some part of him knew her. The dream part. His body.
And, God. Had it always been like that between them? Because if it had, he understood why he’d let it happen. That wasn’t the kind of attraction any man resisted, not for long. It was only that jarring sense of waking from a dream—and his confusion—that had put the brakes on.
If he hadn’t sat up and turned on the light—
He’d been seconds away from sliding his hand down and finding her bare thigh. Pushing up that scrap of insubstantial silver nightgown to discover what she wore underneath. From what the faint light had hinted at, he seriously doubted he’d find anything.
He would have brushed the slippery fabric away from her smooth skin, slid his palm up the inside of her thigh until he found the crease where her leg met her body. Until his thumb found the softness of curls—
Memory, or fantasy, that she kept a landing strip of neatly groomed hair?
Memory, or fantasy, that she got wet enough that slickness sometimes covered not just her outer lips, but her thighs, too?
Memory, or fantasy, that when he parted her and slid his thumb along her seam, her clit would be already swollen and throbbing?
His hand was on his cock.
In his vivid inner world, she made a soft sound of pleasure and assent when he kissed her and touched her at the same time. She licked his mouth as he circled her clit. She sucked his lip when he slid two fingers inside her without stopping that insistent circular motion.
His cock was at full attention, rock hard and demanding, a drop forming at the tip that he spread over the head and down, wishing it were her hand, wishing it were her mouth, her tongue, her wetness. His fist tighter now, the grip harsher, speeding up, his breath fast and ragged, too.
Maybe memory, the sound of her breathing in his ear. Maybe fantasy, the way she begged him to fill her, yanked him against her, deeper, harder, faster. Maybe memory, the way she felt clenching around him, or maybe fantasy—it hardly mattered, because either way, she took him with her over the edge, and in the strange place between waking and sleeping, between dream and reality, he came, hard, shaking and trembling with the force of it.
Chapter 7
Things had moved. He couldn’t find the gas can for the mower. He felt a surge of irritation with Trina for moving his shit. And for taking the girls and going to the mall and leaving him to his own devices. And then an even sharper surge of anger at himself, because he was not that guy. Not the one who’d get pissed at someone who’d given up a year of her life to help him out, and not the one who needed her help to mow the fucking
He’d half-woken from sleep and in that almost-dream zone had known her completely. Had found her utterly familiar and sought her without hesitation, his mouth desperate for hers.
He’d known how they kissed, that she liked this much pressure, this much tongue. He’d known what her hair felt like between his fingers and what her tears tasted like when they slid along his lips.
And then he’d struggled fully to wakefulness and her face was a near stranger’s face, the silk of her hair unfamiliar. Something in him recoiled and he was beset, suddenly, by that awkwardness that had occasionally overtaken him mid-encounter in his sexually busier days, particularly with women he didn’t know well. When he’d let things go too far and then come with a snap to his senses—fading drunkenness or a ringing phone breaking the spell.
It had been like waking from a dream of love to the reality of solitude.
He let himself drift back toward sleep, and in those vague, cloudy moments just before he lost himself, there it was again, like a half-remembered dream.
He could taste her, feel her against him. A vivid, desperate craving rose in him.
What kind of voodoo was that?
He couldn’t remember her consciously, but some part of him knew her. The dream part. His body.
And, God. Had it always been like that between them? Because if it had, he understood why he’d let it happen. That wasn’t the kind of attraction any man resisted, not for long. It was only that jarring sense of waking from a dream—and his confusion—that had put the brakes on.
If he hadn’t sat up and turned on the light—
He’d been seconds away from sliding his hand down and finding her bare thigh. Pushing up that scrap of insubstantial silver nightgown to discover what she wore underneath. From what the faint light had hinted at, he seriously doubted he’d find anything.
He would have brushed the slippery fabric away from her smooth skin, slid his palm up the inside of her thigh until he found the crease where her leg met her body. Until his thumb found the softness of curls—
Memory, or fantasy, that she kept a landing strip of neatly groomed hair?
Memory, or fantasy, that she got wet enough that slickness sometimes covered not just her outer lips, but her thighs, too?
Memory, or fantasy, that when he parted her and slid his thumb along her seam, her clit would be already swollen and throbbing?
His hand was on his cock.
In his vivid inner world, she made a soft sound of pleasure and assent when he kissed her and touched her at the same time. She licked his mouth as he circled her clit. She sucked his lip when he slid two fingers inside her without stopping that insistent circular motion.
His cock was at full attention, rock hard and demanding, a drop forming at the tip that he spread over the head and down, wishing it were her hand, wishing it were her mouth, her tongue, her wetness. His fist tighter now, the grip harsher, speeding up, his breath fast and ragged, too.
Maybe memory, the sound of her breathing in his ear. Maybe fantasy, the way she begged him to fill her, yanked him against her, deeper, harder, faster. Maybe memory, the way she felt clenching around him, or maybe fantasy—it hardly mattered, because either way, she took him with her over the edge, and in the strange place between waking and sleeping, between dream and reality, he came, hard, shaking and trembling with the force of it.
Chapter 7
Things had moved. He couldn’t find the gas can for the mower. He felt a surge of irritation with Trina for moving his shit. And for taking the girls and going to the mall and leaving him to his own devices. And then an even sharper surge of anger at himself, because he was not that guy. Not the one who’d get pissed at someone who’d given up a year of her life to help him out, and not the one who needed her help to mow the fucking
Similar Books
