Dream Nights With the CEO (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Megan couldn’t resist a thrill of anticipation. Finally, she was in Wyatt’s arms for real. Would the reality match up to their dream lovemaking? She hoped so.

She looked into his eyes as he approached her on the bed. Was he as nervous as she was? Was his heart beating as fast as hers? He didn’t look it. What she saw in his eyes was awe. A kind of reverence she never thought she’d inspire in a man, much less a man as amazing as Wyatt.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he breathed as he touched her cheek.

“That makes two of us.”

“I… uh… I bought some condoms.”

She flushed. “Me, too.”

“Well, then we’ve got a lot to live up to.”

She giggled, the sound a high, nervous kind of whinny. Oops.

He smiled, then let his hand slide down from her face, slowly trailing across her collarbone, and then… he stroked her breast.

Wow. Big hand, gentle fingers, and a thumb that roughed up her nipple enough to send an electric current straight to her womb. Her eyes drifted shut as she felt him lift and stroke her. She was on her knees, and her body started swaying.

“I’ve got a pillow,” he said. He left her only long enough to grab it and drop it on the bed. Then his hands were back on her, stroking across her ribs and stomach, sliding around to support her as he lay her down.

Then he paused, his brow furrowed. “I remember a sunlit field with a picnic blanket.”

“In our dream.”

He shuddered, still uncomfortable with the paranormal. Then he seemed to brush the thought away. “All I remember is wanting to lay you out just like this. So I could do this.”

He cupped her breast with his large hand. He shaped it, caressed it, and then he set his mouth to it. She cried out at the joy, the unimaginable wonder as he suckled her. What he did with his tongue had her toes curling and her body arching off the bed.

She felt him smile against her breast, and she could have said something smart ass. She wanted to, but what he was doing to her cut off all clever thought. Any thought. Then he palmed her other breast, squeezing until he had her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled and he twisted while she writhed beneath him.

Her breath was coming in short gasps, her hands were frantic, and suddenly she was pushing at his sweatpants.

“Take them off, Wyatt. Take mine off. Right now!”

He didn’t listen. Or maybe he just decided to take his sweet time. He kept suckling at her breast, the steady pulls making her moan. Meanwhile, his other hand went down to her jeans. She was busy tugging at his sweatpants, pushing them off his lean hips. They went easily, thank God. She only got them down past the curve of his bottom, and then she shifted her hands.

He was there. Thick and hard and so hot, she felt like he’d branded himself into her palm. She would always know the feel of his cock: broad and hard, almost flat in her hand, with a velvety soft mushroom head.

“Megan!” he gasped, lifting off her nipple. “I’ll explode.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “Seriously. I want to take my time.”

She shook her head. “No more time, big boy. We’ve both been waiting much too long.”

The look he gave her thrilled her down to her toes, but then he grimaced. “Condom.”

She blanched. She’d completely forgotten. Not that she didn’t want children someday. Potentially someday soon, but not at the moment. And she was grateful he remembered.

He looked up. “Damn it. Where did I put my briefcase?”

She laughed. “Don’t bother. Got one in my back pocket. Convenience store, first floor of my apartment build—” Her words were cut off as he fished his hand into her jeans pocket. Wow, the feel of his fingers wriggling right there was unexpectedly erotic. Then as he pulled it out and ripped open the package, she busied herself with stripping out of the rest of her clothes.

A moment later they were both naked except for the condom, and he was looking at her with an intensity that was all Wyatt. Then he stalked forward, his eyes dark, his nostrils flared. He settled both his hands on her hips and shifted her as easily as if she were a featherweight. Then he kissed her. Hard and deep.

She’d fallen backwards on the bed and was now caged beneath him. Pinned by his mouth on hers, his tongue thrusting deep. She was trapped here and she loved every second of it. If only he’d hurry up and—

Oh!

A single, hard thrust, and he was inside. She cried out. He groaned. And it was better than ever before. No dream could beat this reality.

But he didn’t move. He just froze there, so wonderfully deep.

“Megan…” Her name sounded half breath, half prayer, and she smiled. No man had ever said her name like that.

