Page 20 of Broken Mafia Bride

7months later

The man is in my dream again.

He always comes when the night is deepest and I’m at my most vulnerable. Since that night with Marco, he’s been a phantom etched into the walls of my subconscious, stalking the edges of my mind like he belongs there.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face.

But my body knows his touch.

He never speaks. He doesn’t have to.

In the dream, I’m lying naked on cool sheets, my legs parted, the room cloaked in shadows. The air is thick, charged with the electric promise of release. I can feel him watching me—his breath on my neck, the heat of his gaze trailing over my body, making my skin tighten and pulse.

But he doesn’t touch me.

Not this time.

This time…it’s my fingers that glide down my belly, slick with heat and anticipation. I let out a shaky breath as my fingers slip lower, circling the aching throb between my thighs.

I moan softly, hips arching, the sound growing louder as I seek friction.

The pleasure builds, quick and sharp, my hips lifting to meet my touch, aching for more. My back arches. My other hand finds my breast, pinching a hard nipple as I writhe under him—under nothing. No one is there. Just a ghost in the dark and the overwhelming need he’s carved into me.

“Please,” I pant, thighs trembling, rubbing harder now. “Please…”

My fingers move faster, slick and eager, stroking over my clit until my thighs tremble. The tension coils deep and hot in my belly, threatening to snap.

I can almost feel him—his weight between my legs, the roughness of his voice whispering filth in my ear, urging me on, telling me how good I am, how much he misses me, how he’s never going to let me go again.

I slip a finger inside myself, gasping at the sensation, and then another, pumping slow and deep, matching the frantic rhythm of my hand on my clit. I imagine it’s his hand—his fingers, thick and rough, taking me apart.

I’m moaning now, louder, unable to stop. My back arches. My legs shake.

“I’m yours,” I whisper into the darkness. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop?—”

Riiiiing.

The sound slices through the haze like a blade.

“No,” I groan, furious, desperate, on the brink of something sharp and blinding.

The dream evaporates, leaving only heat and frustration behind. I jerk upright, gasping for air, my hand still buried under the blanket, soaked, trembling, unfinished.

Perspiration clings to my skin. My pulse is wild. My thighs are slick. My entire body is screaming for the release that was only seconds away.

Riiiiing.

I blink away the haze and fumble for the phone Marco gifted me a few weeks ago. My hand is unsteady as I pick it up, my voice still thick with sleep and leftover lust.

“Hello?”

“Ariel, where are you?” Marco asks.

I huff. “At home.” I don’t know why he still bothers to ask when the answer is always the same. He worries about me being cooped up in the house all day, but I honestly don’t want to be anywhere else.

I’m still wary of being out in the town without him, even though the entirety of the town is basically two major streets and a tiny bar that’s the hive of all activity here.

“I should have guessed.” There’s a smile in his voice that has me smiling back.