“I thought it was best to be, so convinced myself I wanted to be.” She touched her lips to his. “I want so much more now. That’s a little scary, too.” She brushed her lips where her fingers had glided. “I dreamed of us like this so many times. I want to try to show you.”
And as she’d dreamed it, she touched her lips to his, a bare whisper. Once, twice, before easing his shirt up his torso and away. Her body to pleasure now, all the long lines of it. Her mouth to tempt with another whispering brush.
Her lips glided over his jaw, down that strong column of throat. A pulse beat there, and she knew the thrill of making it quicken.
Knew the power and pleasure of moving down, learning his secrets as he had learned hers.
He fisted a hand at the back of her shirt, fought the brutal urge to just rip it away and take. He would let her set the pace, the tone, and her slow, yes, dreamy, explorations taught him the gilded torture of pleasure.
In moonlight and shadows, with sighs and whispers, she undressed him. And she glided them along layers, shimmering, building layers of sensation. The air seemed to thicken with it, movements languid, pulses thrumming.
Her body slid up his again, inch by quivering inch, until her mouth took his. No whispering brush this time, but a strong, deep mating, one that poured emotion into him until he ached with it.
She rose up, struck by moonlight, tossing her hair back as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt up. When he reached for her, she shook her head, and moved to undress as she’d undressed him.
Slowly, torturously.
“My dream,” she reminded him.
She clung to that, moved now as she’d moved then to straddle him. And with her eyes on his, slowly, slowly, took him in.
He heard her breath catch as her hands pressed to her breasts. “I need— I need to—”
She began to rock; she began to ride.
You undo me, he’d said, but he hadn’t known how completely she could rule him. He was bewitched, bespelled, enthralled as she took him with undulating hips. Blue-tipped fingers of moonlight washing her skin, her hair a pale curtain of sunlight in shadows. And her body fluid as water, then taut as a bow as she took herself over.
When she peaked, he rose up to her, wrapped her to him. Heart to heart he took her up again, and let himself fly with her.
He held her, stroking her hair, her back, trying to level himself again. No woman had ever taken him over so completely, had ever tangled body, heart, mind so thoroughly.
He wasn’t altogether sure how he felt about it.
Then she sighed his name, just his name, and he decided he’d think later.
“About these dreams of yours.”
She laughed, sighed again. “There were about three months’ worth.”
“That ought to keep us busy.” He eased back to look at her. “But now you’re sleepy. I can see it.”
“Relaxed.”
“We’ll both stay that way. Tomorrow’s bound to be as demanding as today.”
“Is Riley back, do you think? Maybe I should check.”
“She’ll be back by morning.”
He eased her down, curled her in. And when she drifted off, slipped out to work.
An hour or two, he thought, and he might have something he could use if her vision that morning came calling.
* * *
He spent longer than he’d planned, and calculated he’d squeeze in three hours’ sleep beside her before dawn broke. The power he’d pulled on still tingled along his skin. Perhaps that was why she murmured in her sleep, trembled a little.
Once again he curled her against him, soothing them both until he could drop into sleep with her.
He woke in the dark.
She stood in the moonlight, her body tense and turned toward the doors.
“What is it?”
“They’re coming. Get up, get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
He flicked a hand to bring in more light. Dream-walking, he noted when he saw her eyes. “What’s coming?”
“Her dogs. Ours know it. Can’t you hear them howling? Hurry.” She grabbed her clothes, began to yank them on as he got out of bed. “Where’s my bow?” she demanded.
“Your bow?”
“There it is.” She picked up . . . nothing. Made motions as if slinging a strap over her back. “Hurry, Bran, we have to wake the others.”
“I will.” He tugged on pants. “Stay here. Sasha, wait for me.”
“Hurry.”
“Stay here.” He went out, banged a fist on Sawyer’s door. “Get up!” he called out. “Get the others. Something’s coming.”
He didn’t wait, but turned toward his own room before Sawyer pushed open the door.
“What?”
“I don’t know what.” Bran kept moving. “But get the others, and get armed.”
He took time to grab a shirt, a knife, and several of the vials of the potion he’d just made. He’d planned for them to cure several more hours, but they’d have to do.
When he pushed back into Sasha’s room, she’d pulled on boots, a jacket. Dream-struck still, he thought, but she looked . . . tougher, bolder.
He debated a moment, but when he heard Apollo howl, a long, deep warning, he knew he couldn’t leave her dreaming.
He moved to her, set his hands on her shoulders. “Wake,” he ordered. “Wake now.”