Page 16 of Until She’s Mine

Evelyn

T he dream begins where reality ended—with my fingers tracing his jaw, the rough texture of his stubble catching against my skin.

But in the dream, I don’t pull away. I lean in, my lips brushing against his, and the world around us dissolves into a haze of warmth and light.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like the first stroke of a brush on a blank canvas.

But then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens, hungry and desperate as if we’re trying to make up for all the time we’ve lost.

Lucian licks a slow stripe up my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear.

His breath is hot, sending shivers down my spine.

My hands slide into his hair, gripping tightly as he moves lower, his lips trailing a path of fire across my collarbone.

The world narrows to his mouth on my skin, his hands moving with purpose, exploring every curve and hollow. “Tell me to stop.”

I arch into his mouth instead.

His fingers twist in my hair, tilting my head back. My hands slide down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he presses me closer. The railing digs into my back when he hooks his hand under my knee, lifting it to wrap around his hip. His other hand pushes up my skirt.

“Look at you,” he growls against my throat. “Dripping for me already.”

I wake up with a gasp, my body clenched around nothing.

Moonlight stripes the bedroom through half-closed blinds. The clock reads 2:17 a.m. My nightgown sticks to my lower back, the sheets tangled between my thighs.

I press my shaking fingers to my lips. They tingle as if still bruised from imaginary kisses.

My phone lights up on the nightstand, casting a faint glow across the room.

I reach for it instinctively, my fingers trembling as I unlock the screen.

A few photos from Tobias appear: selfies from the Lockwood yacht party, mostly showing him with his arm around a blonde’s waist. Nothing from Lucian.

I slip out of bed, my body still throbbing with the dream’s aftershocks. The bathroom faucet runs icy cold. I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to erase the sensation of Lucian’s hands, his mouth, the way he said dripping with such possessive certainty.

The mirror shows a stranger: pupils blown wide, collarbones flushed pink, the ghost of his teeth marks blooming on my neck. I press two fingers to the pulse point beneath my jaw.

Lucian is probably awake right now in his bachelor penthouse, I’ve yet to visit, a glass of whiskey dangling from his long fingers. Watching the city lights. Thinking of me.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs.

I turn the shower to cold and step under the spray fully clothed. The silk nightgown turns translucent, clinging to my curves. Water drips from my lashes like tears as I finally slide my hand between my thighs.

It takes three strokes before I come with a soundless cry, my forehead pressed to the tiled wall. Lucian’s name burns behind my clenched teeth.

When I return to bed, my body is still humming, but my mind is a storm, tossing between the heat of the dream and the cold reality of what it means.

Lucian isn’t just a figment, a fantasy I can tuck away in the dark hours of the night.

He’s real, bone and blood and fire, and he’s been watching me, waiting for me, with patience that terrifies me.

I reach for my phone again, my thumb hovering over his contact. His name stares back at me, stark against the glow of the screen. One message. That’s all it would take. One word, and he’d be here, in my room, in my bed, in my life.

The thought makes my breath catch.

But I don’t send it.

“Damn you,” I whisper to the darkness.