long-fingered gentleman’s palm caressing her nape.
To have a man’s bare hand touch her flesh? It was exotic. Forbidden. Fire sizzled down her spine.
Miranda arched her back and daringly pressed her derriere against the man standing behind her.
Proper ladies did not do such things.
But the whole point was she could not be a proper lady anymore.
Tall. She knew he was tall. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense his head above hers. His long hair hung loose, and silky strands teased her skin above her bodice. She couldn’t hear him breathe, and when he didn’t speak, there was no sound at all.
She was staring into a cheval mirror, seeing nothing but her own reflection and the darkness surrounding her. She could never see him at first. Slowly, her dream world would reveal him to her.
His finger lazily drew circles on the back of her neck. “Do you want me deep in you, angel?” His voice held a wry, teasing note. “I can’t enter you—unless you tell me ‘yes.’”
Something hard—and thick—poked against her rump.
She knew what it was. Each night her dreams had become more daring. Last night, her last night spent in her own bed before leaving her home, she’d lost her virginity in her dream.
Not in reality, though. And in her dream world she had never seen the face of the man to whom she’d surrendered.
Was he Lord Blackthorne? Did she never see the man in her dreams because she had never seen Blackthorne?
Yet the scandalous, shocking, carnal things he did to her in her dreams felt so real.
Suddenly, her clothes fell away. The weight of gown and skirts simply dropped to the floor, though no hand had unfastened them. Her corset unlaced by itself, compelled by the magic in her dream.
“Y-yes.” She spoke on a tremble, her voice filled with passion, nerves, and frustration. “I want you inside.”
His hand skimmed along the round curve of her rump to cup the underside of her thigh. He coaxed her to raise her leg and perch her foot on a silk-cushioned stool. It opened her nether regions to his hands, and his fingers invaded.
She was so wet, drenched with juices.
“This is how I like you, angel. Slick and wet and open for me.”
He never used her name. But she was certain she knew his—that her fantasy was indeed Lawrence Adrian Phillip South-wick, the Earl of Blackthorne.
Miranda tensed, then moaned with delight as he opened her wider. All she could think of was his fingers: two inside her, spreading her open; then three—impossibly, he slid three fingers deep into her core, and flicked his thumb back and forth over the most sensitive spot at the junction of her nether lips.
“You belong to me, love.”
She did. From the moment she had opened his first letter, she had.
“You belong to me,” she said in return; though in her dreams, she took action more than she spoke. She did things like saucily turn to try to see him while she licked her lips. “And I want you deep.”
She couldn’t see him. Darkness slanted over his face. All she could see was his wide chest—all ridged muscle and hard nipples and rippling skin. Then he gripped her hair, yanked it free from her pins, wound the length of it around his wrist. Holding her like his captive, he surged into her.
It felt so good. Good enough to melt her like chocolate in the sun.
How she did scream. And, oh, but he did go deep. Right to her womb, and delicious agony spiraled through her. How could it feel so good when it made her sob and whimper and howl?
But the very exquisite agony of it was so…addictive.
He’d vowed to make her scream, and he did. With his hard thrusts, with the ruthless lunge of his groin against hers, with his low, ragged growls and the harsh rush of his breath against her ear. Her bottom slapped against him, her cheeks shimmering with each bounce. Her breasts danced in front of her—until he clasped them and tugged on her nipples, twisting them until she begged him to stop…
Then begged for more.
“Come.” He said it as a command. She was at the precipice, wound up like a spring, like a keg of gunpowder awaiting the sizzle of the fuse. And on that word, she burst.
Sheer pleasure took command, and all she could do was surrender her body to the intense, wonderful wash of it. She cried out, cried out to heaven above, let her head fall forward and back, until she was dizzy with the ecstasy.
He held her through her wild dance, chuckling gently by her ear. Then the pulses of her wet quim began to ease and she could finally drag in a desperate breath. Sweat drenched her.
Something cold touched her skin.
Cool and sharp, something that felt like a knife’s blade ran along the side of her neck, from her jaw to the lobe of her ear.
Miranda froze in horror. It was not a knife. The flash of white in the mirror stole her breath.
Fangs lapped over Blackthorne’s lips. She could not see his mouth—it was too dark, but moonlight glimmered on his two long, curved teeth, like those on a wolf. It wasn’t possible.
But on some nights she had dreamed of demons chasing her; she’d imagined pounding feet and animal-like growls, and powerful hands reaching for her.
Oh God, she was sliding into one of those dreams. She shook helplessly. She didn’t want to dream of demons now. She wanted this luxurious erotic dream. For one night, she wanted to be free of fear.
She blinked and his fangs were gone.
“Not tonight, my love,” he murmured. “It is not the night to make you mine. Not yet.”
Make you mine. But what did he mean about biting? The shadows seemed to be swallowing the air around her. She wanted to wake up. It wasn’t real—it was just a dream. But she could smell her sweat and his. The tangy aroma of his seed rose from between her thighs. She felt damp, sticky, and sore. All those sensations seemed more real than a pinch to her arm.
How could it feel so real when she was asleep?
The window flew wide on a clatter of glass panes and creaking wooden frame. “Goodness!” She almost jumped out of her skin. Darkness rushed inside as though the night air was pouring into the room.
No, not darkness. In her dream, everything she saw seemed distorted and confused. She didn’t even know what room she was in. She now saw the walls surrounding her were stone. Embroidered tapestries hung upon them. Could she be dreaming of Blackthorne’s castle?
A man now stood in front of the window, inside the room. Another naked man with golden hair that fell past his shoulders. He was erect, ready to take her.
Her dream lover held her shoulders and turned her to face the man who had—who had just flown in through the window.
His golden hair flew around him, shielding his face. His voice seemed to thrum in her blood. “Until you learn about the power of three, you are in mortal danger, Miss Bond.”
She was afraid now. Wake up. Wake up! Miranda shouted it in her head, but she was trapped in the shadowed room, imprisoned by the hands on her shoulders.
“What is the power of three?” she demanded. She yelled it, hoping it would snap her free of her dream. Dreamers never died, did they? They fell but never reached the ground. They might be struck, or shot, or be drowning, but they woke before the end.
Didn’t they?
A sharp, sudden pain ripped into her neck. Screams filled the room and flew out into the night. The screams belonged to her. She could see her body and realized she was floating in the top of the room, just below the ceiling. Her arms and legs were stretched wide, her hair streamed back like a