She didn’t answer. She hadn’t the breath. Instead, she squeezed her internal muscles and had the joy of hearing him groan again. Thank God for her Pilates class and her instructor who was fanatical about Kegal exercises. Without that training, she doubted she’d have the control to do this.

And then she waited, feeling full, feeling his weight, feeling him. It was so perfect, and then Wyatt lifted his head. He’d been kissing her neck, nuzzling in a way that made her shiver, but at this moment, fully seated, he slowly raised his eyes to look straight into hers.

That’s when she saw it. More than hunger, more than pleasure, his eyes held a promise. She’d seen it before, but never directed at her. It said as clear as day,
I’m going to make this work. Whatever it takes, whatever you need, we will make this work.

She swallowed, stunned by what she saw in his face. Her thoughts froze, but her heart beat out its own answer.
Yes,
it said with every pulse.
Yes, we will.
And in this way, he began to move. He never broke eye contact, and neither did she. The feelings were too intense for her to even blink. She just looked at him, seeing the way his lips parted as his breath began to shorten. His movements were measured and steady. Slow withdrawal, faster thrust. Each impact was a little harder, then he added a grind against her clit. She gasped, the pleasure becoming stars that danced at the edge of her vision.

This time she was the one who breathed a name. “Wyatt.” Half moan, half prayer.

Emotions welled up inside her. Joy, fear, love. So much love that it terrified her. And yet there was no slowing in their connection. Without thinking it, she raised her knees, giving him fuller freedom to move even as she gripped him tighter.

His thrusts became frenzied, his control shattered. Hers as well as she arched into him. She cried out as every slam of sensation exploded across her consciousness.

Delight. Desire. Her body was overloading with pleasure.

But in his eyes was something deeper. Something quieter, but so rich with feeling that she felt it beyond her body. She felt
him
touch her soul.

Orgasm ripped through her.

She cried out, as did he.

But their eyes never broke contact.

And in this way, she touched heaven.

…

Megan knew she was in a dream the moment she felt the cold wind whisper through the trees. Really this was getting to be routine now. What was it about her subconscious that liked cold and dark places?

She opened her dream eyes and saw she was at the lonely graveyard again. Dark trees, the whoosh of the waves far off in the distance, and…damn…the cry of a baby. Soft and pitiful, as if the child had all but given up hope. The whimpers tore at Megan’s heart, but she was looking down at Lily’s gravestone. She would not turn around.

She managed to block the noise from her mind when a dark figure appeared. She turned to it happily, wondering what sort of Wyatt superhero treatment she’d experience tonight. But a moment later, she recognized the sea captain. She wanted to call him a pirate, but he looked less like a wicked Jack Sparrow this time. More like Horatio Hornblower, hero of the British navy.

She sighed. Where was Wyatt?

“He’s right here with you. Can’t you feel him?”

She frowned and tried to focus. Vaguely she felt the warmth of a body spooned up behind her and the heavy weight of an arm across her belly. But he wasn’t in the landscape with her. He was sleeping next to her. “So why isn’t he here? In dreamland?”

“You’re keeping him out.”

She snorted. “Why would I do that?”

He shrugged. “Why won’t you turn around and help tha’ poor babe?” His accent had thickened until she almost couldn’t understand him. Neither Scottish nor Irish, it was just a thickening interference in his words. A moment later she realized she was creating the distortion as a way to block the baby’s cries. Sadly, it didn’t work.

“I want Wyatt here,” she said loudly. And bam, there he was looking all sleepy and tousled right beside the gravestone. And—bonus—he wasn’t even wearing pants.

“Auck!” the Captain exclaimed, apparently becoming Australian in her brain. “Cover yerself!”

Wyatt looked down and blushed a fierce red. She might have laughed if the screaming child hadn’t gotten loud enough that it was giving her a headache.

A moment later, Wyatt was decently clad in spandex and cape. Apparently in her dream, she wasn’t letting him wear anything else. And just to prove it, he gave her a glare.

“How about sweatpants? Jeans? Even a loincloth would be more discreet.”

