Page 28 of From the Embers
Or, as I would later learn, the first spark in a wildfire.
BREE
“Oh, God,” I breathed, pitch-black darkness cloaking my vision as I spread my legs wider, his callused fingers sliding over my opening. The ache inside me built as he circled and teased everywhere but where I needed him. “Please,” I begged into his mouth, his lips hovering over mine, his panted exhales filling my lungs.
“Not yet,” he rumbled, an order and a promise.
Hooking my ankles around his back, I dragged him down, his thick shaft pressing into my thigh, once again missing the mark. “I need you.”
“I know.” He continued his tender assault with agonizing strokes that did nothing to release me from his breathless torment.
Primal need roared in my ears as I writhed beneath him. Wordlessly, I continued to beg with my body as the game we’d been playing for what felt like an eternity became too much for me to take. “I can’t do this. I can’t—”
He silenced me with a nip at my bottom lip, the pain traveling all the way down to my clit in a wave of ecstasy that was almost enough.
“Yessss,” I hissed, the pressure inside me soaring. So damn close. One touch and I could have stepped off the edge of climax. One damn touch anywhere on my fevered body and I’d have fallen apart in his arms.
Then everything suddenly stopped.
“Be patient,” he ordered. “You’re not ready yet.”
“I am,” I pleaded, my voice breaking with desperation. “I am. I swear.”
“Just a little longer,” he growled, my body withering without him.
“I’m done waiting,” I snapped, frustration overtaking my desires. “Quit playing with me and make me fucking come already. This is cruel.”
“Is it?” he asked, his deep voice dripping with challenge.
“Yes!” I yelled, that one syllable scorching my throat as it tore free from my soul.
“Then come get it.”
A bright light illuminated the room, my vision returning all at once as Eason appeared in front of me. Dear God, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. And not because muscles lined his torso, a six-pack rippling his stomach. Nor because of his chiseled jaw or his full lips. It wasn’t the tantalizing tattoos or messy, blond hair that all but begged for my fingers. It was just him, Eason, and the easy grin pulling at his lips that always managed to warm my chest.
But there was something different written on his face, something desperate and urgent as he stared back at me.
A lump formed in my throat. “Eason,” I breathed, reaching out for him, but without moving, he was transported out of my reach.
Panic exploded in my chest, and I lurched from the bed. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” He slanted his head and smiled, but in the next blink, he was even farther away.
I scrambled after him, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate. Instinctively, I knew that if I could just catch him in my arms, everything would be okay.
Another blink and this time he was barely visible in the distance.
“Eason!” I shouted.
“I’m right here,” he replied.
But he wasn’t, and the pain was paralyzing. “No, no, no. Come back.”
Out of nowhere, I landed flat on my back, his heavy weight on top of me, pinning me down. His hands were in my hair. His mouth on my neck. The most chaotic bliss overtaking me as he drove inside me, hard and fast.
“Oh, God!” I cried, my climax once again roaring inside me. If and when I fell over that edge, there would be no turning back.
Then suddenly our roles reversed.
“Wait, wait, wait. It’s too soon,” I begged, all the while rolling my hips and meeting his every thrust.
“Let go,” he growled, his rhythm speeding until it was as blissful as it was punishing. “You’re ready.” Lifting his head, his smoldering, brown eyes locked on mine. “Hurry up, Bree.” He smiled, arrogant and taunting. “Before I’m gone.”
Like a rubber band, my body snapped, an orgasm tearing through me, jolting me awake. “Eason!” I gasped, my fingers circling my clit as a shattering orgasm rocked through me. My rational mind broke through the sleep, and the pleasure gradually ebbed into guilt.
“What the fuck,” I breathed, my body sagging into the bed.
“Hurry up, Bree. Before I’m gone.”
No, seriously, what the actual fuck was wrong with my subconscious. Eason?
Not Shamar Moore or Michael Fassbender or even Henry Alexander?
Of all the men my brain could conjure for a sex dream, it picked Eason?
At just the thought, a vision of him staring down at me as he worked me hard and fast, his cock stretching me in all the right ways, made heat bloom between my thighs again.
Okay, shit. That was not how I was supposed to feel about my husband’s best friend. My dead husband’s best friend. My husband who had only been dead for a freaking year. My best friend’s husband. My dead best friend’s husband.
