For the past few weeks, Celeste has dreamt of hands.
Rough ones, warm and big, skating over her thighs, gripping the inside of her knee, dragging up with obscene slowness. In her dreams, a mouth follows, open and hungry, sucking a trail up her stomach. Her head falls back. A male voice, deep and husky growls her name like it’s already been buried between her legs.
She comes in her sleep every single time and then she wakes up gasping. Today is no different.
The sheets are twisted between her thighs, damp and from sweat and her release. The sun is filtering through the curtains she forgot to close. And her chest… her chest is tight, like she ran five miles through heat and shame and something even more confusing.
Marcus.
She had said his name last night. She knew she did.
Last night
