Page 32 of Full Throttle

What the fuck was she begging for?

Jealously formed inside me, coming from somewhere in the shadows of my soul.

Who the fuck was she dreaming about—in my damn shirt?

I prowled around to the foot of the bed, not knowing what to do. All I could do was watch her in a tortured silence, knives gathering in my throat.

Her back arched, causing the comforter to slide down further as her leg fell flat. She whimpered again, but I didn’t think it was from pleasure, it sounded pained. At that thought, my eyes dropped going down her neck, past her chest to where her ribs were. She needed to stop before she hurt herself in her sleep.

I was frozen, in a trace as I watched her body writhe, urged on by the dream overtaking her mind. I wanted to call out to her, but for some reason, I couldn’t. My eyes wanted to take everything in, memorize this, engrave the scene in my mind for the rest of my life.

A lifetime of hell, picturing her.

Dominique tossed her head back and forth, her silk hair flying with her. Her lips parted as her body tensed, letting out a sound that made me want to fall to my damn knees. “More, more. Please,” she moaned.

Fuck, she was having a sex dream.

Holy fucking—

My heart was pounding in my chest, sending all the blood in my body straight down to my crotch as it began to swell. With a soft growl, I tore my gaze from her.

This is wrong, Cain.

With all the will I could manage, my feet moved, carrying me away from the bed—from her. I walked through the room painted in a purple light, my ears ringing from her mews and whimpers. They weren’t for me to hear, and I wasn’t supposed to be seeing this.

My hand yanked the door open, my body filled with desire I hadn’t felt in years as I left the room.

Fucking years.

Without a second thought, I left the door cracked, leaning against the wall bedside it as I continued to listen. Sheets ruffled. More mews escaped from her lips. More begging.

She wouldn’t have to beg with me. At least, not that much.

Suddenly, images flooded my mind. Ones of me going back in there and fucking her out of her sleep. I groaned, old memories banging on the locked door in my mind that I shoved them behind when I left Detroit. This was dangerous.

Foolish.

Reckless.

She wasn’t dreaming of me—she never dreamt of me.

That message was clear during my time in New York.

“Please,” she begged again, her voice louder and stronger than before.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight, and my eyes shot to the crack in the door. I stopped breathing at the sight of her open eyes, staring up at the ceiling, her chest heaving. The room filled with her sharp inhales and exhales as I watched her try to process the dream.

“Shit,” she breathed, her voice shaking as her hand came to her forehead. She brought both of her knees up, kicking the comforter away, exposing her long, golden legs, her right foot wrapped in bandages.

My jaw hardened to the point of pain—mirroring my dick straining against the zipper of my pants.

I’d never seen anything more beautiful—

What the fuck was she doing?

Through the crack, I witnessed her bite her bottom lip, her knees falling open as her hand dropped from her forehead to her breast, cupping it over my shirt. Dominique moaned again. “Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this,” she sighed in frustration, messaging her breast.

No, you fucking shouldn’t. Not with a man like me watching.

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