The night air clings to my skin like a second layer, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. My room is bathed in the silver glow of moonlight, the beams slicing through the half-drawn curtains and painting stripes across my tangled sheets. I'd fallen asleep in nothing but a silk gown and a pair of lace panties, the fabric clinging to my sweat-dampened skin. The dream had been so vivid, so real; that my body still hums with the ghost of pleasure, my n*****s tight beneath the fabric, my thighs slick with arousal I refuse to acknowledge.
Then, the touch.
A finger, calloused and warm, traces the curve of my waist, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every inch of me. It slides upward, brushing the underside of my breast before circling my n****e, teasing it into a stiff peak. A breath
