Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 29

“And why not? Recollect I am only a dream, merely a wisp of smoke in the dark that vanishes by morning.” His lips were now inches from hers. “Just a revenant.”

“Yes,” she whispered, sucking her lower lip between her teeth as he watched. “An incubus.”

“A far more accurate description.”

His features appeared to pulse into stark relief despite the anemic glow through the window. So strange that she could see him clearly. Yes, definitely a dream. Moreover, the real Winterly would never have called her Emmaline. There was no harm in dreaming. No harm in doing in dreams what was disallowed in reality.

His teeth flashed in the dark as he smiled. “I can hear your heart quickening.”

“It is the sound of fear.”

“No, my rose.” He held her fast with his smokey gaze. “This is a dream, remember—you cannot lie to yourself here. Your flesh and blood betray you. Your blood sings to mine.” His mouth was positioned just out of reach, a challenging quirk lifting the corner. “If you are afeared it is only your own desire you fear.”

It was now up to her to complete the contact. To move in if she dared. “Am I really dreaming?” This felt so surreal.

Was it a trick of the light that insinuated those unholy teeth to gleam between his smile? The assenting grin of a crocodile.

“I suppose I must be dreaming.” His scent somehow pervaded her dreams too, beckoning her further and closer into sweet oblivion. With an audible sigh, she lifted her head off the pillow and closed the distance between their lips.

Never had a dream awakened her longing as this one did. Never had her blood burned with such need! His lips molded perfectly to hers as though her flesh alone had been created to fit his; to bear his every kiss.

The very moment she bridged that fateful gap and met his challenge, he swooped down with forbidden hunger and sultry promises. She relished their kiss—her very first in fact—almost wishing that it was real, and pulled his head down more firmly over hers with a confidence that she never could have affected in wakefulness. With fistfuls of his thick hair grasped between demanding fingers, she parted her lips ever wider. An invitation that Winterly was all too eager to accept, for he deepened the kiss at once.

Though pleasure threatened to consume her senses entirely, she became suddenly aware that his palm was inching up her parted thigh. His hand finally ceased just shy of where the confluence of heat and pleasure throbbed in a primeval cadence. She froze. Surely this incubus would not dare to—oh! But he did.

Emma arched her back, pressing herself into him. It was at once unbearable and sublime! With all-consuming heat, he branded her lips and then her neck. Then he pushed her chemise aside and lowered his mouth to the swollen peaks that caged her maddened heart. That such pleasure had existed within her all this time without her having ever been aware of its latency was enough to bring her to tears. Would that this was not a dream! Heaven help her, she almost wanted this—him—to be real.

And his hand was doing such wicked things! How could she dream this when she’d never even…known…

Doubt obtruded like a cold gust of reality, sending little wakes rippling through her mind. It was enough to disturb her from the drugging effect of the pleasure that her dream Winterly had evoked.

“Stop!” She bolted upright, ready to push his hand away if he did not obey her.

But she was alone, trembling. Her body still shuddered with need. There was nobody in her room, only the presence of a chlorotic light seeping through the window panes. Dawn approaching. He had never been there in the first place! Was she really awake this time?

Emma collapsed back onto her mattress, her breathing labored and her body aching most where his hand had last been…in the dream, of course. The real Winterly’s hand had never been anywhere near there. “Just a dream.” But why did her lips feel so tender; why did her breasts ache. Why was the window open?

She jumped from the bed to light a candle, and then secured the hasp at the window frame before backing away. She was troubled, almost certain now that she had closed the casement before she’d snuffed the first candle out.

“Just a dream,” she assured herself again. Yes, now she remembered, she’d been flushed from the wine and forbidden flirtation, and had opened the window. That made sense.

Yet by the time the sun had returned all color to her room, she was no longer so sure. Dreams did not, after all, leave marks. Yet there, in the looking glass, Emma perceived a small dark bruise upon her neck.