Page 21 of Holly Jolly Heresy
“Molly...” The grit in his voice sent electricity down her spine.
“I don’t like the dark,” she admitted. “As in, I hate it.” Even with his face half in shadow, she felt his eyes on her. “Please stay.”
At last, he crossed the room to the bedside and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. He slid beneath the covers, careful not to touch her. His breathing was somehow louder than thewind outside, the heat radiating from him making her almost too warm, and yet she wouldn’t have said so for all the world.
“Why do you hate the dark?” His voice rumbled through her, low and reassuring even though it was difficult to see his face.
“I don’t know. I just always have. I get these nightmares that seem so real and—” She shook off the thought. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“It’s not silly to me.”
His words settled over her like a weighted blanket. “The nightmares are bad enough, but when I wake up from them, if I can’t see where I am, if I don’t know I’m safe, it’s hard to make myself believe it was just a dream.”
Another crack outside tore through the night air and she let out a yelp of surprise, pushing back against him, her back to his front, as though she could get away from the sounds outside her window. As though just being near him could calm the sudden adrenaline rushing through her veins.
“Shhh,” he crooned, gathering her against him. “I’ve got you.”
She wrapped her arms around his, pulling him closer as she settled into his heat, his pine and sandalwood scent enveloping her. The scruff of his chin scraped at the place where her neck met her shoulder and she wondered how it would feel against other parts of her. A bolt of desire arrowed between her legs and she pressed her thighs together.
She held her breath and pushed back against him, her backside grinding against his groin and the unmistakable bulge of him pressed to her. A low rumble sounded in his throat as the bulge jolted, lengthened, and his fingertips slid into the opening of her robe, digging into her waist as he attempted to hold her still.
“Caleb.”
His muscled thigh slid between her legs, pressing mercifully at the apex of her thighs. She shivered in his hold and pressed back, the pressure delicious and not nearly enough.
“Go to sleep, Molly,” he said, his voice all gravel and command. As if she could sleepnow.His thigh pressed against her tighter, holding her captive in a place of suspended desire. “Please.”
If this was all she could have, one night in his arms, then she’d take it, knowing it would never be enough.
At some point she must have drifted off to sleep. When she woke in the darkness, shadows cast from the low fire across the room, Caleb was still there, his hands large and hot on her skin beneath her robe and his breath warm on her cheek. Their legs were still tangled and she rocked experimentally against his thigh, the need pulsing through her all-consuming. Could she come like this, with just his thigh to grind against?
She circled her hips, pleasure shooting through her at the added pressure, and she stifled a groan. Then she did it again. Each movement of her hips also had the unexpected but undeniably enticing side effect of pressing her ass against Caleb’s erection. Another circle, another groan, this time of frustration. It wasn’t enough. She needed more.
One of his hands, rough and warm, slid up her waist, his thumb brushing against the underside of her breast, the nail scratching lightly through the lace of her bra, and she stifled a gasp.
“Do that again,” she whispered.
And he did. She melted into his touch, into the knowledge that he was touching her back.
“Caleb—”
“Shhh.” He cut her off, his face buried in her hair, lips against her shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said, just as he’d said when he first climbed into bed.
“This doesn’t feel real,” she whispered into the dark.
Another slow swipe of his thumb. “Maybe it’s not.” His hand closed over hers, lacing his fingers with hers from behind, and he dragged her palm up to cup her own breast, his hand holding hers in place, directing her movement. His breath was hot against her ear. “Maybe I’m not even really here.”
Together, they massaged her breast, his movements dictating hers, and she arched into the contact. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” she offered.
He hummed, a deep, molten sound. His free hand closed over her free hand on her stomach, his fingertips dragging over the soft skin of her belly through her fingers. “Is this what you dream about, angel?”
The nickname skipped across her skin, like a stone across water, each point of connection a ripple of something electric and warm wrapping itself around her. She slid her hand lower, taking his with her, until they settled between her parted thighs. It was her own fingertip tracing her slit, her own finger slowly circling her clit, but it was his controlling the pace, the pressure. She was so wet already, her clit throbbing with the need to come, and she thought she really must be dreaming.
He rocked against her, grinding his cock against her ass in slow, unhurried movements, as though they had all the time in the world. As though this wasn’t a stolen moment that never should have belonged to them.
Molly moved lower, sliding two fingers deep inside herself as his hold moved to her wrist, urging her on, but not touching her directly. Not really.
“In my dreams, you touch me,” she said, near tears with want of it.
