Chapter Twenty-Three
When it does finally happen, it happens quickly.
I smell him first: I’m at the kitchen counter in my robe, finishing my coffee and noodling around on my phone, when I catch a whiff of cologne, masculine and sandalwood-y.
Then I feel him: his hands gently stroking my arms, his chin nestling into the crook where my neck meets my shoulder, his chest firm against my back.
It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him, the fragrance, the heat still on his body, skin smooth from his shower.
“Good morning, darling,” Lachlan murmurs into my ear, and a brief flash of surprise is quickly overtaken by the most intense arousal I can recall, a powerful force that almost knocks the breath out of me.
My body springs to attention under his touch, and I raise a tentative hand to cup his face. It’s warm under my fingers, the curve of his jaw somehow familiar, though I can’t remember ever having the pleasure of this caress before. “Good morning to you.”
He smiles and kisses my palm and it’s like we’ve been doing this forever, like there’s nothing more natural than him rotating the bar stool around and kissing me full on the lips.
And oh, God, what a kiss. It’s everything I hoped it would be: soft and scratchy, confident and curious.
Our mouths slip together and I take him in, lacing my fingers through his still-damp hair, tasting my coffee on his lips, his tongue as he presses deeper.
But as perfect as it is, something’s not quite right, something’s off.
My mind is whirring, casting about, trying to figure it out, but then everything goes fuzzy as he lifts me onto the countertop.
He unties the sash at my waist and my robe falls open, and he takes a beat to just take me in, his eyes dark.
“God, Abby,” is all he can say before he spreads my legs apart.
The look on his face as he nears me is almost enough to finish me off right there.
It’s filthy, lascivious, impossibly carnal, but still with that ever-present air of mischief that is his hallmark.
He wraps long fingers around my knees and smirks, a hungry, teasing smile as he trails slow kisses up my inner thigh, raking his teeth along my skin, then presses his mouth against me.
The first pulse of his tongue rocks through me and I cry out.
He moans at my reaction, at the way my body responds to him, yielding entirely to his touch.
His hands grab my hips, pulling me closer, and his tongue darts in again.
I slip my fingers back into his hair, my breath coming in helpless little gasps as I melt for him.
All confusion that existed in my mind has been drowned out, replaced by a white-hot, blinding light as I focus on the sensation spreading out from my center.
But then, something breaks through.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Is it a car alarm from the street eighteen floors below?
Did we leave the refrigerator door open?
I push past the noise and concentrate on the contact of his lips, the firm grasp of his hands, the soft, guttural moans he makes.
The pressure, the exquisite pressure, is building, and I know if I look down at him, it’ll push me over the edge and I don’t want this to end—ever.
My fingers scrabble at the cold steel of the countertop as I attempt to brace myself…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
The noise again, incessant now, the beeps invading my consciousness and threatening to undo all the good work of the magnificent tongue of Lachlan Ramsay.
A small thought niggles into the back of my mind, but I push it away, trying desperately to stay where I am, right where I am, sweet fucking God right here, right here…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
“Abby…” Lachlan mutters from between my legs, his voice deep and taunting. He raises his eyes to meet mine and they are pitch-black. “It’s time to wake up, darling.”
I shake my head but it’s too late, I’m rising up and into the harsh light of morning.
I paw at my phone, smashing the snooze button, and try to force my mind back down into the dream, back down into the bliss I could spend my whole life exploring.
But my waking mind has clambered into consciousness and the dream world dissolves.
The cold steel of the countertop becomes the soft cotton of my sheets, the feel of Lachlan’s hands on my thighs now nothing more than a blanket twisted around my legs, the warm, wet sensation of his tongue pressing into me hopelessly, irrevocably gone.
I squeeze my eyes tight, like that can somehow prevent the dream images and feelings from seeping out of my brain.
I have mere seconds to solidify this memory before it’s gone forever.
I manage to grasp onto a few slivers: that first kiss, Lachlan’s lips moving down my chin, pulsing in the soft hollow of my collarbone.
His expression as he slides my legs apart.
