23. Piper Dreams
Chapter twenty-three
Piper Dreams
I’m becoming closer and closer to Tristan, and I think of him all the time. It’s worse at night, when I dream of him.
I haven’t had the courage to take things farther. I mean, we’re in an odd position about ownership, I’m the new American interloper here, and I don’t really know how he really feels about me.
But when I drift off to sleep … I do what I want. With him.
Candlelight flickers from somewhere to my left, creating shadows that crawl across the stone walls. Stone walls. In a bedroom somewhere in the castle.
Then I feel the weight of him beside me.
Tristan.
The name surfaces through the haze, and my pulse kicks up a notch. He's lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His grey eyes — those impossible eyes with their silver flecks — are open. Watching me.
The candlelight catches the angles of his face, the sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, the full lips that I've already tasted. A kiss that left me standing in the hallway of his castle with my heart slamming against my ribs and my mouth still tingling.
I push myself up onto my elbows, and the silk sheet slides down, exposing my bare shoulders, my collarbones. I'm naked.
I shouldn't be surprised — this is a dream— but the sensation of the air against my skin is so specific, so real. My nipples tighten in response as I look at his lips.
I haven't stopped thinking about our kiss. Now, in this dream-version of his bedchamber, I want more.
I sit up fully, letting the sheet pool at my waist. My auburn hair falls around my shoulders, tangled and loose, and I don't bother pushing it back.
I let him see me. All of me. The toned arms from years of swinging hammers, the flat stomach, the small breasts that I've never considered remarkable but that his gaze traces now with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
His eyes are changing. I watch it happen — the grey bleeding away, the silver flecks expanding, consuming, until his irises are black. Completely black. Like the night sky without stars. It should be unsettling. It isn't.
My body responds before my brain can catch up, heat pooling low in my belly, a heaviness between my thighs.
"Piper." My name in his mouth sounds different than when anyone else says it. Like a word in a language only he speaks.
I don't answer with words. Instead, I move.
I swing my leg over him, straddling his hips and the silk of his pajama bottoms, because of course a man like Tristan wears silk pajama bottoms to bed, the kind of absurd detail that makes this feel both surreal and inevitable.
I settle my weight against him and feel the hard length of him beneath the thin fabric. He's already aroused. The thick ridge of his cock presses against me.
His hands come to my hips. His fingers are long, his grip careful, restrained. The signet ring on his right hand is cool against my skin. He's waiting. Letting me set the pace.
Something about that — the restraint, the patience, the way his jaw tightens as he holds himself still — makes me want to crack him open.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on either side of his head, and my hair falls around us like a curtain.
His face is close now, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips.
But I don't think about anything except the ache building in my core and the desperate need to feel my lips on his.
I kiss him. I kiss him like I'm claiming something, my lips parting against his, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He makes a sound, low and rough and his hands tighten on my hips. I revel in the feeling.
Then I pull back.
His eyes are fully black, his lips are parted and his body is waiting.
I shift my weight, sliding down his body, and my knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips.
My fingers find the waistband of his silk bottoms, and I pull.
The fabric slides down, and his cock springs free, thick and hard.
He's bigger than I expected, though I'm not sure what I was expecting, and my mouth waters at the sight of him.
I wrap my hand around the base of his cock, and the sound he makes, — a sharp inhale, his stomach muscles contracting — sends a jolt of satisfaction through me.
I lean down, my hair brushing against his stomach, and I lick him. One long, slow stroke from base to tip, my tongue flat against the underside of his shaft. He tastes like salt and skin and something dark and rich.
"Piper—" His voice is strained.
I take the head of his cock into my mouth, and his hips jerk upward. I press him down with my free hand, pinning him to the bed, and I feel the muscles of his abdomen tense beneath my palm.
The power of holding him there, of having this gorgeous man, this laird, this creature of old-world restraint and careful manners, at my mercy, throbs through me like a second heartbeat.
I sink lower, taking more of him in and I feel him in my mouth.
I set a rhythm. Slow pulls, long sucks, my tongue working the underside of his cock with each stroke.
My hand wraps around the base, twisting, matching the pace of my mouth.
I look up at him through my lashes, and his eyes are locked on me — black, burning, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
I pull off him and his cock is slick now, shining, and I pump him slowly with my hand as I catch my breath. My lips are swollen, sensitive, and I run my tongue across them, tasting him.
"You’re going to be inside me," I say. Not a question. A demand.
His nostrils flare, and his hands find my waist, lifting me easily. I position myself over him, reach down to angle his cock, and then I sink onto him.
The feeling is overwhelming. He fills me inch by inch, and my body resists and yields in equal measure. I'm wet — have been wet since I opened my eyes in this dream. He’s something that makes my thighs shake and my breath come in short, sharp gasps.
I feel the fullness of him, the way he throbs inside me, the way my walls clench and release around him. His hands are on my hips, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I can see the effort it costs him to stay still. His eyes with those black, depthless color are fixed on my face.
I start to move. I lift my hips, feeling the drag of him against my inner walls, and then I drop.
The impact sends a jolt through my clit, and I gasp, my head falling back.
I do it again, and again, finding a rhythm that's mine.
I'm setting the pace, controlling the depth and movement.
I'm taking what I want, and the freedom of it is intoxicating.
Where our bodies meet, there's heat, the friction building between us, creating something warm and slick.
The first orgasm catches me off guard. It builds slowly, deliciously then suddenly crests, washing through me in waves. I clench around him, and my rhythm falters, my hips grinding against him involuntarily as the pleasure peaks and I groan.
But I don't stop.
I keep moving through the aftershocks, my clit swollen and aching, my walls still fluttering around him. But I want more. I want to wring every sensation from this dream, from this man.
So I lean forward, changing the angle, and the next stroke presses him against a secret spot. I grind against him, my hips rolling, and I feel another climax building already, different from the first, deeper, more hungry.
"Tristan." I say his name like a prayer, like a curse, and his hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. The touch pushes me over the edge again. This orgasm is harder, sharper, and I clench around him so tight that he groans.
I'm shaking. My thighs are burning. But I don't stop. I can’t.
I ride him harder, faster, my nails digging into his chest, and his hips rise to meet mine as he finally loses that iron control. The sound of our bodies meeting is amazing and it echoes off the stone walls. The candles flicker. The fire crackles. The shadows dance.
The third orgasm builds from somewhere I didn't know existed.
It starts in my core and radiates outward, my whole body tightening and tingling, my vision going white at the edges.
I break apart above him, my back arching, my mouth open, and I hear myself crying out — his name, words that don't make sense, sounds that are pure sensation.
I collapse forward, my forehead against his shoulder, and his arms come around me. His cock is still hard inside me, and I can feel my walls still clenching, still pulsing. His hand comes to the back of my head, his fingers in my hair, and his mouth finds my ear.
"Piper," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "You are—"
I suddenly wake up.
My eyes snap open to darkness. Not the candlelit darkness of Tristan's bedchamber, but the absolute black of my own guest. My heart is hammering. Between my thighs, I'm wet and my body is still thrumming with the echoes of pleasure.
The dream clings to me like cobwebs, the black eyes, the sounds he made, my body on his.
I exhale. Long, slow, unsteady and finally I find sleep.