She chuckled, but the sound was pained. “I’ll let you have pants when you tell me who Lily is,” she said gesturing at the gravestone.

“I haven’t a clue,” he answered without even looking at the stone. His gaze was on her, and his frown was deepening. “So what’s wrong, Megan? Why do you need a superhero tonight?”

She clapped her hands over her ears. The baby’s whimpering was getting weaker, but perversely the sound was echoing like a bull horn in her head. “Don’t you hear it? Where is the girl’s mother?”

She had no reason to think the child was a girl, but having said it, she knew it was true. Meanwhile, Wyatt frowned as he looked around.

“I don’t hear it,” he said, his head tilted as he listened. “Apparently this is your thing.”

“It’s not my
thing
,” she snapped. “My child. Whatever. It’s not—”

Her words ground to a halt the minute he touched her. He took hold of her arms, stroking her up and down. Then he gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Why won’t you look?”

“That’s what he says,” she groused, gesturing to the Captain. But when she looked, the ghost was gone. “Crap.”

Wyatt glanced behind him, but returned almost immediately to her. “We’re together, Megan. There’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“Liar,” she said, clearly shifting over into sulk mode. “You can’t even hear her.”

“Come on. What kind of superhero would I be if I left a kid crying?”

Megan took a deep breath, feeling an ache deep inside her. “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “And I don’t even know why.”

He squeezed her arms. “That’s okay. If we face—”

“Face it together.” She said with him. “I know. I…” She blew out a heavy breath and pressed her head to his chest. She listened for a long moment to the steady beat of his heart. Then she nodded.

“Now?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She turned around.

She saw a bedroom from the sixties complete with shag carpet and rainbow flowers painted on the wall. Shoved against one side was a changing table and a mound of dirty diapers. In the room’s center was the crib and a lonely, crying child of perhaps a year old. She was sitting in the corner alternately sucking her thumb and sobbing.

And the bedroom door was shut.

“I know that room,” she whispered.

Beside her Wyatt was already moving for the baby, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t get through it into the room. In the end, he just punched the invisible force field in frustration.

“So we’re just supposed to watch? To not do anything?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Meanwhile, he gestured to her. “You try.”

She swallowed. Yep, her turn now. She didn’t even know why, but that first step took everything out of her. She had to actually want to go to the child. Really, really want it. Her step was halting and slow, but she did it. And the next was easier. And the next even easier.

But when she hit the barrier, it was too solid for her to push through. She even banged on it twice, but it didn’t budge. With a glance at Wyatt, they timed their blows in sync. The sound seemed to echo in the dream, but they couldn’t get through. Sadly, the baby seemed to hear them. She sat up more alertly. She focused on them, and she began to wail.

Big wail. Loud and piercing. Megan didn’t know if the child was scared or just begging for attention. Either way, they didn’t stop banging.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open. In walked a woman. She wore a stained sixties housecoat and cursed as she spilled some of the drink in her hand. Megan recognized her immediately from old photos, though in those, the woman had been dressed nicely. Here, she looked like a drunken wreck.

“Grandma?” Megan whispered, completely horrified. And that’s when she placed the bedroom with that horrible shag carpet and the flowers on the wall. This was her mother’s bedroom back in her grandmother’s home. “No wonder Mom never wanted to go visit.”

“So that’s not you?” Wyatt asked, relief in his tone.

“No. The child is my mother. The woman is…”

“Grandma. Got it.”

As they watched, Megan’s grandmother started cursing. The language was vile, but at least the woman was finally attending to her child. She picked up the baby, changed the diaper, which was beyond disgusting, then dumped the kid back into the crib. With a grunt, she turned and left the room.

“You’re kidding,” breathed Wyatt. “She’s just going to leave her there?”

“I don’t know,” Megan said as the child began to wail.

Wyatt cursed and started banging on the invisible barrier again. But it was just as solid as before. Then, thankfully, Grandma appeared with a bottle in hand. She unceremoniously shoved it at the child, who took it and began sucking with a vengeance.

“At least she got a bottle,” Megan murmured.