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A shadow fell upon her. She looked up. A man was just above her, outlined by the shafts of sunlight piercing the water's surface, far above them. No, not a man, not exactly. Her eyes traveled over his familiar face with gray eyes and floating hair. The water etched out every feature, from his bare chest and shoulders, and blatant arousal, to the long, powerful scaled tail that marked him as a merman and kept him vertical above her as she lay on her back, floating.
Lauren felt the whisper touch of the ocean garden again. The sea fronds wound themselves around her wrists and ankles, an inarguable pressure that drew her thighs far apart and spread-eagled her helpless before the watching sea creature. His eyes darkened further at the site of her exposed sex and, as she struggled, part alarm and part quivering excitement, he began to descend toward her. His tail propelled him with the casual ease of a shark, but there was nothing casual about his expression. It was the comfort of moving in one's own element. In that way one often did in a dream, for a moment Laurel stood apart from her dream self and recognized what was familiar about it. It was the way she often moved when in the clubs at night.
Her struggles only served to increase the intensity of his gaze, which roamed appreciatively over her jutting breasts and the flexing of her thighs. Lauren stopped, panting, as he came to rest between her legs, his aroused, impressive member at eye level. Instinctively, Lauren licked her lips and raised a hungry gaze to him. A smile touched his mouth.
He spoke, a soft crooning noise, almost like a dolphin or whale, and her bindings obeyed, wrapping high on her thighs and lifting her up, so her hips were elevated to his lips as the rest of her stayed lower, increasing her sense of helplessness.
His nose brushed her swollen clitoris and she screamed into the water. His tongue pushed in between the tight folds and she moaned. Though she was panting, the water was like air to her starving lungs.
His large hands, callused as if from carpentry work, came beneath her bottom and cupped the individual cheeks, separating them so his fingertips as well as the cool water and waving tips of sea life brushed the sensitive opening. More vines wrapped around her waist and thighs. Still more wrapped under and above her breasts, lifting them and binding them tightly, trapping the blood in them. She could no longer even writhe, only shudder with convulsions and tremble at what he was doing to her. She wanted to come, but she could not come as long as she could not move.
His eyes spoke eloquently, and she knew that his possession of her was not the toying of a shark with prey. It was a possession born not of a predator's hunger, but that of a lifetime mate laying a claim to her whole being.
He rose over her, hovering, and his lips closed over one tight nipple, unbearably sensitive because of the seaweed's constriction around her breast. She quivered and made soft cries. Spasms rolled through her body, small almost-climaxes that made her pleas incoherent, at least the words. Her need was as clear as the water around them.
The fronds drew her hips down, and he sank with them, descending so he was between her thighs. With his eyes on her face, his fingers slid to her hips and he thrust into her in one fluid stroke.
She came instantly, the intense sensation of being held still during his penetration equal to a bomb exploding in a contained space. The seaweed held her as she cried out, a long, low moan that rocked up to helpless screams. He continued to thrust with slow, tortuous strokes that prolonged her own orgasm until even in the breathable water she could no longer draw in enough for her lungs. Only then did he buck, unable to contain his own seed any longer, and she heard his voice, a haunting cry that reminded her of whales and other mysterious creatures.
He covered her mouth with his and gave her air, the ability to breathe and live above the water's surface.
He filled her with oxygen and all the substances that made life worth living.
Exquisite. An elegant, passionate word, reserved for an untouched box of Godiva chocolates, the sparkle of a diamond in sunlight, and this moment.
She called his name, begging to touch him. She would have torn her soul from its shell and offered it to him for the opportunity. As if she had made a wish, the seaweed was abruptly gone and she lunged, wrapping her arms and legs upon him. She groaned in joy as she felt his arms come around her and cried out in renewed passion. The lazy movement of the powerful tail continued his thrusts within her, stroking her trembling tissues and heating them again.
She pressed her cheek and her heart against his. "Never let me go. Promise you'll never go," she begged, and her tears joined the ocean.
He held her with relentless strength, but took her lips in a gentle kiss, so different from his fierce possession of her body that it unbalanced her. The trembling of her body made the ocean floor vibrate, a shifting of plates signifying a change in the earth's surface, the alteration of the landscape of her mind, a wavering, and awakening.
