In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (23 page)

Yes.

Her next song needs to be this word.

My hands press against her biceps then slide around her body from her arms to her silky covered breasts, and I can feel how much she wants me, too. Her nipples are hard through the lace, and I run my thumbs over them again and again until she cries out with her ache and need.

“Please,” she begs, and I smile against the top of her head, letting my eyes fall to a close as I slip my thumbs inside the top of her bra, sliding it down over the swell of her tits until I feel the pure ecstasy that is her bare skin and the puckered sweetness of each nipple. I cup each peak in my hands and let my thumbs run roughly over her hardness until her head falls back against my chest and her back arches with want.

I let her fight against it, try to will it, for almost a minute while I slowly rub circles around the bright red peaks until I finally give her what I know she’s desperate for and squeeze each raw tip between my thumb and index finger. Her knees weaken and her body betrays her, wanting to fall to the bed, but I’m not ready yet. This torture—this
sweet, sweet
song—I’ve craved it for so long, and it’s still at the beginning.

I hold her to me, the pressure hard and her legs trembling as her weight falls into my front. I’m so hard against her I know she can feel me in her hands, so with her breasts under my complete control, I tell her what to do.

“Touch me. Feel it,” I say through gritted, sex-hungry teeth. “Grab my cock, baby. Take me in your hands.”

Her fingers are fast and her palm is like fire against me as she grabs me through my jeans. I groan at her touch and my hands open and cup her breasts entirely. I want to be free and in her. I need to be in her, but the waiting has never felt so fucking amazing.

“Let go,” I demand, and she obeys.

My hands fall away from her breasts at the same time, and she stands still in front of me, her hands resting along her lower back, her breath ragged and her shoulders shaking under the cool air of the room. I lick my lips and hold my right fist to my mouth, wanting to touch her more but forbidding myself until she asks for it. In silence, I stand there looking at her, seeing every curve from behind, where her arms lead to breasts I’ve touched but have barely seen. Time drags on, and I know she’s in this with me, and I begin to chuckle deep within my chest.

“You’re going to have to ask me, Murphy. Tell me. What do you want?” I ask, my hands ready to move on her word.

“Touch me,” she says.

“Where, baby?” I ask, my hand poised and ready at her neck.

“Everywhere,” she breathes, and with her permission, I lay my palm flat on her back and press until she bends forward.

I release her hands from behind her back and drag them slowly above her head as she crawls with one knee at a time to the edge of my bed, her body still facing away from me, and I slide my palm again up the small of her back to the center and coax her gently until she’s lying flat against my mattress, her purple hair loose and wild among my blankets and pillows—just like I dreamed every night this week.

“Everywhere,” I say, repeating the word she used so she knows what’s to come, so she can tell me no—but she doesn’t. She only nods as she twists her head to the side and opens her mouth against my bed as her eyes find mine and look at me with equal desire.

I drag both hands down to her hips, my eyes still locked with hers as I grip her firmly and drag her body down until she’s bent over the bed, completely submissive. I unclasp the bra, now loose around her waist, and pull it away, throwing it to the floor, before kneeling between her legs and caging her lower body between both of my arms as my chin falls to the small divot at the end of her tailbone.

“So goddamn sexy,” I say, my lips brushing against her back as I speak.

My tongue traces along the edge of her waistband as I let my hand drag roughly down the side of her body until I grip the side of her panties and pull the right edge down enough to expose her ass. She makes a noise as she breathes, and I pause to wait for her to stop this—to tell me this is far enough, when she does exactly the opposite and reaches her other hand down to find my left palm, still flat against the bed, and she moves it toward her body, lifting her hip as a guide.

“You want these off, baby?” I ask.

She nods against the bed.

Another “yes” falls from her lips.

I grab both sides and pull slowly, stopping at her thighs to take in the sight of her bare ass and swollen pussy ready for me. Wasting no time, I yank her panties to her knees and around her ankles, then spread her legs apart and run my palms up the back of each until my thumbs tickle along the edge of her. Warmth and softness opens, and I taste it with a slow drag of my tongue to the sound of her moans.

I thought her singing was perfection. I thought no other sound could compare, but when she pants for me and cries with pleasure, I come undone. I kiss her softness hard, sucking until she can no longer handle the pressure and writhes away from me. I grip her hips and force her to stay, to take every bit of my dirty kisses, until I can no longer wait.

Both of my hands work at my zipper as I kiss her pussy while she grips the pillow now covering her head. I stop only to kick away my jeans and boxers and toss my shirt to the floor.

I lean over her, letting her feel me hard and hot against her now soaking self.

“Don’t. Move,” I say, sliding small strands of hair away from her back while I press a kiss to each shoulder.

