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I imagine Damian walking in here in a pair of shorts, his bare chest massive and muscled and glistening with his lust-fueled sweat. He stalks across the room the same way he stalked up to that man outside the motel, as silent and deadly as the hitman he is.
“I saved you,” he snarls. “Now you’re my prize. Get those clothes off—now. I won’t ask again.”
Then he grows impatient and dives onto the bed with his ferocious speed, grabbing my tights and tearing them free.
He yanks my skirt down and slides his hands all over my bare flesh, squeezing, not caring that I’m curvier than most women.
He finds my sex and cups it, softly at first, but then I slide my hands through his iron hair and beg him to do it faster, harder …
I try to fight the urge, but something has awoken inside of me, through the blood and the violence and the craziness.
Hope.
Hope that I can finally be rid of the hell that was Dobry’s estate, hope that I can stay alive, that I can not only survive but live.
And what is life without desire, without heat, without longing?
I slide my hand under my skirt and down my tights, past my panties, and start softly toying with my clit and my lips, rubbing up and down as my mind disappears into the imagined scene.
“Suck me,” he snarls, glaring down at me with those hard eyes. “Suck me until I tell you to stop, Dakota, you beautiful fucking goddess. Get me nice and wet for your desperate little cunt.”
We stayed in shared barracks at the estate, so of course, I never had the chance to touch myself, to please myself.
And neither would I want to, not with the ever-present possibility of the guards swaggering into the room.
Something is wrong with you, a voice hisses in my mind. You saw a man shot in the face a few hours ago, and now you’re doing this?
Fine, then.
Screw it.
Something’s wrong with me and I don’t give a damn, because disappearing into dreams of Damian is so much sweeter than thinking about everything else.
In my fantasy, I’m not nervous or scared. I know exactly what to do as I perch nakedly on the edge of the bed, bringing my mouth to his manhood, engorged and veined and swollen as I open my lips wide and take him, all of him.
In my dream I grab onto his hips and suck him hard, looking up at him to see how much he wants it, to see how valuable he finds me as I bob my head up and down.
I feel so freaking sexy as the fantasy warps – my fingers are stroking my clit fast and hard now, my pussy beginning to burn up from the inside – and I’m bent over, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Fuck me,” I moan, shaking my ass far more confidently than I’d ever be able to do in real life. “Take hard, Damian. Take me like you own me.”
I slide my finger down into my hole, pushing in and feeling how absolutely soaked I am. Nobody has ever gotten me this wet before.
No thought, no touch, nothing has ever brought me this close.
But thoughts of Damian cause a river of hot lava to swell in my center, making two of my fingers slide in easily.
I move them quickly, teasing myself, imagining as forcefully as I can that its Damian’s massive cock instead.
And then I lose myself in the delirium, my mind shifting so that – in the lust-filled dream – there are many Damians, three, four, five … too many to count.
They surround me with their pale eyes and their grim-set lips and their massive, swollen cocks, and suddenly I’m pleasing a whole room of Damians, moaning and bouncing and sucking and—
Knock knock.
I let out a panting breath, the orgasm barreling into me at the exact same moment as the knock, opening my eyes as it twists and warps through me, causing my belly to go tight and my pussy to pulse and make my panties even wetter.
“Y-yes?” I call, the pleasure coursing through me like electricity.
“It’s me,” Damian says.
“Y-yes?” I say again, the only word I’m able to summon, apparently.
I take a deep breath, removing my hands from my panties and shivering as the last tremors of the orgasm pass through me.
Guilt pricks at me when I wonder what Damian would say if he knew what I’d just done, and who I’d done it over.
“I heard … moaning,” he growls. “I thought maybe you were having a nightmare.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say.
“Is the door unlocked?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, heart, thundering in my ears.
“Okay, I’m coming in.”
He pushes the door open, wearing a black T-shirt that wraps around his muscled frame. His bare arms display the fine cuts of his biceps. His hair is swept to the side and his icy eyes bite into me as he strides in, looking down at my face, jaw tight, fists clenched.
