Page 22 of Lorenzo

I want him inside me.

I want him to take me right here in the open garden.

“Yes—”

Bright light suddenly blasts across my face.

What’s happening to my dream?

I jolt upright, gasping.

The Kindle slides off my chest and hits the floor.

My heart still beats wildly. I feel my skin flushed and damp at the collarbone.

Then I hear slow clapping.

It’s real-life Lorenzo. He’s standing at the foot of the bed in a crisp blue suit, white shirt open at the collar.

A wicked smirk pulls at one corner of his mouth.

His dark eyes glitter with amusement.

“What are you doing?” I say, yanking the duvet up to my chin.

“You were moaning for me in your sleep, schoolmarm. That was the loudest version of a wet dream if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Schoolmarm!” What’s this nickname of his?

Heat floods my face. “You have quite an imagination.”

“No,” he says with a lopsided smile. “You do.”

I throw a pillow at his retreating figure as he calmly leaves the room.

But Lorenzo brings it out in me.

Rising from the bed, I yank off my great-aunt’s nightgown.

Then I check it carefully for any tears or signs of tampering.

I do the same with the granny pants.

Everything is intact.

Even myself.

For better or worse, Lorenzo was right about that dream.

After a fast shower, I pull my auburn hair into a tight, high ponytail.

It naturally has a hint of curl.

I resent the way it bounces in such a carefree manner.

That’s absolutely not the mood I’m trying to convey.

After slipping into jeans and a simple T-shirt, I walk into the open kitchen.