Chapter 8 - Skylar
Sleep refuses to come.
I’ve been lying in this unfamiliar bed for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling and listening to Bryan move around in the next room.
Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of fabric, every sound he makes reminds me that he’s only a few feet away.
That the man I’ve spent a decade trying to forget is now my mate, bound to me by blood and magic and ancient law.
The sheets smell like him.
I don’t know how that’s possible when he’s never slept in this bed.
Maybe it’s the cabin itself, saturated with his scent after even just a few days.
Maybe it’s the mate bond playing tricks on my senses, amplifying everything about him until I can’t escape it, no matter how hard I try.
Either way, I’m surrounded by his woodsy musk, and my body is responding in ways I can’t control.
I roll onto my side and punch the pillow into a different shape. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
Through the wall, I hear Bryan settle onto the couch.
The leather creaks under his weight, and then there’s silence.
He’s probably lying there in the dark just like I am, staring at nothing and thinking about everything that happened today.
About the ceremony and the blood and the vows, neither of us wanted to make.
Or maybe he’s already asleep. Maybe this is easy for him. Maybe he doesn’t feel the bond the same way I do, doesn’t have his skin crawling with the need to be closer, doesn’t have to fight the urge to get up and walk into the next room and—
I shut that thought down before it could finish forming.
The mate bond simmers in my chest, reaching toward him like a plant seeking sunlight.
I can feel his presence on the other side of that wall and sense the edges of his emotions bleeding into mine.
He’s not asleep. He’s just as awake as I am, just as aware of the distance between us and how easy it would be to close it.
The knowledge makes something low in my belly tighten with want.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about something else. Anything else.
Work. I should think about work. Tomorrow I have three scheduled appointments in the morning and then a staff meeting after lunch.
Fern wants to discuss expanding the trauma support group, and I promised to help her put together a proposal for Nic.
There’s also the supply inventory that’s been sitting on my desk for a week, and I really need to follow up with that elderly patient about his cough.
Maybe I should check on the teenage girl with the twisted ankle too, make sure she’s staying off it like I told her to—
Bryan adjusts his position on the couch, and the sound derails my entire train of thought.
I can picture him out there, lying on his back with one arm folded behind his head and his chest bare because he never could stand wearing a shirt to bed. The scars I noticed earlier when he was naked in the woods would be on display, mapping a decade of violence across his skin.
That sensitive spot between my legs throbs at the image, and I press my thighs together in frustration.
This is ridiculous. I hate him. I hate what he did to me.
He left without explanation, then he came back and forced me into this bond because his demons followed him home.
I should not be lying here thinking about his body and his scent and what it would feel like to have his weight pressing me into this mattress.
Stop it.
I flip onto my other side and stare at the wall instead of the ceiling. The mate bond wants me to go to him. It wants me to stop fighting and give in and let nature take its course, the way it’s been trying to since the moment our names were drawn together.
But I’m not an animal. I don’t have to follow my instincts when my instincts are leading me somewhere I don’t want to go.
The minutes crawl by like hours. I count my breaths and try to relax my muscles one by one, starting with my toes and working my way up.
It’s a technique Fern teaches to patients who struggle with anxiety, and it usually works on me, too.
Tonight, it does nothing except make me more aware of my own body.
More aware of the heat building between my legs and the way my nipples have hardened into little pebbles, sensitive against my shirt.
I flop around uncomfortably, and the friction of the sheets against my skin makes me bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I hear Bryan get up from the couch.
My breath catches in my throat as his footsteps cross the main room. They’re heading toward the kitchen, I tell myself. He’s just getting water. That’s all. There’s no reason for my heart to be racing like this. No reason for my body to be tensing with anticipation.
But the footsteps stop right outside my door.
I go completely still. The mate bond senses his proximity, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to call out to him. Not to invite him in. Not to throw open that door and drag him into this bed and let him do all the things my body is screaming for.
A long moment passes. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door. Hell, I can practically feel his body heat through the wood. He’s standing there, probably fighting the same war I’m fighting, probably losing just as badly as I am.
Then his footsteps retreat back to the living room, and I finally let myself exhale.
This is torture. Pure, undiluted torture.
I don’t know how long I lie there after that, trapped in a state of frustrated arousal that refuses to fade, no matter how many times I tell myself I don’t want him. Eventually, exhaustion wins out over everything else, and I feel myself sinking into the fuzzy edges of sleep.
The dream starts the way dreams often do—in the middle of something, with no clear beginning.
Bryan is here. In this room, in this bed, with his body stretched out beside mine like he belongs there.
The moonlight streaming through the window illuminates the hard planes of his chest and the dark line of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers.
His eyes are fixed on me, making my breath stutter.
“I’ve waited ten years for this,” he mumbles as he reaches for me. “Ten years of wanting you and not being able to have you. Ten years of dreaming about what it would feel like to touch you again.”
His hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back as he brings his mouth to my throat.
The first press of his lips against my pulse point sends electricity racing down my spine and pooling between my legs.
He kisses a path along my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue darting out to taste me, and I arch into him with a moan I couldn’t suppress if I tried.
“Bryan.” His name falls from my lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.
