Chapter 8 Names in the Dark
I sat up after tossing and turning, sleep refusing me. The air was thick with a pull I didn’t understand, an ache that wasn’t entirely mine, insistent and demanding. I rose and wandered into the hallway.
Shadows and golden light filled the space, walls rich with ivy and carved patterns I almost recognized. My fingers traced the vines as I moved toward his room, my pulse quickening with every step.
Kian’s door was ajar, lamplight spilling out like liquid gold. Heat pooled between my thighs as I slipped inside.
He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand braced on his knee, the other cradling a glass of amber liquid.
His black shirt hung open at his throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, corded with tension.
Even from here, I could see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body was coiled tight.
His smoldering gaze found mine, dark with hunger. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then why are you waiting?” I whispered, closing the door. The click of the lock felt like permission.
He straightened as I moved toward him, his glass hitting the table with a soft clink.
I stood between his knees and threaded my fingers through his dark curls, tilting his face up.
His hand slid up my thigh possessively, burning through the thin fabric.
When his fingers found the edge of my underwear, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.
I was already aching for him, slick and trembling.
I straddled his lap. He was hard beneath me, straining against his slacks. His breath caught, restraint fraying as I rolled my hips against him, friction building between us.
“I should let you go,” his breath danced over my lips.
“Who says I’d let you?”
He kissed me hard. His groan vibrated through me as his hands gripped my hips, grinding me down against him.
The room shivered, the bed dissolving into wildflowers, night sky spilling silver overhead. He flipped us, laying me down among the blossoms, the scent of scorched earth thick in the air.
“Kore,” he breathed.
His lips traced my jaw, my throat, teeth grazing skin hard enough to leave marks. Every nerve ending came alive, my body arching into him.
His fingers slid under my dress, caressing higher, finding me slick with need. His mouth followed, sliding down to kiss the inside of my thigh. I trembled as his breath ghosted over my center.
I gripped his hair. “Don’t stop.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.” He tasted me slowly, his tongue working me open, tracing patterns that made me gasp. He sucked and licked until my hips bucked against his mouth.
A quiet whimper escaped me as he pulled away, moving to once again capture my lips. I moaned, tasting myself on his tongue. I wrapped my legs around his waist, reaching between us to guide him home.
He pushed into me, and we both groaned at the exquisite stretch and friction. He thrust deep, and I dug my nails into his shoulders, lost to the rhythm of us. Every movement and desperate touch echoed lifetimes of longing.
The pressure coiled tighter with each thrust, winding through me like wildfire. His name fell from my lips—a prayer, a demand.
“Come for me,” he murmured against my neck.
The pressure wound tighter, tighter, and just as I was starting to reach the edge—
I woke with a gasp, my body on fire.
For a moment, I just lay there, breathing hard, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. My skin tingled everywhere his dream-hands had touched. My lips felt swollen, even though no one had kissed them.
Oh gods.
I sat up too fast, sheets tangling around my legs. My whole body burned with need that was impossible to ignore.
I tried to breathe through it, to think about anything else.
But my hand moved of its own accord anyway, slipping beneath the waistband of my borrowed sweatpants. I bit down hard on my lip, listening. The apartment was quiet except for distant sounds from the kitchen. He was awake, just down the hall.
If he heard me—
But my body didn’t care about shame or consequences. I was already wet and desperate. When my fingers brushed against my clit, I had to press my face into the pillow to muffle the whimper that escaped.
My breathing came in shallow gasps I couldn’t suppress.
The dream replayed behind my closed eyes. His hands gripping my hips, his mouth hot against my throat, the way he looked at me like I was sacred and profane all at once.
“Kian,” I breathed into the pillow.
My fingers moved faster. The tension coiled tighter, a spring wound to breaking.
I could still feel the phantom weight of him above me, the way dream-him had surrendered so completely, had let me take what I needed. The memory made me clench around nothing and bite the pillowcase to keep from crying out.
My hips rocked against my hand, chasing the ghost of him. The pressure built until I couldn’t breathe or think—
It broke over me in waves. I came with his name on my lips, my whole body trembling with the force of it. For a long moment, I just lay there, gasping for breath. Then reality crashed back in.
“Oh gods,” I whispered aloud, my cheeks flaming.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, desperate for a distraction. The screen lit up with notifications.
