Oh, fuck me. Those fucking, fucking dreams.
“Uh, I have weird dreams?” I offered, smiling weakly at him.
Apparently, my explanation wasn’t sufficient. Then again, I had been eating him.
“And this?” he asked, thrusting his hips up into the hand that was under the waistband of his boxers.
I had absolutely zero control over my hand at that moment as my fingers spasmed around it. That’s when I woke up fully, realizing that I wasn’t just touching it, I had my full hand wrapped around it like a tart.
I was molesting the poor man in his bloody sleep!
Snatching my hand back, I gasped, “Shit on it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Unfortunately, as I’d brought my hand away from him, the tight elastic waistband of his boxers had snapped down, smacking part of his penis if the low groan and slightly curled body was anything to go by. Basically, I’d just used his boxers like a slingshot to hit what I knew was one of the most sensitive parts of his body.
Shitting shit.
Still curled up, he pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. “I didn’t have an issue with it until you did that,” he wheezed, making me wince.
Bollocks, I’d assaulted him in two ways, and I’d only been awake for a matter of seconds. Christ, make that three ways because I’d tried to eat him in my sleep, too.
“I’m so sorry, Elijah. I didn’t mean to do that or molest you.” Then I looked away from him, even though he was distracted by pain and covering his own eyes, and muttered quietly, “Or eat you.”
The last bit was enough to distract him from whatever was going on down south because one hand left his face as he wrapped it around my back and pulled me closer to him.
“How do you know my cousin?”
Frowning, I tried to jerk away from him, realizing slightly too late that his injured hand was clamped firmly on an arse cheek, and that it had zero intentions of letting me go. Bugger!
“Which one?” I mean, he had about a thousand of them, so being specific would help.
“Tom,” he whisper hissed, lowering the other hand from the eye it’d been covering.
“I don’t know Tom,” I answered carefully. “I’ve met his brother, Cole, though.”
“So who’s Tom?”
Feeling like we were talking in riddles, I replied simply, “Your cousin?”
Growling, he rolled onto his side so that we were face to face and pulled me closer to him. I swear my nunney started performing like the drummer of a rock band. The slag!
“Pixie, why the fuck are you dreaming about Tom?”
“Your cousin’s a cat?”
The low light in my room was sufficient enough for me to see him grinding his teeth. Then again, I’d have heard it even we’d had zero light at all.
“I’m nearing the end of my patience,” he hissed, making me wonder if he could hear himself most of the time, but wisely I didn’t comment on the fact he had shit patience. “Why are you dreaming about Tom as a cat?”
Figuring it was best just to get it out there, I sucked in a deep breath and let rip. “The Tom I was dreaming about was as in Tom and Jerry, the cartoon. I dream about weird shit a lot, and tonight I was Jerry, and apparently, you were Tom…” I trailed off and looked at his ear, not wanting to make eye contact with him, “…and cheese.”
A choking noise escaped from him, but I didn’t break my eye relationship with his ear and look at him because there’d be more than that coming from him in a moment. It always happened when someone witnessed me during one of these dreams.
In five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
Then he burst out laughing, rolling onto his back and taking me with him. I’d started counting too late, apparently.
It had to be said, lying half on top of him with his torso tightening and relaxing and bouncing me up and down as he laughed was far from shoddy. Cue the psycho nunney drummer.
Normally I’d be trying to find a place to hide with the embarrassment, but a laughing Elijah Townsend-Rossi was a beautiful sight. So, like a true twat, I just lay there and watched the show, wishing his thigh—which was between my own—would move the way his stomach was. It would be the bestest vibrator ever invented.
And that was a sad thought. No penis, just a thigh was all that I needed to tip me over the edge.
Oh, how low we sinketh, Sadie Odessa Dahl.
Determined not to drop to the lowest point and shoot into loser orgasm central, I shifted my hips slightly and waited for him to settle down. “Are you done?”
“No,” he chuckled, his voice sounding husky. “You dream about cartoons, baby?”
There was a safe answer and an honest answer. Hesitantly, I went with a safe one. “Not always, but usually when I’m stressed or have an anxiety attack, I have weird dreams. Sometimes they can be funny like flying with Minions, other times they’re seriously weird.”