Lauren's eyes opened. Her arms were wrapped around Josh, her nails dug into his back. The wet saltiness against her face had moistened his bare chest, and he was stroking her hair, murmuring to her, gentle crooning, like a lullaby, or a chant. It was early morning, according to the clock on the dresser.
Marcus was gone, but he had put fresh candles on the night table to throw a dim light in the room that had no windows to let in the soft shades of dawn.
She had never had a dream of submission; her sexual dreams often had the same flavor of her real life, the drive to tenderly dominate. It left her unsettled, not so much the dream itself, but the underlying sense of drowning, the willingness to go under and submerge herself in sensual exploration. She had carried it with her, out of the dream into a natural extension of thinking about Josh.
She chided herself for her initial uneasy response to the dream. A Dominant needed a sub's devotion as much as the sub desired the focused attention of her dominance over him. When it came down to it, they were willing captives of each other, the lines of control and possession ever shifting because of it. But the dream, being the voice of her unconscious and subconscious self, underscored how much she wanted to establish that level of intimacy and trust, where safe rules and strictures were not needed, everything intuitive between her and a lover, whether in play or in reality. She wanted love and a forever with someone. Simple, natural, and unbearably painful, because of how complicated it was to find it. But dreams did not care about torturing the soul.
Sensing that she was awake, Josh moved his lips against her temple. He stole a kiss over her eyebrow, nibbling a bit at it, sucking it into his mouth. Lauren sighed and nestled closer, pressing soft cotton and swollen breasts into his chest. His hand wandered down her hip to the flank and she shuddered as his fingers curled around one cheek. He ran his touch along the satin leg band of the French cut bikinis and then slid his long fingers under them, using his knuckles to push the fabric back, and into the cleft of her bottom, like a thong. He gripped the top edge of the bunched panties and tugged at the rolled fabric, increasing the pressure on her clitoris.
Lauren lifted her eyes to his. He withdrew his touch, resting his hand on her hip. "It's your card still, Lauren," he murmured. His eyes promised her anything, a dangerous gift she could unleash or bridle at will, and the knowledge of it soaked her flimsy panties in a warm gush of response. She pushed the disturbing dream into her subconsciou
s and took hold of the reins again.
"I want you to grab the headboard," she commanded. "And don't let go of it. "
He obeyed, shifting to his back, the long muscular arms threading through the slats and then gripping the wrought iron spindles from behind. Lauren rose to her knees and pulled the covers back, exposing him to her gaze. His arms tensed as if he might move to cover himself, but he controlled the urge and merely flushed, a rush of blood to his cheeks. Lauren ignored his discomfort and took her time looking him over, the graceful hips and long thighs, the light dusting of hair, the thicker thatch at his groin, the sectioned abdomen and soft tufts of hair beneath his arms. The longer she looked, the more his limbs trembled, the more turgid his cock became, until it was all she could do to maintain her indifferent look and not drool.
"God, you are beautiful," she said softly.
He groaned, and the fire in his eyes became infused with something else, something that spoke of yearning, and regret. It was so similar a reflection of how she felt when she came out of the dream, shattered and aroused, it almost broke her now. It would have, if he had chosen that very moment to ignore her command, release the headboard and seize her to him. In the light of day, the game should probably be over anyway. He and Marcus should be going back to work on whatever they had to do.
She would hobble around to see if there were the makings of a pimento cheese sandwich in Lisette's kitchen and savor a few of Josh's chocolate chip cookies while mulling over the events of the previous evening.
But it wasn't over. Josh himself had set the parameters, reminding her the card was still hers. It occurred to her that, for some reason, he needed her to hold the cards, as if he was afraid to interact with her if she wasn't in charge.
Not that she could possibly object. The male torso stretched out before her in mute, powerful submission was a perfect creation. He had no spare flesh. His thighs, arms and stomach were roped with wiry, lean muscle. The buttocks flexing with his slight, agitated shifts were tight as she could wish, and she had a sudden, amusing desire.
