senses: the tremor that shook her body, the little moan when he nipped her generous lower lip, and the way she kissed him back, eager as any courtesan.
Some part of his mind reminded him that a dream wasn’t real. But damn, he had conjured a wonderful Dream Grace.
His hand slid to her breast and even though he had to tear away yet another layer of cloth—this dream was irritatingly precise—he finally had a breast in his hand. It was the most delightfully rounded breast he could have imagined. It was perfect. He nuzzled her, and then kissed her nipple, and the only thing that made him sad was that he couldn’t see it.
Suddenly he remembered that this was his dream. So he demanded, “What color is your nipple?”
Dream Grace was gasping in a way that made his whole body vibrate with desire. When she didn’t answer, he commanded, “Tell me.” He’d never heard that tone in his voice before. He sounded like a satyr.
Since he was a satyr, he might as well keep going. He moved back just enough so that he could run a hand up her legs, under her skirts. She still hadn’t answered his question, but her breath was coming in little gasps, so he let it go.
Dream Grace had a mind of her own, it seemed. Or maybe she didn’t know any more about her breasts than he did, because if he didn’t know, she couldn’t . . .
But the complications of dreaming up a naked person slipped away from him, because now he had a hand running up the luscious curve of her inner thigh. Under his fingertips, her skin was like the softest satin he’d ever felt.
He wanted to taste her, so he pushed off the seat onto the carriage floor. The floor was hard under his knees—again, congratulations to his imagination for realistic detail—but he wasn’t going to complain.
He might have finessed it a bit if he was with a real woman, but this was his dream. He pushed the gown straight up to her waist and pulled off her drawers.
Dream Grace babbled with surprise, but he refused to listen. His imagination was correct in that detail: Real Grace, with her lovely air of dignity, would never allow herself to be debauched in a coach. She wouldn’t be surprised, but outraged.
“This is my dream,” he informed Dream Grace, putting a stern note in his voice.
Then he began licking her inner thighs, making his way toward heaven. He was almost there when the coach lurched and his lips fell directly on a silken tuft of hair. His mind told him the hair was likely a delicate red. His mind also complimented him on the clever way the coach motion had worked in his favor.
Dream Grace sounded urgent now. “Trust me,” he said, silently telling his dream girl how much he adored and respected her.
Telling her that he would make love to her in a queen’s bed or a stable, if she would give him a chance.
That she was the center of his universe.
It worked. Dream Grace caught his hand in hers, and then she kissed the tips of his fingers. The touch of her lips drove him mad.
He lowered his head and ran his tongue over that little twist of hair again, pushing her legs apart to make room for his shoulders. He had never tasted anything sweeter. What’s more, he could hear Dream Grace’s breath changing, coming even faster. Her hand tightened on his, but he still had one free hand. He trailed his fingers up the smooth skin of her thigh, up and down, finally came closer.
She twisted against him, murmuring words that Real Grace would never say . . . begging him, pleading with him.
He loved it. Dream Grace had no dignity and no restraint. She was all sensuality, with desire that sprang from her heart and body.
He ran a finger over her delicately. His hands had never felt so large and clumsy as they were at this moment. She screamed at his touch. The sound was pure pleasure, but he spared a moment to remind his imagination that it was his dream and virginity should have no part in it. He didn’t want that scream to have a hint of pain.
Sure enough, Dream
Some part of his mind reminded him that a dream wasn’t real. But damn, he had conjured a wonderful Dream Grace.
His hand slid to her breast and even though he had to tear away yet another layer of cloth—this dream was irritatingly precise—he finally had a breast in his hand. It was the most delightfully rounded breast he could have imagined. It was perfect. He nuzzled her, and then kissed her nipple, and the only thing that made him sad was that he couldn’t see it.
Suddenly he remembered that this was his dream. So he demanded, “What color is your nipple?”
Dream Grace was gasping in a way that made his whole body vibrate with desire. When she didn’t answer, he commanded, “Tell me.” He’d never heard that tone in his voice before. He sounded like a satyr.
Since he was a satyr, he might as well keep going. He moved back just enough so that he could run a hand up her legs, under her skirts. She still hadn’t answered his question, but her breath was coming in little gasps, so he let it go.
Dream Grace had a mind of her own, it seemed. Or maybe she didn’t know any more about her breasts than he did, because if he didn’t know, she couldn’t . . .
But the complications of dreaming up a naked person slipped away from him, because now he had a hand running up the luscious curve of her inner thigh. Under his fingertips, her skin was like the softest satin he’d ever felt.
He wanted to taste her, so he pushed off the seat onto the carriage floor. The floor was hard under his knees—again, congratulations to his imagination for realistic detail—but he wasn’t going to complain.
He might have finessed it a bit if he was with a real woman, but this was his dream. He pushed the gown straight up to her waist and pulled off her drawers.
Dream Grace babbled with surprise, but he refused to listen. His imagination was correct in that detail: Real Grace, with her lovely air of dignity, would never allow herself to be debauched in a coach. She wouldn’t be surprised, but outraged.
“This is my dream,” he informed Dream Grace, putting a stern note in his voice.
Then he began licking her inner thighs, making his way toward heaven. He was almost there when the coach lurched and his lips fell directly on a silken tuft of hair. His mind told him the hair was likely a delicate red. His mind also complimented him on the clever way the coach motion had worked in his favor.
Dream Grace sounded urgent now. “Trust me,” he said, silently telling his dream girl how much he adored and respected her.
Telling her that he would make love to her in a queen’s bed or a stable, if she would give him a chance.
That she was the center of his universe.
It worked. Dream Grace caught his hand in hers, and then she kissed the tips of his fingers. The touch of her lips drove him mad.
He lowered his head and ran his tongue over that little twist of hair again, pushing her legs apart to make room for his shoulders. He had never tasted anything sweeter. What’s more, he could hear Dream Grace’s breath changing, coming even faster. Her hand tightened on his, but he still had one free hand. He trailed his fingers up the smooth skin of her thigh, up and down, finally came closer.
She twisted against him, murmuring words that Real Grace would never say . . . begging him, pleading with him.
He loved it. Dream Grace had no dignity and no restraint. She was all sensuality, with desire that sprang from her heart and body.
He ran a finger over her delicately. His hands had never felt so large and clumsy as they were at this moment. She screamed at his touch. The sound was pure pleasure, but he spared a moment to remind his imagination that it was his dream and virginity should have no part in it. He didn’t want that scream to have a hint of pain.
Sure enough, Dream
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