15 missed calls: Mom; 22 unread texts: Mom
My stomach dropped. I scrolled through the worst of them.
Mom: Where are you?
Mom: Melanie, answer your phone.
Mom: If I don’t hear from you in the next hour, I’m calling the police.
Mom: This is unacceptable and childish.
Mom: You have no regard for anyone’s feelings but your own.
I groaned and flopped back against the pillow.
Outside, rain still pattered against the window, softer now. Morning light filtered through the curtains, gray and gentle.
I forced myself out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
My reflection looked like someone who’d spent the night in a storm. My hair was a mess, shadows under my eyes, and color in my cheeks. A brightness I hadn’t seen in weeks.
Stop it. You’re reading too much into a good night’s sleep.
Except it wasn’t just the sleep. It was him and the safety of his space. The way he’d looked at me like I mattered.
I splashed water on my face and tried to get my thoughts in order.
My clothes from yesterday were folded neatly on the counter, still warm and fresh from the dryer. Something soft unfurled in my chest. He’d washed my clothes while I slept.
I dressed, ran my fingers through my hair to tame it into something presentable, and took a steadying breath.
You can do this. Just act normal. Don’t think about the dream. Definitely don’t look him in the eye—
The smell hit me the moment I opened the door. Something rich and spiced. Chai, maybe? Coupled with the smell of something savory.
I followed my nose down the hallway to the living room.
Kian stood at the stove with his back to me, dressed for the day in black slacks and a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The morning light from the windows limned him in gold.
He looked like something out of a painting. Or a dream.
Not helpful.
“Good morning,” Kian said without turning around. “Coffee’s ready. Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot.”
“Thanks.” My voice came out smaller than intended.
I moved to the kitchen, hyperaware of the space between us. He was right there, close enough to touch, and my traitorous brain kept supplying images from the dream. I grabbed a mug and poured myself coffee.
“How did you sleep?” he asked, still focused on whatever he was cooking.
Heat flooded my face. “Fine. Great. Very… restful.”
Liar.
“Good.” He glanced over his shoulder, and something in his expression made my breath catch. Amusement? Curiosity? He looked like he was about to say something, but decided to bite his tongue instead.
He plated food—an omelet stuffed with roasted vegetables and cheese, with perfectly golden toast—and set it in front of me.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I managed.
“I wanted to.” He leaned against the counter opposite me, his own mug in hand. “You had a rough night. Figured breakfast was the least I could do.”
“Thank you. This is…” I took a bite and groaned before I could stop myself. “Gods, this is amazing. Are you secretly a chef?”
His lips quirked. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”
“A few things? You sautéed these vegetables with intention.”
“Guilty.”
I huffed a quiet laugh and went back to my food. We fell into comfortable silence, just the sound of rain and the occasional clink of silverware. It felt… easy, as though we’d done this a hundred times before.
Which was ridiculous, we’d known each other for barely two weeks.
“So,” Kian said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now, “you were quite… vocal earlier.”
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. “Vocal?”
“Mhmm.” He took a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Restless. Making these little sounds.”
My face went supernova. “Sounds?”
“Like you were having a very intense dream.” His eyes glinted.
Oh, it definitely wasn’t a nightmare. It was the opposite of a nightmare—
“I don’t remember,” I lied, shoving eggs into my mouth.
“Shame.” His voice dropped lower, his gaze piercing. “You said a name. Just once, but very… clearly.”
My pulse stopped. “A name?”
“Mine.”
Silence crashed down between us.
I stared at him. He stared back, expression unreadable, but something dancing behind his eyes.
“I—” My voice came out strangled. “I was probably just—”
“Dreaming about class?” he supplied helpfully. “Going over mythology lessons in your sleep?”
“Exactly. Yes. That.”
“With moaning?”
“I did not moan—” I stopped, realizing what I’d just admitted. “I mean—that’s not… you’re making this up.”
He let out a warm laugh. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You’re the worst.”
“So you say.” He pushed off the counter and refilled both our mugs. “But you’re still here, in my kitchen, and eating my food. Blushing very prettily, I might add.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You absolutely are.”
I grabbed a piece of toast and threw it at him. He caught it one-handed, grinning.
“Violence before nine AM. I’m shocked, Ms. Blumenthal.”
“You deserved it, Professor Ward.”