intriguing rumble eased into the dream man's tone.
Silvana lifted her head for the first time to look at him. “No,” she answered, thinking she was being honest yet knowing he could tell with one glance at her flushed chest, her pebbled nipples or her dripping cunt that she lied through her teeth.
He narrowed his gaze. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Impatience? Or something else? Something stronger—like frustration, maybe? Or fury?
He lifted his hand to drag it through his short-cropped curls that hugged his scalp closely. That's when she noticed the handcuffs attached to each wrist.
Silvana frowned. He'd never worn handcuffs before. She was the only one who ever got restrained in these dreams. Never him or any of his friends.
But he wasn't restrained, she realized. The cuffs hung loosely around each wrist. The chain that should have bound them together had been split into two, with each fragmented link drooping downward to disappear into thin air. She couldn't see what, if anything, anchored the shackles.
He dropped to his knees, planted his palms on her hips and took a long, deep whiff of her arousal. Silvana pinched her eyes closed to stem the hot wash of tears that threatened to spill from beneath her eyelids. Oh God, this wasn't fair. Her dreams had never been humiliating before. Being on display like this, in front of more men than she cared to think about, nearly undid her.
And it aroused her to the brink of madness.
He knows. Damn him, he always knows .
No matter how much she disliked her body, which even in human form was closer to plucky plump than runway rail, she loved the attention focused on her.
"She's ready.” Her mystery man practically growled the words.
She blinked her eyes open just in time to see those men seated in the front row rising to their feet, breaking away from the others and climbing the narrow steps leading to the stage. There must have been a dozen of them. Or more ... she couldn't tell.
Frissons of blazing awareness shook her body. The harder she trembled, the more her ass wiggled against the slick surface of the table, and the more her pussy pulsed with wanton arousal.
The men were always different. Blonds, brunets, redheads. With blue, green, and brown eyes. White men, Asian men, black men of all ages. Some had long, glossy black hair. Others sported no hair at all anywhere on their bodies.
They did share a few features, however. Rock-hard abs, chiseled chests, perfect faces ... and long, thick cocks. All eager to part her feminine folds and plunge deep into her aching pussy.
Only one man was the same in every fantasy. Her mystery lover. The one with the chocolate-colored skin and black eyes as dark as night. The one who devoured her with his gaze and touched her so tenderly she thought her heart would shatter.
The only one who ever even tried to kiss her mouth.
Hands fell upon her, touching her breasts, her ribcage, her thighs. Each talented stroke made her wiggle with fierce desperation. Lust built in her core, pulsing in her clit. She needed to be touched there—oh, there!—and someone generously obliged.
Tongues and lips followed the hands. She felt them everywhere, right up to her breasts. No one bothered to caress her neck or face. She bit down on the fleshy pad of her lower lip, hard, but she was past the point of wanting to shock herself into waking up.
The climax humming through her system formed a low, thrumming buzz in her pussy, causing the walls of her inner channel to clench and unclench in wicked agony.
Someone parted her thighs. She looked down to see a blond head pressed against her mound. A tongue speared her slit, pushing her folds aside, honing in on the entrance to her throbbing channel. She gritted her teeth and thrust her hips forward. Her belly jiggled like a plate of day old Jell-O, but she was past caring about that too.
All that mattered now was the impending orgasm. So close. And unlike in reality, completely free of embarrassing
Silvana lifted her head for the first time to look at him. “No,” she answered, thinking she was being honest yet knowing he could tell with one glance at her flushed chest, her pebbled nipples or her dripping cunt that she lied through her teeth.
He narrowed his gaze. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Impatience? Or something else? Something stronger—like frustration, maybe? Or fury?
He lifted his hand to drag it through his short-cropped curls that hugged his scalp closely. That's when she noticed the handcuffs attached to each wrist.
Silvana frowned. He'd never worn handcuffs before. She was the only one who ever got restrained in these dreams. Never him or any of his friends.
But he wasn't restrained, she realized. The cuffs hung loosely around each wrist. The chain that should have bound them together had been split into two, with each fragmented link drooping downward to disappear into thin air. She couldn't see what, if anything, anchored the shackles.
He dropped to his knees, planted his palms on her hips and took a long, deep whiff of her arousal. Silvana pinched her eyes closed to stem the hot wash of tears that threatened to spill from beneath her eyelids. Oh God, this wasn't fair. Her dreams had never been humiliating before. Being on display like this, in front of more men than she cared to think about, nearly undid her.
And it aroused her to the brink of madness.
He knows. Damn him, he always knows .
No matter how much she disliked her body, which even in human form was closer to plucky plump than runway rail, she loved the attention focused on her.
"She's ready.” Her mystery man practically growled the words.
She blinked her eyes open just in time to see those men seated in the front row rising to their feet, breaking away from the others and climbing the narrow steps leading to the stage. There must have been a dozen of them. Or more ... she couldn't tell.
Frissons of blazing awareness shook her body. The harder she trembled, the more her ass wiggled against the slick surface of the table, and the more her pussy pulsed with wanton arousal.
The men were always different. Blonds, brunets, redheads. With blue, green, and brown eyes. White men, Asian men, black men of all ages. Some had long, glossy black hair. Others sported no hair at all anywhere on their bodies.
They did share a few features, however. Rock-hard abs, chiseled chests, perfect faces ... and long, thick cocks. All eager to part her feminine folds and plunge deep into her aching pussy.
Only one man was the same in every fantasy. Her mystery lover. The one with the chocolate-colored skin and black eyes as dark as night. The one who devoured her with his gaze and touched her so tenderly she thought her heart would shatter.
The only one who ever even tried to kiss her mouth.
Hands fell upon her, touching her breasts, her ribcage, her thighs. Each talented stroke made her wiggle with fierce desperation. Lust built in her core, pulsing in her clit. She needed to be touched there—oh, there!—and someone generously obliged.
Tongues and lips followed the hands. She felt them everywhere, right up to her breasts. No one bothered to caress her neck or face. She bit down on the fleshy pad of her lower lip, hard, but she was past the point of wanting to shock herself into waking up.
The climax humming through her system formed a low, thrumming buzz in her pussy, causing the walls of her inner channel to clench and unclench in wicked agony.
Someone parted her thighs. She looked down to see a blond head pressed against her mound. A tongue speared her slit, pushing her folds aside, honing in on the entrance to her throbbing channel. She gritted her teeth and thrust her hips forward. Her belly jiggled like a plate of day old Jell-O, but she was past caring about that too.
All that mattered now was the impending orgasm. So close. And unlike in reality, completely free of embarrassing
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