“I’m not going to do it.” But she hadn’t exactly said never. And right now, her skin felt as if a thousand ants scrabbled all over it. Her sex throbbed. Her nipples peaked and ached. The Witt dream had set her on edge, made her feel as if she had to jump out of her own flesh and do ... something.
“Not that, Max, please not with one of those men at the Round Up. It’s killing you.”
“I won’t tell you to shut up again, Cameron.” She padded out of the bathroom to the pile of clothes she’d left on the chair.
“You don’t need some nameless, faceless cowboy. You wanna get fucked, I’ll fuck you.”
He tackled her as she crossed the braided rug. She smashed to the floor, his weight crushing her.
Okay, so probably she had tripped on the edge of the rug. He was a ghost, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t tackle. But if she closed her eyes and stayed very still, she was sure she could feel him. It had been this way for the two years since she’d lost him. She would close her eyes and suddenly he was real, his voice, his touch, the heaviness of his body—the orgasms he gave her.
Right now, Max wouldn’t have opened her eyes for anything. Because she needed this, needed him.
“Fuck me, Cameron, please.” She almost sobbed.
From behind, he slipped a hand between her legs and massaged the aching bud of her clitoris. She writhed, her hips rotating against the hard ridge of his cock nestled between her butt cheeks.
“Does that feel good, baby?”
“So good.” She wanted to come, wanted it so badly. She’d have begged if she had to. But Cameron worked his fingers against her. He reached beneath and pinched both her hard, aching nipples. She turned her head to the side, and he kissed her, his tongue slipping between her lips. He was all over her. Somehow, because it was a dream, a fantasy, he could touch every part of her all at once. She orgasmed and screamed into his mouth.
“We’re not done yet, baby. Get on your hands and knees and spread your legs.”
She wanted him inside her more than she’d ever wanted anything, except for him to be alive again. She wanted him in the flesh, doing her for real, and filling her every night, every morning, the way he’d always done. God. She ached with everything they’d lost.
“Don’t think about that. Think about this.” And he plunged inside her.
She almost came again, just with the joy of being filled. With his hands on her hips, he pushed her slightly forward, perfecting the angle of penetration. He kissed her back as he pumped, blew warm air against the rim of her ear. She squirmed and pushed back at him, taking everything. Somehow, he was larger than in life, bigger in her dreams, reaching to her womb, to her throat, to her heart.
He put two fingers to her clitoris and shot her straight to heaven, but he was far from done with her. And she wasn’t done with him. Need burned in her belly. She planted her hands firmly on the floor, bracing herself for each plunge. Her own gasps and grunts filled her ears, strange animal noises laced with a feral urgency.
Three orgasms had wracked her body before he thrust a final time and filled her with hot semen, a flood that warmed every inch. Then he collapsed, driving her once more to the rug.
She relished the hot sweaty scent of sex, his breath against her nape, and his weight pinning her to the floor. She’d never give it up. She’d never give him up. She’d go to an asylum before she’d ever do that.
Cool night air blew in through the open window, chilling the sweat on her skin.
“Open your eyes, Max.”
“No.” If she did, he’d disappear. She wouldn’t be able to feel him on top of her. The almost real sensations would vanish into the night. And she wasn’t ready for that yet.
“You’ll have to be ready someday.”
Now the chill filled her very bones. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His weight feathered off her despite the fact that she hadn’t opened her eyes. And the perfect sense of being filled vanished, too, leaving only a vast emptiness in its place. She rolled over and opened her eyes.
He sat on the bed, visible only as a strange glow and bright points of light that she’d always assumed were his eyes. He watched her.
“That’s what you need, Max, one man, in you, filling you up again. And again. Not those men at the Round Up.”
Jesus, he sure knew how to kill a good orgasmic buzz. “Leave it alone.” She couldn’t deal with another one of those conversations. Not now. Not after what he’d just done to her.
“If you’re searching for fulfillment, you’re never going to find it with one of them.”
She wasn’t searching for that with anyone else. She’d had it with Cameron. And there would never be anyone else. She’d only gone to the Round Up for flesh and blood arms to hold her when the need overwhelmed.
“Sex is easy, Max. Intimacy is harder.”
She sat up, brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “I’m intimate with you.” And it was the only kind of intimacy she wanted.
“I’m dead.”
“Not to me.”
“That’s the real problem. The only man you can be intimate with is a dead one.”
She covered her ears. She hated that word, hated the way he always said it even when he knew how much it hurt. “Shut up.”