Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ridge
Low sounds roll through the dark.
Moaning.
It starts buried, almost swallowed, then catches on little hitches of breath. Each exhale drags a little longer than the last, like whoever it belongs to is being slowly and luxuriously pulled apart and doesn’t mind at all.
Someone’s having a hell of a time. Good for them.
The sound comes again, fraying into a soft broken whimper. My pulse answers before my brain does.
I should probably… check. Yeah. Responsible. Aware of my surroundings, et cetera .
I open my eyes, and at first, it’s only shapes. Skin curved over muscle, light sliding across it. A spine that dips and rises again. Two dimples at the base of the back, just above the swell of an ass, thighs parted.
A very male ass.
Rounded, dusted with light hair that trails down the cleft and disappears into shadow. Muscled enough to flex visibly when he breathes.
Huh, that’s weird.
Last time I checked, I was straight.
So why am I face-to-ass with a naked man?
I look down at my hands.
Left one has eight fingers. Right one has six.
Right…
… definitely dreaming.
And apparently, my subconscious has decided that tonight’s entertainment involves a stranger’s bare ass, which raises some questions.
I stare at it, and it stares back in the way that asses do, which is to say without acknowledgment or apology.
I kneel there for a full moment with the detached bewilderment of a man who has been lucid dreaming for years and has seen genuinely everything this landscape has to offer, and is still, apparently, capable of being surprised by it.
“Why…” I ask my subconscious, “… is there a naked male ass in my dream?”
But it does not answer. It never does. It just presents the situation and expects me to deal with it, which is exactly the kind of passive-aggressive behavior that has defined our entire relationship.
I get to my feet and take a step to the side.
Oh.
Oh.
The ass belongs to the Shaw boy, which is fine, whatever, he’s got a perfectly acceptable ass. I’m not going to make it weird.
The moaning, though.
That’s Lennon.
Lennon, currently sprawled naked across the kitchen island like she’s the main course and dessert all in one.
Of course, I’m in her fucking dream again.
Her head is tipped so far back that the long line of her throat is exposed, pulse jumping under pale skin that’s already flushed from collarbones to the tops of her breasts.
Those breasts, Jesus, they’re heavy, full, spilling to the sides with every slow roll of her hips to meet Shaw’s thrusts.
The only thing she’s wearing is a crystal pendant that has slipped between her tits.
Her belly is soft, a plush curve that looks made for my hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the overhead fixture.
Stretch marks feather along her hips like silver lightning, disappearing into the dip where thigh meets torso.
Her thighs are thick and parted wide enough that I can see the dark, wet gleam between them, her body taking Shaw with slow, greedy pulls.
Every time he sinks in, she makes this sound, and her fingers scrabble at the edge of the counter, nails scraping marble. Her lips are parted, swollen, and shiny. One curl of blonde hair sticks to her cheek.
I should look away.
I don’t.
My cock is already half hard, traitorously interested, pressing against the dream-fabric of whatever pants I’m supposedly wearing.
I tell it to stand down.
It doesn’t listen.
Apparently, I have two options.
Option one, which is the better option, is to leave. Wake up. Pretend this never happened.
I try, shoving at the dream’s edges like I’m testing a locked door.
Nothing. Not even a polite flicker.
Fantastic.
Option two, which is the only option available, it seems, is to stand here in the corner like a creep, pretending I’m above it all while I wait for her to wake up.
I can do detached. I’m excellent at detached.
Her next moan comes out on a broken little laugh, and Shaw growls something low I don’t catch. She arches, back bowing, tits lifting, that soft belly tightening for a second before it relaxes again into plush invitation.
My mouth is dry. My hands flex at my sides. I can feel the phantom weight of her thighs in my palms, the give of her hips under my grip, even though I have never touched her like that. Never will. Because she’s my tether and a pain in my ass, and because… reasons.
Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. If she opened them right now and saw me standing here, staring, she’d probably freak out.
Yet, I still watch.
Because apparently her subconscious has decided that tonight I have to watch Lennon get fucked within an inch of her life, and I’m not allowed to look away until I admit the thing I’m not ready to name.
So I stay. Arms crossed as if that’s going to help and pretending I’m not already cataloging exactly how much louder those wrecked little sounds would get if it were my hips snapping into hers instead of Shaw’s.
I conjure a lollipop—sour lemon, because if I can’t control the erection currently trying to stage a jailbreak, I can at least control the flavor of my coping mechanism—and jam it between my teeth.