His breath is hot against my ear as his other hand finds the hem of my shirt and slips beneath it. His palm is rough and warm as it slides up my ribcage. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you need it as much as I do.”
“I want it.” The words come out broken and desperate, stripped of all the anger and resentment I’ve been carrying. “I need you. Please.”
He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it aside, then takes a moment to just look at me. His eyes travel over my breasts, my stomach, and the curve of my hips, and the hunger I see there makes me feel like the most desirable woman who has ever existed.
“Perfect,” he breathes as he traces a finger along the underside of my breast. “Absolutely perfect. Just like I remembered.”
His mouth finds my breast, and I cry out as he draws my nipple between his lips.
He sucks and teases with his tongue, flicking the hardened peak until I’m writhing beneath him with my fingers digging into his shoulders as I try to pull him closer.
He moves to the other side and lavishes the same attention there, sucking and nipping until both peaks are swollen and aching.
By the time he lifts his head, I’m trembling with need.
“More,” I beg. “I need more.”
He kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue around my navel before continuing lower.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear and drag them down my legs, leaving me completely bare underneath him.
The way he looks at me—like I’m something precious and rare—makes my heart race so fast it’s almost painful.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he says as he settles between my thighs and pushes them wider apart. “About how you’d taste. About the sounds you’d make when I finally got my mouth on you.”
The first stroke of his tongue tears a moan from somewhere deep inside me.
He licks me slowly at first, exploring every fold and ridge like he’s mapping uncharted territory.
When he finds my clit and circles it with the tip of his tongue, my hips buck off the bed, and I have to fist my hands in the sheets to anchor myself.
“Bryan.” His name comes out strangled. “Oh God, don’t stop.”
He hums against me, and the vibration sends shockwaves through my entire body.
Two fingers trace my entrance, teasing but not entering, and I’m so wet I can hear it when he finally pushes inside.
He pumps them in and out as his tongue works my clit in tiny circles, and the dual sensation is so overwhelming I think I might shatter into a million pieces.
“You’re dripping for me,” he growls against my flesh as he curls his fingers and hits a spot that makes my vision go white around the edges. “So ready. So desperate to come on my tongue.”
“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore. “Please, I can’t—I need—”
“Then take it.” He curls his fingers again and sucks my clit between his lips. “Come for me, Skylar. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The orgasm tears through me like a wildfire consuming dry brush.
I cry out his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, and my inner walls clench around his fingers as he works me through every last tremor.
It goes on and on, longer than any orgasm I’ve ever had, until I’m gasping for breath and seeing stars behind my closed eyelids.
He crawls up my body and kisses me deeply.
I can taste myself on his lips, tangy and sweet, and something about that makes the heat roar back to life between my legs like the first orgasm was just a warm-up.
He’s hard against my thigh, so hard I can feel him twitching with need, and I want him inside me more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.
“I need you,” I tell him as I reach down and wrap my fingers around his length. He groans into my mouth as I stroke him from base to tip. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He positions himself at my entrance, and the thick head of his cock presses against my slick folds. Our eyes meet, and the mate bond sings with approval as he starts to push inside—
I wake with a gasp.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, and my skin is flushed with heat from head to toe.
The ache between my legs is a hollow emptiness that demands to be filled.
My underwear is soaked through, and it’s clinging to me in a way that makes me want to squirm with embarrassment even though no one can see.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But my body doesn’t seem to understand that. My nipples are hard peaks beneath my sleep shirt, and every nerve ending feels like it’s been set on fire. I’m trembling, actually trembling, from a dream about a man I’m supposed to hate.
I press my palm against my forehead and try to slow my breathing. The mate bond is still vibrating with satisfaction, clearly pleased by what my subconscious chose to conjure up while I slept. Traitor.
Footsteps in the hallway.
I freeze as I hear Bryan moving toward my door. His tread is slow and hesitant, nothing like his usual confident stride. He stops right outside, and I know—I know—that he felt something through the bond. He knows exactly what I was dreaming about and exactly how my body responded to it.
I hold my breath and wait.
The seconds stretch out, each one longer than the last. I can sense him on the other side of that door again. Part of me wants him to come in. Part of me wants him to push open that door and finish what the dream started, to give my body the release it’s so desperately craving.
But he doesn’t.
After what feels like an eternity, his footsteps retreat down the hall. I hear him settle back onto the couch, and then silence descends over the cabin once more.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding and stare up at the ceiling.
My body is still thrumming with unfulfilled need, still aching for something I refuse to let myself have. The wetness between my legs is uncomfortable, a constant reminder of what I was dreaming about and how much I wanted it.
I could take care of it myself. I know that. My hand could slip beneath the covers and finish what the dream started, giving me the release I need to finally fall back asleep.
But I won’t. Because if I touch myself while thinking about Bryan, if I come with his name on my lips and his image burned into my brain, it will mean something. It will mean I still want him. It will mean he still has power over me.
And I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
I roll onto my side and curl into myself, pressing my thighs together to ease the ache. Sleep feels impossible now, but I close my eyes anyway and try to think about anything except the man in the next room.
The mate bond pulses between us, once again unsatisfied and demanding.
I ignore it. Just like I’ve been ignoring it for ten years.