Page 83 of Somno Slave

Panic crawls up my throat. “Get out of my head. I don’t want this.”

“Clearly you do.” He chuckles and the sound drops in my skull, low and heavy. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

My mouth dries. My heart slams against my ribcage.

“What happens when I wake up?” The question comes out thinner than I mean it to, faster than it should.

Consequences. There have to be consequences, there always are.

“You can go back to being the sweet little Doctor, and I will remain the nasty criminal you’re sentencing to death.” He bares his teeth like it amuses him.

His gaze moves over me slowly, thoroughly, and I become acutely aware of the thin straps of my camisole against my shoulders, of the warmth trapped between my thighs beneath the duvet.

He leans closer until his breath becomes a second skin. “Did you like my show earlier?”

I hate that something coils tight within me.

“Lie to me,” his words drag low through me. “And I’ll make you pay for it.”

He pushes in closely, and his hot breath fans against my lips.

“No.” I manage.

“I’m in your head, Doctor.” He tuts. “I know when you’re lying.”

His attention drags lower.

“I know it turned you on.” The words tighten around my throat, “I know you fucked yourself watching me. I know you need more.”

“No.” It’s a feeble protest, filled with shame and denial. Because the alternative is to confess that I’ve broken every protocol under the sun, that I’m obsessing over a killer.

My pulse stutters loudly.

“Stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut as if that could force him out of my mind. “Why do I keep dreaming about you?”

His gaze drops to my mouth and back up again. “You know what you want.”

My thighs shift beneath the duvet, the movement instinctive, searching for friction before I even understand what I’m doing. Shame hits a second later, hot enough to sting.

His hand slides a few inches further across the bedspread. The sheet wrinkles softly under his fingers. He is close enough now that I can smell him, something dark and warm.

I do not want him to touch me. But I need him to touch me so badly it makes me angry.

The contradiction burns.

“You need me,” it slides through me like sin.

My lips part. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Plead with him to stop, tell him to leave, or worse... beg him to keep going. The urge to speak fractures under the weight of all three.

“I don’t want this.” I finally say.

“But I do,” he breathes.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He presses forward, lips brushing mine. He kisses me. There’s a beat where everything stills, where my head swims loudly, and any voice of reason rots away. The touch shifts from something sweet, to something violent, desperate, but I refuse to kiss back. I keep my lips firmly closed; it doesn’t deter him.

He shifts, hands scooping around my head, angling my head for better access. My traitorous body is on fire. My nipples are pebbled, thighs firmly pressed together to hide the wetness that I know is gathering there.

He makes a noise, and it’s almost my undoing.