Page 151 of In Somnis

The moaning, though.

That’s Lennon.

Lennon, currently sprawled naked across the kitchen island like she’s the main course and dessert all in one.

Of course, I’m in her fucking dream again.

Her head is tipped so far back that the long line of her throat is exposed, pulse jumping under pale skin that’s already flushed from collarbones to the tops of her breasts. Those breasts, Jesus, they’re heavy, full, spilling to the sides with every slow roll of her hips to meet Shaw’s thrusts. The only thing she’s wearing is a crystal pendant that has slipped between her tits.

Her belly is soft, a plush curve that looks made for my hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the overhead fixture. Stretch marks feather along her hips like silver lightning, disappearing into the dip where thigh meets torso. Her thighs are thick and parted wide enough that I can see the dark, wet gleam between them, her body taking Shaw with slow, greedy pulls.

Every time he sinks in, she makes this sound, and her fingers scrabble at the edge of the counter, nails scraping marble. Her lips are parted, swollen, and shiny. One curl of blonde hair sticks to her cheek.

I should look away.

I don’t.

My cock is already half hard, traitorously interested, pressing against the dream-fabric of whatever pants I’m supposedly wearing.

I tell it to stand down.

It doesn’t listen.

Apparently, I have two options.

Option one, which is the better option, is to leave. Wake up. Pretend this never happened.

I try, shoving at the dream’s edges like I’m testing a locked door.

Nothing. Not even a polite flicker.

Fantastic.

Option two, which is the only option available, it seems, is to stand here in the corner like a creep, pretending I’m above it all while I wait for her to wake up.

I can do detached. I’m excellent at detached.

Her next moan comes out on a broken little laugh, and Shaw growls something low I don’t catch. She arches, back bowing, tits lifting, that soft belly tightening for a second before it relaxes again into plush invitation.

My mouth is dry. My hands flex at my sides. I can feel the phantom weight of her thighs in my palms, the give of her hips under my grip, even though I have never touched her like that. Never will. Because she’s my tether and a pain in my ass, and because… reasons.

Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. If she opened them right now and saw me standing here, staring, she’d probably freak out.

Yet, I still watch.

Because apparently her subconscious has decided that tonight I have to watch Lennon get fucked within an inch of her life, and I’m not allowed to look away until I admit the thing I’m not ready to name.

So I stay. Arms crossed as if that’s going to help and pretending I’m not already cataloging exactly how much louder those wrecked little sounds would get if it were my hips snapping into hers instead of Shaw’s.

I conjure a lollipop—sour lemon, because if I can’t control the erection currently trying to stage a jailbreak, I can at least control the flavor of my coping mechanism—and jam it between my teeth.

The problem is the smell.

It’s her. Warm skin, faint lemon-sugar whatever she uses on her hair, and now layered thick with the raw, unmistakable musk of being fucked open and liking it. The scent clings to the back of my throat, coats my tongue, even around the candy. My body doesn’t give a shit about my opinions on the matter, dick throbbing in time with her breaths. Balls tight, every inhale pulling more of her into me like I’m drowning in it.

I am staring very hard at the crystal and thinking about nothing.

She sounds delicious.