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She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.
I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.
They all scream with pleasure just the same.
She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.
I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.
‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’
‘Or we could talk about you.’
‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’
Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.
‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’
Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.
But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.
‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’
CHAPTER TWO
HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.
I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.
‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.
Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.
Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.
I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.
She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.
She doesn’t need to worry.
I know enough for both of us.
I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.
Her hands wrap around
my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.
But I don’t want to kiss her.
Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.
I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.
I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.