The purr of “Oh God, yes,” as he takes me into his mouth…
But despite my efforts, I can’t stay in the liminal state forever, and soon I’m fully awake, spread-eagle on the bed and absolutely crackling with the pulsating, frustrating energy of a lost orgasm (or three).
I could finish myself off, but the ramifications of the dream are surfacing, and my stupid anxious mind is going to have to deal with them first.
It’s odd, I think, as I lie there panting.
I mean, I obviously find Lachlan attractive, because I am a person with functioning eyeballs.
I live in a constant state of denial about the fact that his wife exists, which gives me license to flirt with him.
I’ve spent hours convincing myself that what we have is just friendship, just really incredible friendship with a fun frisson of attraction from time to time, nothing more—even if those frissons are becoming more frequent.
Because whenever we have a moment, everything always slides back to normal, as if nothing happened.
I mean, Josh was right: We will never, ever be together.
But now I’m squirming at this curveball lobbed at me by my subconscious.
That was not the dream of someone with purely platonic thoughts.
I’ve never had a dream like that about Josh, for instance.
And sure, maybe it was inevitable given how much time Lachlan and I spend together, but still…
this felt different. So now, in addition to being impossibly turned on, I’ve also been thrust onto a new level of anxiety about our relationship and what it means.
Cool.
I roll out of bed and into the shower, the images from the dream parading through my mind as I soak myself under the scalding water. Even the fragmented memory is enough to leave me breathless, and I brace my arms against the tile wall to let the sensation pass.
I head into the main room, praying that Lachlan isn’t home, even though I know he is. I can’t face him…not yet. Thankfully, he’s not awake, so I have a moment to make coffee and read the newspaper in the hope that the various horrors of the world will drag me back down into ice-cold reality.
But after only a few minutes, I hear his familiar lilt. “Good morning, roomie. You’re up early.” He’s shirtless, which isn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but today makes my mouth go dry.
“I forgot to turn my alarm off last night,” I mutter, mostly to my mug.
Lachlan busies himself making tea. “What’s on the agenda today? How shall we bask in the glow of another Mersey victory?”
All I can focus on is the silky, almost poetic ripple of his back muscles as he opens the fridge door. He pours milk into his mug, catching an errant drop that rolls down the side and licking it off his thumb.
My pulse quickens and my mind fills with a recollection of what else that tongue can do.
“Stripes?” he says, smiling over the rim of his mug. “Earth to Abby…”
I blink. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
He comes around to my side of the counter, setting down his mug at the place next to me.
I can smell him; the dream is too far gone for me to remember what Dream Lachlan smelled like, but it can’t have been better than the real one: clean and athletic and fresh.
He puts a hand on my shoulder to brace himself as he leans up and over the counter to grab the sports page from the pile.
His chest moves in a fluid line past me, brushing against my hands as I white-knuckle death-grip my phone.
But just that little bit of contact is enough to suffuse my face with color, a bright, glaring red that might as well be screaming “I HAD A SEX DREAM ABOUT YOU.”
He frowns at me over the paper. “What is up with you? You look like you just spent twelve hours in the Mykonos sun.”
“Nothing,” I say, but it comes out a strangled, high-pitched mess. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.”
Lachlan squints. “Did I say something? Did I sleepwalk into your room and piss in your trainers? You can’t even look at me.”
“Just having a slow morning.” I abandon my phone and grab a section of the paper, flipping it open with what I hope comes across as a cool, calm nonchalance.
“It must be really slow, because you’re reading the paper upside-down.” He takes a sip of his tea and his eyes are light with glee.
I have a brief debate with myself about how long I can play it cool before realizing that the answer is zero seconds. I sigh. “Okay, fine. I had kind of a weird dream about you.”
“Ah, soz, mate. Was I a dick to you in it?”
I almost laugh at his word choice. “No, it was a…special dream. You and I were…engaging in some consensual adult activities.”
I watch the light of comprehension spread across his face as he twigs my meaning, and despite my soul-crushing mortification, it’s actually delightful. He leans back and cackles in delicious, delirious glee. “You had a sex dream about me?”
“Yes, I did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go die.” I scoot my stool back, but he stops me, holding the chair in place with his foot.