The problem is the smell.
It’s her. Warm skin, faint lemon-sugar whatever she uses on her hair, and now layered thick with the raw, unmistakable musk of being fucked open and liking it.
The scent clings to the back of my throat, coats my tongue, even around the candy.
My body doesn’t give a shit about my opinions on the matter, dick throbbing in time with her breaths.
Balls tight, every inhale pulling more of her into me like I’m drowning in it.
I am staring very hard at the crystal and thinking about nothing.
She sounds delicious.
Absolutely nothing.
I shift my weight and switch the lollipop to the other cheek, staring at the crystal even harder, watching it bounce between her tits—up, down, up—like it’s mocking me with physics.
Okay. New plan. I’m going to wake her up. End this before I do something irreversibly stupi—
“Ridge.” My name in her mouth, in that voice, stops every thought I’ve ever had.
My eyes find hers, and they’re open, locked on me. Hazy, pupils blown wide, dark enough that the kitchen light barely reflects in them. There’s no surprise or confusion, only raw, glassy want.
Is she lucid?
I watch her as if she were a bomb. Her gaze stays on mine, soft and unfocused at the edges.
She’s not scanning the room or questioning why I’m here.
She’s just… reaching. One hand sliding across the marble toward me, fingers trembling, while Shaw keeps that steady, deep rhythm, and she keeps making those greedy, throat-caught sounds.
Fuck.
“I see you’re having fun,” I say, because sarcasm is the only muscle still working. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
She moans again and stretches farther.
I take one involuntary step closer. “Are you…” I yank the lollipop out, voice rougher than I want it to be. “Are you lucid, Lennon?”
No answer. Just those eyes drinking me in, while her thighs part wider around Shaw.
The wet sound of him moving in her is obscene.
My hand drops, the heel of my palm grinding hard against the aching length of my cock through my jeans because the alternative is coming in my pants like a teenager.
She’s not lucid. She’s dreaming me here, pulling me into her fantasy as if I’m a prop, which should piss me off and make it easier to walk away from.
“Ridge… please…”
Jesus Christ.
“Hey.” I move beside her, close enough to see the sweat beading along her collarbone and lock my eyes on her face. “Lennon, I need you to question this, okay? I can’t leave. Your dream’s got me pinned. I swear, I’m not here on purpose, and I’m really fucking trying not to make this worse, but—”
Her hand closes around my wrist and drags the lollipop to her mouth.
Her lips wrap around it, her tongue curling slowly against the sour edge, sucking with the same lazy greed she’s giving Shaw. A tiny hum of pleasure vibrates through the candy and straight into my bones.
I stare down at her.
She stares up, her eyes soft and heavy-lidded as she pulls off with a soft pop, lips shiny, and whispers, “I need you too.”
I’m going to die here.
“Lennon.” My voice comes out low. “Question it. Look at your hands. Don’t you want to ask yourself why you’re getting fucked on a kitchen counter and sucking on my…
shit.” I pull the lollipop back with a willpower I didn’t know I had.
“Is this a memory dream? Did he actually…” I glance at Nevan with what I hope reads as clinical detachment. “Did you guys fuck in waking life?”
She just rolls her hips, chasing the thrust, eyes never leaving mine.
I have to give the boy credit. His stamina is actually impressive.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Ridge,” she breathes. “Please. Need you.”
She wants me.
Even not lucid, even dreaming with another man inside her, she’s reaching for me. That lands somewhere I’d prefer it didn’t.
And fuck, who am I kidding?
I want her too.
But not like this. Not while she’s glassy-eyed, pliant, and doesn’t even know the difference between dream and reality.
I need her lucid.
I need her choosing.
I need to know if she’d still look at me this way when she’s wide awake and could actually tell me to fuck off.
Because if she does, fuck. If she does, I’m done pretending.
“You want something from me?” I lean down, close enough to hold her attention, and let the lollipop rest against her lips. “Question it. Look at your hands. Count your fingers. Come find me.”
Her tongue darts out, chasing the sour edge.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, trying to steady the thunder under my skin.
“Not there yet? Then suck,” I command, and drag the lollipop slowly across her lower lip. Back and forth. Once. Twice.
She takes it in. Lips closing around it, tongue curling, that same soft, greedy hum vibrating through the stick and straight into my spine.