cheeks. She’d masturbated before—she was more than forty, a shifter and untouched, which pretty much made masturbation a requirement, especially when her dragon’s hormones got the best of her—but never had she experienced anything like what had happened last night. Never had her fantasies felt so real. Never had her imagined lover felt so hot and hard and ready.
A picture of Logan rose in her mind, his eyes glowing with sex and need and pure, unadulterated wickedness. An arrow of heat shot through her and she nearly came again, just sitting there imagining all the things he had done to her body last night.
In my dreams, she reminded herself as she climbed shakily to her feet. In my fantasies . None of what had happened last night had been real, no matter how it had felt at the time. She needed to remember that. As it was, she wasn’t sure how she was ever going to face him again.
When she’d left him yesterday, she had told him she would return. After the way he’d kissed her—and after what her mind had conjured up the night before—she was more than eager to do just that. But at the same time, she was embarrassed by her imagination, shocked by the creativity and reality of her own fantasies. What would Logan think of her if he knew what thoughts she’d been having about him? Would he like her fantasies or be disgusted by them? Last night had been raunchy and raw and more graphic than any fantasy she’d had before. In the light of day, it shocked even her. How could he fail to feel any differently?
And yet I want to find out, she realized as she walked into the house and straight for a hot shower. She wanted to know if the reality of Logan would live up to her fantasies, or if she was just setting herself up for disappointment. He was the first man she’d ever fantasized about. Usually, her dream lovers were shadowed, faceless men who pleasured her but whom she could never quite connect with.
Last night, she couldn’t have been more connected with her fantasy than if they had been handcuffed together. The thought brought on a whole new kind of heat, and Cecily nearly died. What was wrong with her? Why was she suddenly thinking and behaving like a sex-crazed fiend? And why wasn’t she more upset by the fact that she had masturbated in the middle of her backyard, where any dragon flying by could have seen her?
Who was this woman she was becoming, and what had happened to the old Cecily, the little mouse who hid in her father’s mansion and never dared to make waves?
A glance in the mirror told her she even looked different after last night. Her eyes were wide and glowing, her mouth swollen, her skin flushed a rosy, satisfied pink. Her nipples were standing at attention, stiff and tight beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown, and her muscles felt weak and achy, like they did after she’d overtaxed them with a particularly long flight.
Even her hair was different. Instead of flowing down her back in its usual straight style, it was completely out of control. Wavy, curly, snarled in some places, it looked like someone had spent hours plunging his hands through it. Immediately, her mind jumped back to Logan and their kiss by the lake. He had grabbed on to her hair, had wrapped it around his fist, and she had loved every second of it. And now, standing here, she loved knowing that in doing that, he had marked her in a tangible way—even if a shower would take care of it.
Her sex clenched at the thought of being marked by Logan in a more permanent way, and she heard him whisper again—as her fantasy lover had the night before—that he would spank her if she didn’t listen to him. Her knees turned to jelly at the memory, and she would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed on to the counter to catch herself.
God. She was insane. Absolutely crazy. This whole thing with the factionnaires was driving her completely around the bend. What other explanation was there for what she’d been thinking and
A picture of Logan rose in her mind, his eyes glowing with sex and need and pure, unadulterated wickedness. An arrow of heat shot through her and she nearly came again, just sitting there imagining all the things he had done to her body last night.
In my dreams, she reminded herself as she climbed shakily to her feet. In my fantasies . None of what had happened last night had been real, no matter how it had felt at the time. She needed to remember that. As it was, she wasn’t sure how she was ever going to face him again.
When she’d left him yesterday, she had told him she would return. After the way he’d kissed her—and after what her mind had conjured up the night before—she was more than eager to do just that. But at the same time, she was embarrassed by her imagination, shocked by the creativity and reality of her own fantasies. What would Logan think of her if he knew what thoughts she’d been having about him? Would he like her fantasies or be disgusted by them? Last night had been raunchy and raw and more graphic than any fantasy she’d had before. In the light of day, it shocked even her. How could he fail to feel any differently?
And yet I want to find out, she realized as she walked into the house and straight for a hot shower. She wanted to know if the reality of Logan would live up to her fantasies, or if she was just setting herself up for disappointment. He was the first man she’d ever fantasized about. Usually, her dream lovers were shadowed, faceless men who pleasured her but whom she could never quite connect with.
Last night, she couldn’t have been more connected with her fantasy than if they had been handcuffed together. The thought brought on a whole new kind of heat, and Cecily nearly died. What was wrong with her? Why was she suddenly thinking and behaving like a sex-crazed fiend? And why wasn’t she more upset by the fact that she had masturbated in the middle of her backyard, where any dragon flying by could have seen her?
Who was this woman she was becoming, and what had happened to the old Cecily, the little mouse who hid in her father’s mansion and never dared to make waves?
A glance in the mirror told her she even looked different after last night. Her eyes were wide and glowing, her mouth swollen, her skin flushed a rosy, satisfied pink. Her nipples were standing at attention, stiff and tight beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown, and her muscles felt weak and achy, like they did after she’d overtaxed them with a particularly long flight.
Even her hair was different. Instead of flowing down her back in its usual straight style, it was completely out of control. Wavy, curly, snarled in some places, it looked like someone had spent hours plunging his hands through it. Immediately, her mind jumped back to Logan and their kiss by the lake. He had grabbed on to her hair, had wrapped it around his fist, and she had loved every second of it. And now, standing here, she loved knowing that in doing that, he had marked her in a tangible way—even if a shower would take care of it.
Her sex clenched at the thought of being marked by Logan in a more permanent way, and she heard him whisper again—as her fantasy lover had the night before—that he would spank her if she didn’t listen to him. Her knees turned to jelly at the memory, and she would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed on to the counter to catch herself.
God. She was insane. Absolutely crazy. This whole thing with the factionnaires was driving her completely around the bend. What other explanation was there for what she’d been thinking and
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