Page 94 of Scarlet Thorns

Oh my God.

He’s rock hard.

His cock stands proud and thick against his stomach, flushed dark with arousal that has nothing to do with his nightmare and everything to do with whatever’s happening in the deeper levels of his unconscious mind.

I should leave. Should flee this room before he wakes up and finds me standing here like some creepy voyeur getting off on his pain. But then his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising accuracy for someone who’s asleep.

His grip is firm but not painful, warm and possessive in a way that makes my pulse skip. I try to pull away gently, but his hold only tightens. Like some part of him recognizes my presence and refuses to let me go.

Shit.

What the hell are you doing, girl?

But even as my rational mind screams warnings, my body betrays me. I move closer instead of farther away, drawn by some magnetic force I can’t name or resist. My free hand settles on his shoulder again, stroking the heated skin with careful touches meant to soothe.

It’s arousing and comforting at the same time— this intimate glimpse behind his armor, this moment where he needs something I can give. He’s always so controlled, so carefully composed. Seeing him soft like this, even in sleep, makes something fierce and protective unfurl in my chest.

My gaze keeps drifting to his erection. I can’t help it. He’s beautiful everywhere, but there’s something mesmerizing about the evidence of his desire. Thick and perfectly formed, the head flushed dark with blood. A bead of moisture glistens at the tip, catching the moonlight like a jewel.

“This is no time to think about sex,”I tell myself firmly.“The man is having trauma nightmares, for God’s sake!”

But my body doesn’t care about appropriate timing. My pussy clenches as I continue stroking his shoulder, his muscular arm, anything I can reach without disturbing his grip on my wrist. The combination of his vulnerability and his raw masculinity is intoxicating in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.

His erection grows even harder under my attention, if that’s possible. The sight makes my mouth water with want, makes me remember exactly how he felt stretching me open, fucking me with a thoroughness that left me shaking.

“Ilona.”

My name falls from his lips, soft but unmistakably clear. The sound shoots straight to the center of me, making my inner walls tighten around nothing. Even in sleep, even while battling demons from his past, some part of him is thinking about me.

Holy shit.

Holy freaking shit!

This whole scene is insanely hot. Wrong on about fifteen different levels, but hot nonetheless. My pussy is dripping just from touching his skin, from hearing him say my name in that voice rough with sleep and dreams.

He doesn’t wake up, though part of me wants him to. Wants those silvery eyes to focus on me with full awareness, wants to see what would happen if he found me here like this. But I also don’t want him to wake up. It would complicate everything, force conversations I’m not ready to have about boundaries we’ve already obliterated.

So I stay. Stroke his skin until the tension finally bleeds out of his huge frame, until his breathing evens out into the deeper rhythms of peaceful sleep. His grip on my wrist relaxes gradually, though he doesn’t release me entirely.

The erection takes longer to fade. I watch, mesmerized, as his cock gradually softens against his stomach. Even semi-hard, he’s impressive. The kind of man who would fill you completely, stretch you to your limits, make you forget your own name.

Focus, Ilona.

When I’m certain he’s settled into deeper sleep, I carefully work my wrist free of his loosened grip. He makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t wake, just shifts onto his side with one hand reaching toward the space where I was standing.

Looking for me, even unconscious.

My chest fills with emotions I can’t name.

I force myself to back away from the bed, from the temptation to crawl in beside him and offer comfort I have no right to give. At the doorway, I pause for one last look at the man who’s turned my world upside down in less than twenty-four hours.

Moonlight and shadow paint him in shades of silver and darkness, highlighting the softness he’d never let me see while awake.

This is what loss looks like, I realize.

This is what it means to carry ghosts.

Once outside his room, I lean against the hallway wall and try to remember how to breathe. My heart pounds againstmy ribs like it’s trying to escape, and the dampness between my thighs reminds me exactly how affected I am by what just happened.