10. Piper Dreams That Night
Chapter ten
Piper Dreams That Night
I'm dreaming…
I know I'm dreaming, but the knowledge doesn't stop it. I’m not concerned about the surprising news of the castle in my subconscious. No, I’m concerned with the gorgeous lord of Glenhaven and how he makes me feel.
The sheets beneath me are silk and the fire has dimmed to embers that paint the room in shades of amber and shadow. The cold seeping through the window has turned warm, soft, heavy with the scent of heather and something darker.
His hands find me first. I want them to.
Large hands. Long fingers. I'm wearing a thin cotton shift I don't recognize—and his fingers curl under the neckline, pulling it down.
His mouth follows.
He starts at my collarbone. Lips, soft and full, pressing against the hollow of my throat.
Then lower. The shift slides down, catching on my nipples, and his tongue traces the curve of my breast with a slowness that makes my back arch.
He's unhurried and methodical. Like the way he poured tea or made dinner—every movement deliberate, precise, sensual.
"Tristan." My voice comes out breathless. "What—"
"Hush." The word vibrates against my sternum. "Let me, lass."
His mouth moves lower. The shift bunches at my waist, then slides away entirely, and the cool air touches my bare skin for a moment before his lips replace it.
His tongue traces the line of my ribs. One. Two. Counting them like beads on a rosary. His hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above my hipbones, holding me still.
I'm wet already. I can feel it, the slick heat between my thighs, the ache building with each press of his lips. He's kissing my stomach now, the flat plane below my navel, and his stubble rasps against my skin in a way that makes my breath catch.
My hips jerk.
"Patience," he murmurs, and the word is a command, dark and absolute. His eyes lift to mine, and they're black now. Completely black. No grey, no silver, just darkness that swallows the firelight. "You’re mine to pleasure. Mine to taste."
The words should break the dream. Instead, they sink into my skin like warm water.
His mouth moves lower.
He kisses the jut of my hipbone, first one side then the other. His tongue traces the crease where my thigh meets my body, that sensitive fold of skin, and I'm trembling now. My hands bunch up the sheets. My legs fall open.
"Good girl." The words are a growl against my inner thigh. His teeth graze the soft skin there, a nip that sends electricity sparking through my nerve endings. "You know what I want."
"Tell me." I don't recognize my own voice. It's ragged, desperate and wanting.
His answer is his mouth.
He kisses the crease of my thigh one more time, then moves inward. His tongue finds me—finds that spot, that exact spot, the one that makes my vision blur—and he doesn't tease. He doesn't start soft and build. He tastes me like he's starving for it, like my heat is the only thing keeping him alive.
His tongue moves in circles. Slow, deliberate circles around my clit, then faster, then slow again.
His lips close around it and suck, gentle at first, then harder, and my hips buck against his mouth.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, holding me still, and I can feel the strength in his fingers, the restraint.
He could crush me. Instead, he's worshipping me.
"Oh Tristan. I didn’t expect this," I mumble. "Oh gods, Tristan, please—"
He slides a finger inside me, teasing me, making my whole body jerk. His tongue doesn't stop. The circles become figure-eights, then long flat strokes, then he's fucking me with his mouth, his tongue thrusting into me.
He knows how to touch me and I revel in the pleasure he creates. My orgasm builds like a wave, starting in my toes and climbing through my legs, my stomach, my chest. My hands find his hair—when did I let go of the sheets?—and I pull. His groan vibrates through me.
"Come, lass." He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against me.
His mouth closes over my clit again. His finger curls. His hands hold me tight.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave breaking against rocks. My back arches off the bed. I let out a groan of pleasure. I'm shaking, shuddering, and he doesn't stop, his tongue drawing it out, drawing every last tremor from my body until I'm nothing but nerve endings and fire.
I scream out his name as I suddenly wake up.
The dream, oh that dream. It felt so real. Wishful thinking, I suppose but I’m feeling too much pleasure to care. The room is dark. The fire has burned to embers. My heart hammers against my ribs, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat.
Between my thighs, I'm still wet, still throbbing, still feeling him.
I press my hand over my heart and try to slow my breathing.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But the ache between my legs doesn't fade. And somewhere in the castle, in a room I don't know, a lord of Glenhaven probably sleeps at this very hour, not knowing what he has done to my imagination.