A premonition?
The universe was trying to tell her something, and it involved two men, two mouths, four hands, and a lot of need.
All hers.
Sighing, she pulled the tangled sheets off her legs and looked down, pink painted toenails chipped, her feet wiggling with restlessness. A cup of chamomile tea would be her nighttime companion, it seemed.
And not those two men.
Two.
It started out as one, a guy who resembled her ex... boyfriend? Ex-cheater? Ex... something. Ryan had been the guy she’d dated, the guy she thought she would have a future with, the guy who turned out to be married.
Already married.
So was he a cheater, or was she? When he broke up with her he’d flung his marriage in her face, telling her it was her fault she had been with him, that she had made him stray, that she had been at fault for his infidelity. In the warped way that she allowed the world to work sometimes, she’d actually believed him for a short while. She’d apologized.
She’d begged him to forgive her.
If she'd known he was married, she never would have been involved with him in the first place. It broke her heart to know she'd accidentally slept with a married man. Ryan threw that in her face, too, claiming it was proof she didn't really love him.
No matter what, she was always in the wrong.
Twisting her words, recasting the blame, Ryan had found a way to shame her for his behavior. The sting hung over her, her skin buzzing with it, every part of her marked by his words as if they'd been switches.
And even after her best friend, Josie, had spent a long weekend de-programming her and making her see what a manipulative asshole Ryan had been, she’d dreamed about him, too.
What a slippery animal the unconscious can be. It’s your best friend, your worst enemy, your confidante and your nemesis. The unconscious keeps you going at night and shapes your social instincts during the day.
And deep in the dark hours of the middle of the night, it arouses you to no end with dreams of a love life that would make anyone blush.
“This is crazy,” she muttered to the empty room.
That cup of chamomile wasn’t going to make itself. Heaving herself off the bed, she took a few steps on shaking legs, thighs rubbing together under the thin cotton of her nightgown. The throbbing between those thighs only intensified, a deeply irritating feeling that wasn’t going to abate.
Laura made a mental note to replace the batteries on her vibrator—it had stalled out on her the other night, sputtering to a dead halt just when she’d needed it most, making her cry out with a hoarse sound she’d last made during sex with Ryan, when he’d finished first and rolled over.
And you couldn’t just throw some new D batteries in Ryan and get him going again.
Too bad life didn’t work that way.
One of her cats, Frumpy, rubbed against her legs and purred, the cool feel of the fur brushing against Laura’s ankles with a disjointed sensuality. Gently nudging the cat away, Laura padded into the kitchen, filled the kettle, turned it on and dug out a can of cat food.
Miss Daisy and Snuggles decided to join in the food fest, generating a mewling sound that made Laura laugh.
“All right, all right, it’s coming,” she said, her voice cracking. Living alone meant not talking much when she wasn’t at work or hanging out with her best friend, and by the end of twelve hours of not saying a single word, she found her vocal cords in need of a little stretch. On long weekends she could go all day without saying anything, making the return to work a bit uncomfortable, as if she had to relearn basic social cues all over again.
Laura fed the cats, washed her hands, and set up the tea steeper, spooning her loose tea into the water reservoir. The kettle whistled at just the right moment, she poured the water in for steeping and shut the top—
And promptly burst into tears all over again.
She was a single woman living alone with three cats, making tea in the middle of the night. This was not how her twenties were supposed to be.
Closing her eyes, she willed the dream to come back, to feel the sensual heat of those hands. In her mind’s eye she remembered the forearm that was attached to one of those loving hands, the sandy hair that peppered the tanned skin, the twist of muscle under the taut skin. It was a man’s arm, muscled and tight, with tendons and veins rigid and clear under textured skin.
We adore you.
The man’s words whispered through her like the rush of hot wind on a summer’s night, right before a burst of sweet, steamy rain, the kind you run outside and play in, even as an adult.
You tip your face to the dark, cloudy sky and let the misty rain blanket you like it’s love.
She could feel the imprint of his palm on her thigh. If she weren’t firmly grounded in the world of logic, she’d think he was really here. Right now, in another room in her small apartment, off to the bathroom or back in her tousled bed, waiting for her, warming the sheets and reclined in full, drawn-out nude beauty.
Her hand reached down to touch the expanse of skin that burned from the memory of his touch. A laugh burbled out of her, unbidden and without any pretense. She snorted as her fingers brushed against her own creamy curves, her finger tips sliding from mid-thigh on up.
Quickly, she yanked her nightgown down. Now she just burned with a stupid sense of shame, a cold chill making her shiver as the tea darkened in the clear plastic cylinder she used for steeping.
“Good grief, Laura. Pull it together,” she muttered, as if admonishing herself would actually work.
Not like it ever did before.
What had she done to deserve a life where her only intimacy was her fingers, her battery-powered night-table boyfriends, her cats and these all-consuming dreams? Dream men were fine and all, but they couldn’t bite your nipple at just the right time.
He has to be real, she thought, the palpable change in her skin making her more certain than ever that whatever she had dreamed had been more than wishful thinking. He’s out there, somewhere. He’s real.
He has to be.
Don’t you mean ‘they’? a voice inside her hissed, the trickster who made her doubt, made her insecure and self-deprecating, asked in a disapproving voice.
They.
The second man had appeared with such stealth, yet such prowess, that she blended the two together in her addled mind. They weren’t the same, though. Distinct and heavenly, they were two separate men.
And both wanted her.
She inhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the kitchen counter, her breasts flushed with the memory of how all four hands on her had made her ache.
In the dream, she’d known that ache would soon ease as they pleasured her to release. Too bad life didn’t imitate the mind's-eye movie she'd invented in her sleep. If it did, she’d hire someone to hack her back into that moment and live out her wildest sexual fantasies.
Pouring her now-too-strong tea, she smiled at the thought. Fantasies. They’re all fantasies, right? The first sip of chamomile made her mouth twist from the concentration, but by her third she was calmer. More centered.
Less dreamy.
Thin strands of the reverie slowly faded away. She tried to conjure an image of the man’s forearm but couldn’t. Then his scent. Cardamon and freshly-cut grass? Mint and orange? Synapses in her brain struggled to put it all together to form the atmosphere in which she’d awoken.