“Is someone there?” I ask, still not sure if I’m awake or in my dream, but I feel so good, I don’t think I care. “I can feel you watching me,” I throw out, daring whatever this is to keep going.
“Yes.” A hiss of an answer makes me inhale and clench inside. A deep wanting grasps at me, the vision of the man in the portrait dancing in my dream, taking more solid form, standing next to the bed as I shake my head, wondering if I’m completely losing my mind. “I’ve been watching you. You are wonderful to watch, Agnes.”
“Delia.” I answer. “No one calls me Agnes.”
“Delia it is.” The low thrum of his voice spins in my ears.
I think I open my eyes, but is it real, or in my dream? The darkness makes it hard to make heads or tails of things for a long moment, but then the sharp broad shoulders form in the dim light. The moon glancing off a crimson tie, offset by a stark white shirt.
He steps forward, running the backs of his fingers down my cheek, my neck, onto my chest, and I swallow hard, wondering why I’m not terrified and lunging toward the door.
“I should be scared, yes? Are you a ghost?”
“I’m whatever you want me to be.” His fingers move back upward, under my chin, then trace my lips as I open and let him glance them across the tip of my tongue.
I should be absolutely terrified, dream or no dream, but the only thing I’m feeling is need. Raw, unabashed, lusty need for this ghost-man, dressed in a perfect black suit with spectacular blue eyes, just like the man in the portrait. Those eyes are lit as if by a light of their own, glowing beneath a hard brow, and I want to taste his lips, have him taste mine.
Both sets of them.
“You should never be scared of me, Delia. You should never be scared, period. Not as long as you are with me.”
The way he says it makes me feel like we’ve been together before. Like this is a return to something, not something new. Dreams can twist time and space like that, making impossibilities possible.
His touch is soft, like I’m about to break, and before I realize it, I wrap my fingers around his wrist, holding him, preventing him from disappearing into the waking world.
I meet his eyes as I grasp tighter, and they flare with a glow that makes me let go, wondering if I’ve done something wrong.
“Are you a demon?” I gasp.
Anything is possible in dreams, even though this all feels so real. I run my tongue over my lips, my mouth dry as I heave long unsteady breaths in and out, waiting for his answer.
“Do I feel like a demon?” His hands move to mine, gentle pressure pulling me up and onto my feet, then he presses my palms to his cheeks.
“No.” I shake my head, a swirling heat nearly making me lose my balance.
His face is warm, the scruff of his cheeks rough on my fingers as his eyes do that flaming thing again, for a moment making me doubt my answer.
I lower my hands to his chest, the sudden need to feel a heart beating under his hard flesh almost desperate. There’s a distinctive thud, thud, thud beneath the smooth fabric of his suit and I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on my cheek, then my lips.
He’s right there. So close.
This vision in the night, captivating me in a dream from which I do not want to wake. I ache for something I’ve never wanted before, but right now I can’t imagine never feeling this way again.
He steps forward as I retreat, keeping the space between us static as we dance backwards, stepping, stepping until I feel the hard wooden wall against my back and there’s no more room to run.
His arms lock, hands flat on either side of my shoulders, becoming a human—or inhuman—cage around me as I push the heels of my hands against his impossibly-hard torso, digging my fingers into the granite flesh beneath his suit.
He buries his nose into my neck, running it up and down, inhaling and exhaling like some rabid dog trying to find the exact right place to sink his teeth for the kill.
Take me. Kill me. I’m yours.
I’m tingling and trembling, more turned on than I’ve ever been and still in the back of my mind, I have to realize this must be a dream. Nothing real like this would happen.
To me.
And feel this good.
It’s a dream, right? So lean into it, I tell myself, and I do just that.
I press my barely-dressed body against him, slipping my hands up his chest then behind his neck as his arms slide down my back, slipping over my ass, pulling my center closer and embedding the hard length of what must be the devil’s own hard-on into my core. It’s flaming hot and monstrously large, pressing against my belly where my crop top pulls high, exposing my bare flesh.