Nightcap

She wasn’t alone in her dreams. She wasn’t lonely in her dreams. She wasn’t even sleepy in her dreams. Wide awake, aware, waiting for him to touch her. He always watched her with dark eyes, heated dark eyes that made her wet with a look. His hands went to her shirt, flicking open the buttons there, and she wanted him to go faster, she insisted he go faster, but he put a finger against her lips, shushing her demands with soft laughter.

Such a cocky bastard, to mock her like that. He would pay, she thought, and lust stirred inside her at the idea of it.

She pulled his finger into her mouth and sucked hard. He stopped laughing, and dragged her closer, until they were chest to chest, her shirt hanging uselessly aside. She loved the feel of his chest against hers, chest hair rubbing against her nipples, so marvelously coarse, such delightful textures. The hard steel of muscle, the smooth, sleek skin.

His mouth covered hers, starting gently but exploring and tasting, his fingers tangling in her hair, fusing her mouth to his. He tasted like champagne. He always tasted like champagne, bubbling and going to her head. Cleo slid her hands down over him, sliding over the strong ridges of his back, down lower, over his butt, so taut, so perfect for her hands.

He moaned into her mouth, his hips locked to hers, and she could feel him between her legs. So large, so marvelously large. She rocked against him, purring as she moved, because soon, very very soon…He couldn’t wait long. The heavy weight that was pressing between her legs was testament to that fact.

His lips moved to her neck, over her shoulder, tempting her with a soft press, a languid lick. Cleo didn’t like languid, she wanted something much more tangible. “Take me,” she whispered. “Take. Me.”

For a moment, he raised his head, stared, and she could feel the heat emanating from him. He was burning up with it. “You’re not ready yet,” he whispered, lowering his head to her breasts. Tasting her with his mouth.

His mouth pulled at the tender flesh of her nipple, sucking there. At each pull of his mouth, an answering shock of heat fired between her legs, and she wanted to feel him there, not these transitory pulses that merely fueled her desire.

Her legs slid against the flannel sheets, back and forth, but it didn’t ease the ache inside her and when she heard the morning sounds of the city outside, she knew he was gone. It was a dream, unfulfilled wants conjuring up a trickster in her head. A man who teased, tormented and then disappeared before she had found her release.

So unfair.

Still, her sighs had been real. She had heard her own staggered breathing and if she tried hard, very hard, she could smell the shadow of his cologne. And in that moment, she believed.

Cleo opened her eyes, blinked against the darkness. She was alone.

Sure enough, it had been nothing more than a dream.

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