beautifully bronzed and intoxicatingly muscled stranger.
A whimper pierced her sleep state. Jordis began to float
towards consciousness, but the dream gripped her tightly and lulled her back
down. In her dream, a different part of his anatomy took over her pleasure. A
slow methodic rocking bounced her gently up and down the beige flat paint of a
bedroom wall. Loud breaths and soft groans punctuated the staccato rhythm. Her
grip tightened on the hips of her dream gladiator, and she rocked him back. The
tempo built and she urged him harder, faster. Then it came, a coital explosion
so intense a real mewl of satisfaction escaped her lips and startled her awake.
She laid wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling and panting.
She’d heard his voice call her name in her sleep. This time, she recognized the
voice, and when he’d looked into her eyes, the once amorphous, indescribable
eye color appeared in Technicolor gray. Her dream gladiator’s eyes had been
unmistakably gray.
Jordis squeezed her damp, sticky thighs together. She’d come
in her sleep, but the edge wasn’t completely off. She lingered in a state of
semi-arousal. Although she had the mechanical means beneath her mattress to
relieve her discomfiture, she wouldn’t go there. She couldn’t go there, because
the face she’d seen in her sleep was . . . Michael Remington’s !
“ No ,” she
complained audibly to no one in particular, but hoped the universe and her uncooperative
subconscious would hear and heed.
She’d already been over this with herself. She would
not—could not—embrace a sexual fantasy about her boss. She rolled
onto her stomach, pulled a pillow over her head, and groaned. Ugh!! He’d
ruined a perfectly good dream. Now, she wouldn’t be able to separate her
gladiator fantasies from the olive-skinned, gray-eyed counselor.
She hadn’t had the gladiator dream in days. She’d had it
almost daily for a straight week after New Year’s. Her midnight rendezvous with
the costumed Lothario had played over and over, night after night, as clear as
a high definition movie. Somehow, in this morning’s version, her anonymous
suitor—previously safe fodder for fantasies of illicit sex—had morphed
into Mr. Macho. She didn’t even want to begin to analyze the Freudian implications
of that.
His voice had rolled over her like a sensuous massage, the
deep tone arousing her as much as the naughty imagery conjured by her dreaming
mind. She surmised Michael had crept into her fantasy because his nectarous
voice had been the last sound she’d heard before going to sleep last night, and
it had made her think of Spartacus. Nothing more to it than that . . . she
hoped.
Even as she rationalized the provocative dream, the glutinous
feeling between her thighs told another story. She’d never reached physical
fulfillment during her previous dreams about the gladiator. That she’d done so
this morning implied a burgeoning attraction for the svelte partner she’d been
loath to examine closely. In fact, she didn’t want to analyze the how comes and what fors or anything else about the situation even now. Nothing
good could come of it.
Her goal was partnership, her focus billable hours and
finding a way, other than sleeping with Remington, to get appointed to the
Metra Pharmaceuticals case. She needed to execute a serious display of mind
over matter or, more aptly, mind over libido. Like their elevator tryst from
the night before, Jordis intended—no, she needed —to put this
and him out of her mind.
Determined to do exactly that, she rolled out of
bed and headed for the bathroom.
* * *
Across town, Michael Remington slept in the buff with
morning wood to rival the trunk of a hundred-year-old redwood. Her moans
haunted him in his sleep. Juliet. Luscious breasts pressed against his bare
chest and her tanned skin looked good enough to eat. He pressed his lips
against her throat and in his dream, she emitted that sound that made him hard
as concrete. His
A whimper pierced her sleep state. Jordis began to float
towards consciousness, but the dream gripped her tightly and lulled her back
down. In her dream, a different part of his anatomy took over her pleasure. A
slow methodic rocking bounced her gently up and down the beige flat paint of a
bedroom wall. Loud breaths and soft groans punctuated the staccato rhythm. Her
grip tightened on the hips of her dream gladiator, and she rocked him back. The
tempo built and she urged him harder, faster. Then it came, a coital explosion
so intense a real mewl of satisfaction escaped her lips and startled her awake.
She laid wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling and panting.
She’d heard his voice call her name in her sleep. This time, she recognized the
voice, and when he’d looked into her eyes, the once amorphous, indescribable
eye color appeared in Technicolor gray. Her dream gladiator’s eyes had been
unmistakably gray.
Jordis squeezed her damp, sticky thighs together. She’d come
in her sleep, but the edge wasn’t completely off. She lingered in a state of
semi-arousal. Although she had the mechanical means beneath her mattress to
relieve her discomfiture, she wouldn’t go there. She couldn’t go there, because
the face she’d seen in her sleep was . . . Michael Remington’s !
“ No ,” she
complained audibly to no one in particular, but hoped the universe and her uncooperative
subconscious would hear and heed.
She’d already been over this with herself. She would
not—could not—embrace a sexual fantasy about her boss. She rolled
onto her stomach, pulled a pillow over her head, and groaned. Ugh!! He’d
ruined a perfectly good dream. Now, she wouldn’t be able to separate her
gladiator fantasies from the olive-skinned, gray-eyed counselor.
She hadn’t had the gladiator dream in days. She’d had it
almost daily for a straight week after New Year’s. Her midnight rendezvous with
the costumed Lothario had played over and over, night after night, as clear as
a high definition movie. Somehow, in this morning’s version, her anonymous
suitor—previously safe fodder for fantasies of illicit sex—had morphed
into Mr. Macho. She didn’t even want to begin to analyze the Freudian implications
of that.
His voice had rolled over her like a sensuous massage, the
deep tone arousing her as much as the naughty imagery conjured by her dreaming
mind. She surmised Michael had crept into her fantasy because his nectarous
voice had been the last sound she’d heard before going to sleep last night, and
it had made her think of Spartacus. Nothing more to it than that . . . she
hoped.
Even as she rationalized the provocative dream, the glutinous
feeling between her thighs told another story. She’d never reached physical
fulfillment during her previous dreams about the gladiator. That she’d done so
this morning implied a burgeoning attraction for the svelte partner she’d been
loath to examine closely. In fact, she didn’t want to analyze the how comes and what fors or anything else about the situation even now. Nothing
good could come of it.
Her goal was partnership, her focus billable hours and
finding a way, other than sleeping with Remington, to get appointed to the
Metra Pharmaceuticals case. She needed to execute a serious display of mind
over matter or, more aptly, mind over libido. Like their elevator tryst from
the night before, Jordis intended—no, she needed —to put this
and him out of her mind.
Determined to do exactly that, she rolled out of
bed and headed for the bathroom.
* * *
Across town, Michael Remington slept in the buff with
morning wood to rival the trunk of a hundred-year-old redwood. Her moans
haunted him in his sleep. Juliet. Luscious breasts pressed against his bare
chest and her tanned skin looked good enough to eat. He pressed his lips
against her throat and in his dream, she emitted that sound that made him hard
as concrete. His
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