God, he’s fucking sexy. I want him so bad.
I arch my back instinctively. I feel heavy, a dull, pulsing ache building between my thighs. I’m wet—sopping wet—and I can feel the slickness of my own arousal dripping down my skin.
“Please,” I whimper.
He moves towards me with grace, crawling over me. His weight is a godsend, pinning me to the mattress. His hands, rough and calloused, grab my thighs and yank them apart. “I’m going to taste you now,Kisa.”
He growls and drops his head between my legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, rhythmic, and devastatingly precise. I cry out, my head tossing against the pillow, the silk ties at my wrists straining. He uses his tongue on my clit like he’s trying to memorize the texture of it, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
I’m falling. I’m shattered. I’m arching my back, my hips bucking against his face, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The pleasure is too much, it’s a bright, white-hot line of electricity shooting from my core to my brain.
“Yes!” I moan loudly.
He looks up then, his eyes glowing in the dark, and just as I reach the peak, just as my body explodes into a rhythmic, pulsing release, he smiles.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart trying to kick its way out of my chest.
Oh my god,” I choke out, dragging a hand through my sweat-dampened hair.
The room is silent except for the wind that is still howling. It’s 3:00 AM, and I am currently the most embarrassed person on the planet. My body is still vibrating, the ghost of that dream-pleasure lingering in my nerves. I can still feel the dampness between my legs, and I have no idea how to explain what just happened to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “A sex dream? Abouthim? Atara, you just met him, you hate his guts, this makes no sense.”
I get out of bed, my legs feeling a bit like jelly, and stumble to the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes wide.
I look like I’ve been thoroughly kissed. Or worse.
“It’s just stress,” I tell my reflection. “It’s the breakup. It’s a rebound response. Your brain is just picking the most dominant male in the vicinity to fix the ego-wound Mark left. It’s purely biological.”
I make a cup of tea, sit by the window, and stare at the black expanse of the ocean.
I tell myself I won't go to breakfast. I tell myself I’ll check out early, take a bus to Galway, and disappear into a world of wool sweaters and Guinness.
But then I think about the way he looked when he scooped up his daughter. I remember the dream.
He’s a monster. I can see it in his eyes. But he’s a monster who loves his daughter. And apparently, he’s a monster who my body decided was the perfect protagonist for a midnight bondage fantasy.
I finish my tea and spend the next four hours rehearsing all the ways I’m going to be 'subdued and professional' when I meet him because yes, I’m going for breakfast.
The private dining room is at the end of a long, carpeted hallway that feels like it belongs in a palace, not a hotel. There are two men standing outside the double doors. The same men from the cliff. They look at me, their faces like stone, and open the doors without a word.
I take a breath, smooth down my dress, a soft, cream-colored knit, cute thing, and walk in.
The room is bathed in morning light, the windows looking out over the cliffs. A long mahogany table sits in the center, laden with more food than ten people could eat.
And he is there.
He’s sitting at the head of the table, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in dark, sexy tattoos.
Snap of it, ATARA! There’s nothing sexy about his tattoos. Nothing!
He’s reading a newspaper, looking for all the world like a normal businessman.
Until he looks up.
The dream hits me hard. The memory of his tongue, the weight of him, the way he looked between my legs. My face goes hot instantly. I want to turn around and run back to New York or to the ends of the earth.
