Page 37 of Speeding Hearts

His arms were around me, pulling me close. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. It’s a nightmare, that’s all. I’m here.”

My heart thundered in my chest, my breath sticking in my lungs. But I leaned into Dean, unsure whether this was real or a new dream—a better, perfect dream in which Dean and I were together. It felt good and safe and sure.

Then I woke up again.

Outside, dawn had broken. I lay there in that strange and fuzzy half-sleep, half-awake state of consciousness—a soft and beautiful place. I was aware of impossibly golden light shining in through the curtains and the sound of birdsong and the babbling creek. It was so perfect, so sweet and pure, I let myself melt into it.

And found myself melting into something hard behind me. Something very hard.

My eyes pinged open. Dean’s arm was in the crook under my neck. His face was nestled into my cheek, my whole body curved into his. We fit like two cups tucked into each other.

Then he shifted, groaning against me, and I felt something else.

A hardness against my tailbone.

A tingling sensation spread from the spot, sending waves of warmth across me.

Dean’s hand—the one that wasn’t attached to his arm under me and which must have been resting on his own hip—came forward, drawing across my ribcage. He slid it down further, to my hip. My lower half was exposed, his shirt having ridden up at some point in the night.

My bare ass was pressed up against him. That warmth turned to heat—molten, liquid heat.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe, not wanting to stop this moment.

He wasn’t awake, I knew. He would never do this, not without me consenting.

Probably not at all.

The pang that thought sent through me stung. He didn’t want me like this normally. Or maybe, if this dreaming of his was any indication, he did, but it was just a physical reaction.

I knew how important our friendship was to him. He’d told me enough times.Friendshipbeing the operative word.

But I also didn’t want to derail his life, and the happiness he could have with someone who was here to stay. Someone who knew how to have relationships.

That thought should have made me stop him. I would have, but the feeling of his hand on me made a warmth spread between my legs, and for a half second, I forgot myself.

Finally, as much as my body—my everything—yearned to see just how far this would go, I forced myself to act.

“Dean,” I whispered.

“Mmph,” he grunted into my shoulder.

“Dean!” I whispered again. But I didn’t move. I didn’t try to stop his roving hand when it slid up my bare waist, across my stomach.

“God, Stella, you’re so fucking perfect,” he said.

Even in his dream state he knew it was me, at least. That was something.

“Dean!” I said, loud enough that he froze.

For a moment we lay there, perfectly still. I could picture him blinking behind me, trying to figure out what was happening.

Then I heard his sharp inhale.

“Jesus—” he pulled away in a jerking movement. The sheet went with him, the duvet having disappeared in the warm early morning sun.

“I’ve never seen a man move so fast,” I said, turning to him. “And I work at a racetrack.”

The joke didn’t have the desired effect. He didn’t laugh, and I didn’t feel less embarrassed.

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