That ache clawing through me now is identical.
My head shifts restlessly against the pillow as another wave crests—heady and all-consuming.
Oh, God. I shift again, raking nails over skin as if trying to fight an unseen enemy.
I need?—
The thought refuses to stay buried.
I need him.
Only, it’s not just his face I see anymore as the dream returns. Or it is, but his familiar features begin to blur. His kind eyes fade. His face—his warmth—melts away and is replaced by something colder. Arctic eyes and features.
Darker brows.
Pale skin.
A sculpted chest. A wealth of muscle.
The White Horseman.
An appetite for the forbidden coils low in my belly, acute enough to steal my breath as his body moves powerfully above mine. His chest is sweat-slicked, covered in black-as-night markings, ones I don’t recognize on sight. My fingers trail over them, reading them, as if the symbols are a map to all his secrets.
When they reach his shoulders, my nails take hold, digging in. They help me brace against the force of his thrusts as he sinks his cock deeper inside me, stretching me open.
His fingers weave into my hair at the back of my neck. Suddenly, I’m lifted, pulled to him from my prone place on the bed, and his lips crash against mine.
The kiss isn’t sweet.
The Horseman doesn’t simply kiss.
He devours. Claims.
He takes full command of my mouth. Delivers a bruising assault to my lips that, as the minutes bleed into one another, proves to be addicting.
Only when I break from it to steal a lungful of air does his mouth leave mine. It trails roughly down my neck and across the flesh of my shoulder, and further still. He blazes a trail with his stubble grazing those coarse hairs across unsoiled skin, leaving prominent marks behind until he reaches my collarbone and sinks his teeth in, around bone.
I cry out—and reality snaps back.
Oh God.
These dreams don’t help. They only make it worse.
They fuel the ache. The craving.
And I have no way to fulfill it.
The sheet below me is soaked, and not just from sweat. The juncture between my thighs is wet.
Curious and unable to fight it a moment longer, my hand drifts there. Slickness meets my fingers. Satiny to the touch. As I explore there, relief flickers, so I venture farther, touching the small, sensitive nub at the apex of my sex.
A blinding light flashes behind my eyes. Pleasure ripples outward.
Ah, there. Yes.
My body begins to speak to me in a sense.
So I experiment, tentatively at first. To see, just to see, and yes, it helps. Then, with more urgency, I explore the sensation. The more I do, the more the ache subsides in the moments when the bursts of heat recede.
