Dream Lover by Kristina Wright (ed) Page A

to underlay. At the far end was a torn armchair and a glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, drips of water falling from its pendants and splashing into a plastic bowl. There was still no sign of him.
    Turning, I stepped down from the rubble, shining my flashlight about Merrick’s room. When I saw the wall opposite, a wave of horror hit me. My heart in my mouth, I scrolled the beam of light over tile-patterned wallpaper, back and forth, not
wanting to believe it. A ghost of a fireplace scarred the wall and spray-painted above it, in huge, red letters, was the word PETER. It looked like the work of a madman.
    Had Merrick written that? Was he nuts? Who was Peter? I had no time to consider my questions because Merrick sprang at me from behind. I spun around at the sound of him scrambling down the rubble, catching only a glimpse of him before he clamped a hand to my mouth, stilling my scream. I remembered falling from a window, trying to fly and failing as the pavement raced toward me. It wasn’t my memory.
    Merrick held me tight, an arm wrapped across my stomach, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ll catch you if you fall,” he said.
    His words made me weak. I couldn’t recall ever hearing anyone say a sentence so simultaneously romantic and sexy. I relaxed in his grip, wanting to hand myself over to this man, feeling I could trust him to be good, even if he was insane. My heart was thumping and so was my cunt. When his hand slipped down to cup my groin, bunching my skirt between my thighs, I didn’t protest. He rubbed me there and I liked it, even though I felt he had no right to touch me in such a way.
    “That good, huh?” he murmured. His lips nuzzled against my ear.
    I said nothing. The hand on my mouth was hot, rough, and smelled of nicotine while the hand between my legs was melting me. “I want to do things to you,” he continued. “Dark, filthy things to unite us.”
    I moaned into his hand. I wanted that too, wanted it so badly.
    “Do you trust me?” he asked. “Are you wet?”
    His voice, so close to my ear, was driving me to distraction. I didn’t know which question to answer and his hand was
covering my mouth, so I couldn’t speak anyway. I whimpered in confusion and want.
    “Don’t scream,” he said. “Okay?”
    I shook my head, saying nothing when he removed his hand. Standing behind me, he unfastened the top couple of buttons on my blouse then pushed the shoulders down my arms, baring my bra. Working methodically, he pushed the straps down then scooped my flesh from the cups, exposing my breasts as if to an audience. My nipples shriveled to tight, tingling points. He clasped my hands behind my back and rubbed his stubble against my neck. I reached for him with my pinned hands, brushing the swell of his jeans, excited to find him hard.
    “We’re waiting for Peter,” he said.
    I squealed and tried to break free. He held me firm.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he said.
    I was afraid, of course I was, but then my fear evaporated as something swept across my breasts, something hot, wet, and inhuman. I groaned at the touch, an unearthly caress lapping like warm water and swirls of silk. Again and again, the sensation moved across me, a massaging lightness with a rich, peaty weight. I knew then that Peter had drowned.
    “Do you like him?” asked Merrick
    “I love him,” I replied. I remembered falling through the air toward the street, flying toward Peter and death.
    “Good girl. Are you wet?”
    Merrick lifted my skirt, slipped a hand between my legs and stroked me through my underwear, his fingers light and teasing. He kept me there for several seconds before asking, “More?”
    I moaned and thrust against his hand. He laughed softly, edging my underwear aside to find me. I was soaked and empty, my body straining with the need to be filled. He hooked a couple of fingers inside me, nudging and rubbing. My juices clicked
stickily while behind us in the other room, water dripped from the