Dark Child (Wild Men 5)

The kitten jumps on the bed, sniffing here and there, ears swiveling. She sniffs Merc’s foot, and he doesn’t even twitch. She pats his foot with her paw.

Then she meows softly and jumps off the bed.

She’s in love with him.

Kitty has good taste.

I need to pee so badly. Carefully I extricate myself from his arms. He tightens his hold, then relaxes again and lets go.

Rolling out of bed, I throw on Merc’s T-shirt that I find lying on the carpet and open the door. The corridor is empty. The coast is clear. I pad to the bathroom, pee and brush my teeth using a blob of toothpaste on my finger.

Kitty stares at me from the open door, then skitters away when I move toward it. She’s like a ghost on rewind.

I glance at the bathtub, my pussy throbbing hard. I wonder if I’ll ever see a bathtub and not get wet from the memory of Merc’s muscular body gleaming in the

water, of his cock deep inside me, his hooded eyes watching me, hazed over with lust.

And then going down on me on the bed, and fucking me into the mattress … Holy shit, now I’m aroused again.

I can’t stop smiling as I return to the bedroom. God, I’m hooked on Merc Watson.

Big news? Yeah, no. Guess I’ve known it from the first moment, but it just struck me like a bolt of lightning to the heart.

I’m in love.

“Hey,” someone says, and I yelp at the dark form looming over me. “It’s me, JC.”

I nod. “You scared me.” I give him a shaky grin. “And hey yourself.”

“Is Merc okay? I thought I heard something.”

“What do you mean?” I’m very aware of the fact I’m standing wearing nothing but Merc’s T-shirt, my hair a nest, smelling of sex, in front of his brooding handsome roommate. “Like what?”

“He has bad dreams,” he says, not answering my question. “Damn bad ones, most nights.”

“Most nights? Like, almost every night?”

Why didn’t he tell me? So this is why he doesn’t sleep well?

JC takes a step back, retreating into his bedroom. “Maybe it was nothing. I’m not sure I heard him, anyway.”

“Well, he was fine five minutes ago,” I mutter.

And why does it feel like his roommate is used to checking up on him, to wake him up from nightmares?

Turning away, I throw Merc’s bedroom door open and stop.

It’s as if a shadow has fallen over the room—and Merc is curled up tightly on the bed, arms folded over his head. A sound permeates the quiet.

Harsh breathing.

Then a deep groan. Not of pleasure, this time. His body jerks. A grimace distorts his face.

Shit. Nightmare. I should wake him up.

But before I move, he starts to thrash, hitting the mattress with his hands and kicking at the covers, back arching, garbled sounds leaving his mouth.

Shit, shit.