Just a Number(2)
Even though I can’t hear them, ocean waves crash onto the shore of a tropical beach while my mystery man and I lie in a four-poster bed, the sheer white fabrics hanging from the bedposts blowing in the breeze. It’s all very unrealistic, but I refuse to wake myself up.
There aren’t any other people around as he grips my hip and pulls me to him. His hand is like warm honey as it trails down my thigh, his fingers hooking behind my knee and pulling it up over his hip. I can feel the hard bulge of his erection press between my thighs, and I whimper, cupping his jaw in my hands and drawing his face to mine for a searing kiss.
His tongue breaches my lips and meets mine halfway; he’s an amazing kisser—which only makes sense since my brain made him up, and why would it betray me with someone who absolutely sucked? It would be cruel and quite possibly terms for electro-shock therapy to see if I could fix the glitch.
Mystery guy—who’s actually beginning to show a few features, like the blond-and-coppery color of his hair, the shape of his nose, the angular cut of his jaw, and the laugh lines around his eyes—lets his hand move up from my thigh until he’s palming my breast over the bra I still wear, and my nipples strain against the fabric. I moan into his mouth when he hooks his fingers into the top of the cup and pushes it under my breast before rolling the taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I thrust my hips toward him, feeling his dick tease my sensitive and wanting flesh. Goosebumps arise all over my body when he abandons my chest and moves his hand quickly down my body and between my thighs. His fingers easily glide back and forth through the wetness that has accumulated there, and I shift my hips in time with his movements. The minute he sinks his fingers into me, I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and weave my fingers into his soft hair. The sensation of him pumping his fingers in and out of me brings me closer and closer to the best orgasm I think I’ve ever had.
This. Dream. Fucking. ROCKS!
“Yes,” dream-me moans, breaking our kiss and throwing my head back to catch a breath. “Oh, god, yes...”
His hand begins to move a bit faster, thrusting a little harder and pressing his thumb against my clit to push me over the edge. Then he speaks for the first time. “That’s it, baby,” he says hoarsely, his hot breath tickling the skin below my ear as he peppers it with open-mouthed kisses. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”
Mixed emotions run through me immediately; while I don’t want this dream to end until I’ve come, I also realize that something is amiss. Something feels—
Holy shit! I know that voice!
While he has been the object of many fantasies over the last five years, something in my brain tells me to push him away, and when I do, I fall off the edge of the bed. Instead of meeting the warm sand on the beach, however, I meet the cool wood of my bedroom floor. My eyes snap open when I bang my elbow on the edge of my bedside table, and I look up toward my bed to find that it’s not empty.
In it, sits Owen Cavanaugh…my dad’s best friend.
2. Misunderstandings
I sit in the bed, heart pounding, eyes wide as I stare down at Amy on the floor. Amelia Michaels. The twenty-one-year-old daughter of the man sleeping right across the hall. The man who’s been my closest friend for the better part of three decades.
My sleep-addled brain tries to sort this entire situation out. How did this even happen? From what Alan said, she wasn’t supposed to arrive until later in the afternoon. It’s why he told me to take her bed.
My eyes drifted from her face to her heaving chest, her right breast fully exposed with her bra tucked beneath it. I grow harder just looking at it.
I’m a despicable human being.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands shrilly, immediately clamping her hand over her mouth; she knows that the last thing we need is her father barging in here to find me in her bed and her half-naked on the floor.
She must come to the same conclusion as me, because all the color drains from her face—well, what little color there was after a night of drinking—and she looks down to find her chest half-exposed. Pink fills her cheeks as she corrects the issue, reaching for the comforter that is keeping my…issue from being exposed.
“Y-you don’t want to do that,” I stammer, holding it firmly against my lower half.
Understanding, she relinquishes her hold on the blanket, snapping her arm back like she’s just been burned, and grabs the pillow beside me instead. She stands quickly, hugging it to her body lengthwise as a shield. “What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice tight and a little bit squeaky now.
“I’m sorry,” I supply.