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SOMETIMES, IN THE EARLY morning, after her mind had roamed free all night long, Wren dreamed of sex—of a body rutting against hers, of the warmth and pressure and rhythm—but there was rarely any detail. She'd read a psychology article once that said such dreams were merely vestigial memories of the womb and nothing to do with real desire.
That didn't explain what was happening now, though. She knew it was a dream because she was in a strange place, a darkened room with no obvious door, and she had only a vague notion of how she'd gotten there.
“You're here because of desire,” said a man's voice from close behind her. Strong fingers wrapped around her hip bones, pulling her against him, and she realized she was naked.
I don't remember ever having a dream so realistic before, she thought. This must be what people mean when they talk about lucid dreaming.
“Lucid, languid, call it whatever you like,” he murmured into her ear, his hand sliding across her bare belly. “You may not be awake, but your senses are.”
Both hands cupped her breasts then, the thumbs finding her nipples. A cry caught in her throat as his fingers pinched them momentarily, the sudden but fleeting pain a breath-stealing surprise.
“Too much? Perhaps you'd prefer something gentler, then.” One hand held her chin, keeping her head back against him while the other traced a line down the center of her torso, right to her pubic hair. His fingertips teased at the hair, of-so-gradually making their way closer to the crease of her, easing apart the folds that were starting to ache to be touched more directly.
“Oh, yes, that's a much better pain,” he whispered. “The pain of wanting. The pain of need.”
Wren felt the lump in her throat as she swallowed. What a strange, strange dream this was. She wondered what it meant and whether she should write it down in her diary.
But when she opened her eyes to the light of morning, she didn't remember a thing.