4. Simone #3
"Yes," I gasp as his fingers catch the edge of my panties, tugging them aside, baring them for his fingers, for his.... "Yes, please..."
I wake up with a gasp, my heart pounding and my body covered in sweat as I jolt upright, blinking into the darkness.
The dream was so vivid, so real, that for a moment I expect to find Tristan in my bed, his hands pushing me back down into the softness of the mattress.
For a brief moment, my body thrills to the thought, still caught in the arousal of the dream.
But I'm alone, the room dark and quiet around me.
My nightgown is twisted around my waist, and I can feel the dampness between my thighs that proves my body's betrayal. I wanted him in that dream. Not just wanted—I begged for him, pleaded with him to touch me.
"No," I whisper into the darkness. "No, no, no."
But even as I deny it, I can still feel the phantom touch of his hands on my skin, can still taste his kiss on my lips. The dream felt more real than it should have, especially when I’m so inexperienced, and that terrifies me more than Konstantin's ultimatum.
How can I hate someone and want them at the same time? How can my body crave something my mind finds repulsive?
It was just a dream. But it felt like more. I can still feel the heat on my skin, that insistent, aching need between my thighs…
I stumble out of bed and to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory of the dream.
But when I look in the mirror, I can see the truth written in my flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.
I dreamed about Tristan O’Malley. I dreamed about begging for his touch, and I was aroused by it.
This is worse than I thought. It's one thing to be forced to marry Tristan O'Malley, but it's another thing entirely to discover that some part of me wants it.
That some traitorous part of my subconscious is attracted to his dominance, his certainty, his complete lack of doubt about taking what he wants.
I am not that woman. I refuse to be that woman.
But as I crawl back into bed and try to fall asleep again, I can't shake the feeling that I'm lying to myself. That maybe, just maybe, the dream revealed something about me that I've been too afraid to admit.
The rest of the night passes in fitful sleep punctuated by more dreams, all featuring Tristan O'Malley in ways that make me wake up gasping and confused. By the time morning light starts filtering through my curtains, I feel like I've been through a war.
I drag myself to the shower and stand under the hot spray until the water runs cold, trying to wash away the feeling left over from the night before.
But no amount of soap or hot water can scrub away the memory of how I felt, of how I ached for his touch in the dream, of how I had to fight off the urge to make myself come when I woke.
I refused to give myself an orgasm when he was the one who brought on my arousal. But just the fact that he aroused me at all, subconsciously or no, makes me want to scream.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Nora is waiting in my bedroom with coffee and a plate of fruit. Her knowing look tells me she can see exactly how rough my night was.
"Bad dreams?" she asks gently.
"Something like that." I accept the coffee gratefully, needing the caffeine more than I need oxygen. I feel like I ran a gauntlet in my sleep.
“He’ll be here this evening?” she asks. “To get your answer?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Six p.m.,” I say quietly, and I see Nora’s sympathetic look. She feels for me, even if there’s nothing she can do about it, and knows there’s nothing I can do, either. There’s some small comfort in that.
In a few hours, Tristan O'Malley will walk through our front door expecting me to agree to marry him. And despite everything—the anger, the resentment, the violation of my autonomy—I'm going to say yes. Because I have to.
Because I want to live.
"Nora," I say as she turns to leave, biting my lip. She pauses, looking back at me.
"Yes, mija ?"
"What if I'm not the person I thought I was? What if this… marriage… reveals something about me that I don't like?" I gnaw on my lip, waiting for her response, refusing to be more direct about it. I’m certainly not going to tell a woman who is like my mother about those dreams I had last night.
She studies my face for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. "Then you accept it, and you decide what to do with that knowledge. We are all more complicated than we like to admit, Simone. The question isn't whether you're perfect—it's whether you're strong enough to be yourself."
After she leaves, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger—eyes too bright, cheeks too flushed, hair still damp from the shower.
She looks like someone who's been thoroughly kissed, thoroughly claimed, even though no one has touched her.
My jaw tightens, and I look away. It was a dream. I refuse to be ruled by my subconscious, and I refuse to be ruled by him. I’ll say yes, but I have every intention of keeping in mind what Nora said to me last night.
Tristan O'Malley thinks he's won by forcing me into this marriage.
He has no idea what he's actually gotten himself into.