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The next morning, I woke up in Kristoff’s warm embrace. His chest was plastered to my back. Last night I’d discovered that he loved to spoon me. Last night had been rough on him, though he would never admit that to himself, let alone me. The hard and fast way he had fucked me in the back of the car was a testament to how he’d wanted to lose himself in me, replacing his first encounter with his father with something more enjoyable. It broke my heart to see my strong, confident man go rigid in the senator’s presence. The senator, on the other hand, had given Kristoff a cursory look, a small frown marring his handsome face. It was clear that he recognized something in him but couldn’t pinpoint it.
Perhaps that was the reason why Kristoff had a nightmare later that night. I wondered if he even remembered it.
I turned in Kristoff’s embrace until we were face-to-face.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I trailed my finger over his collarbone. “Last night was rough.”
His eyelids became heavy, but he didn’t say anything.
Encouraged, I continued. “How did it make you feel?”
With a sudden move, he shifted on top of me. I screeched when his knee pushed my legs apart and he nestled between them. Then he nuzzled my neck, dotting it with kisses.
“How did I feel? Perhaps you should change your major to psychology,” he whispered in between kisses.
My breath picked up when I felt his hardness hot and heavy between my thighs. “Maybe I will,” I mumbled.
His dick grounded over my clit. “I would be your first client. You could try any kind of sex therapy you want on me.”
I moaned when he hit a certain spot. “That would be highly unethical.” I knew what he was doing, and couldn’t help but go along with his ploy to distract me. It simply felt too good.
“Not if I would be your willing test subject.”
“I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t make any difference to an ethics board.”
His firm lips descended on mine and I heaved a sigh. There was something about this man that made me melt into a puddle whenever he touched me. Gone were my questions, as long as his chest pressed against my breasts, and his sinful tongue licked a trail along my collarbones.
I blinked and pushed away from him. “Please, stop distracting me with your magical tongue.”
He grinned. “Magical, huh?”
“You know what you do to me.” I grabbed his hand and placed a kiss in the palm of his hand. “You had a nightmare last night. Please talk to me.”
With a sigh he leaned back and I did the same. My head lay on his heart. I heard the staccato boom of his chest, almost lulling me back into a nap. He kissed my head, and my eyelids were heavy.
“It’s always the same image,” he started. “I’m at the playground with my mother, but I’m not exactly a little kid anymore. I’m just my grown-ass self. Still, she pushes me on the swing, making me go higher and higher. I feel joy that she’s alive, peace because nothing weighs on my mind, and contentment like I’ve never experienced before. Then, like in a horror movie, the sky darkens and the swing stops. When I look around, my mom’s gone. The playground is empty. Then I spot a well next to me. When I look into it, I see it’s filled with blood instead of water. And right in the deep and murky red fluid up to her waist,stands my mom. I know she’s dead, even though she’s yelling at me.”
I swallow, contemplating what to say next. The sheer agony in his voice cut deep into my skin. I wished I could take his pain away for him, the guilt that is so clear in his voice.
“What does she yell?” I ask softly.
His fingers brush over my hair. “She screams wanting to know why her killer is still alive. Why she has to live in the bottom of a damn well, restless, pacing, drowning in her own blood, while he is still alive.”
I placed a kiss on his shoulder. “No mother would say that to her child,” I said carefully.
“I know.”
I looked up at him. “So you do know that it’s your misplaced guilt causing your nightmare?”
“Rationally, I know this.”
“But your subconscious doesn’t.”
He didn’t reply, nor did he have to. For the first time I pondered that his vengeance plans perhaps weren’t just about cold, hard retaliation. Kristoff’s very essence, his soul, cried out for peace. I feared he would never have it unless he truly destroyed the senator.