I step to my night table, pulling out a condom and sliding it on quickly, returning to her open legs and beautiful body.

“You want me to touch everything, Murphy?” I ask against her, letting her feel the tip of my cock against her swollen entrance, both throbbing and wanting to feel what each other has to give.

“Yes,” she says.

“Ask me, Murphy,” I grin, knowing she’ll say it—she’ll say anything I ask. And not because I’m dominating her and pushing her to the edge only to hold back, but because she wants it too. Because she wants to feel me inside of her as badly as I want to be there. Because Murphy Sullivan is that girl for me, my undoing and my discipline. She’s what my dreams are made of, and I want to taste her, consume her, and hold her hostage for all of time.

“Say it,” I whisper, my bottom lip propped open against the heat of her back as I hold myself at her entry. “Tell me to fuck you.”

“Fuck me, Casey. Please,” she moans. “I want to be fucked so bad.”

My eyes close at my beautiful girl’s dirty words, and I give her her wish.

“Yes, baby girl. I’ll fuck you,” I smile, sliding into her in one slow, exquisitely painful stroke until I can go no further.

She cries out a
yes,
and her fists pound against the bed, tossing my pillow to the side.

“Again,” she says, and I obey, pulling out slowly, completely, and waiting at the very edge of her until she pushes back into me, and I enter her again with the same deep, slow penetration of before.

“Yes,” she says again, fists grabbing this time, pulling my sheet from my bed and biting at it with her teeth.

“Again, baby?” I ask, wanting to move harder and faster, but knowing if I’m not careful, it will be over.

She nods with a whimper, so I repeat every step, pushing into her hard enough that her body burrows into my bed.

Her back begins to sweat, and the heat starts to take over our actions as I move rougher and more often, letting go of myself so I can rest my body against her back completely, running my hands up her arms and threading my fingers with hers as I push into her over and over.

Still inside her, I stop and pull her against me to the edge of the bed where I lift her with me to a stand so I can feel her breasts with every breath that she takes while I move insider her. Her fingers reach around my neck and grab my hair as I kiss over her shoulder and pull at her nipples while my cock strokes her from behind.

I have never had sex so good in my life, and I know the end is near. My cock is swollen and I’m going to come in any second, but I need to see her—I need to memorize every angle and every face she makes when she takes all of me. I pull out from her and spin her so she’s facing me, then push her back against the mattress where I fall on top of her and enter quickly, her legs wrapping around my waist and her center hungry for me, missing me when I’m gone.

“I could watch you take me all night, Murphy. I love the way you look with me inside, so hot, so wet,” I say, my hips pushing forward, hers circling with my motion.

“Harder,” she says, the word coming out broken and needy. “Please, Casey. Fuck me harder,” she says, and I can’t believe her dirty mouth—the same lips that kiss so sweet and sing so strong. I lean forward and claim her lips as mine, pushing into her repeatedly, holding on until I feel her release, forbidding my own pleasure until I know she’s completely spent.

I feel her clench and her arms and legs wrap around me tightly, her breath held and her head tilted back as far as her neck will allow. I reach with one hand between us, my thumb pressing in firm circles just above where I am entering her, everything slick and warm with our sex, and then suddenly she cries out and her insides clench around me in waves.

“Oh god, Casey. Yes!” she screams, and I press my mouth into the side of her neck and push again and again, draining her of every single moan, cry and whimper until I’m no longer able to hold on and I come hard, my body collapsing into her, my nerves losing control and my muscles giving way to the purest pleasure I’ve ever felt.

We lay silent for several minutes, our bodies still connected as I hold her to me and dust away long, purple curls now straightened and damp from sex. And when my hands can no longer wait, I trail them lower against her smooth belly, and lower between her legs, pressing against what I want again, what I don’t think I can wait for, and to my surprise, her hand covers mine and presses even harder, and she whispers “Again. Fuck me again.”

M
y body is sore
and my cheeks are red. The only thing keeping me grounded is the warm hand running up and down my back and the pair of dark, round eyes staring back into me. I never slept. I only pretended to sleep. When Casey woke an hour ago, I shut my eyes quickly and faked it for longer, because the woman I was in his room when the sun went down is not the one with stage fright and reservations in the light.

I couldn’t
not
look, though, after a while. This sweetness—it’s real. He hasn’t said a word, other than “good morning.” When I bashfully tucked my face into his pillow, he tugged on my chin, lifting me out so he could kiss my nose.

Shame is nonexistent in Casey’s world. I must remember that, because the pleasure was more than anything I’d ever had.

“It’s Saturday,” he says, finally. I think he’s smirking, though it’s hard to tell with both of our cheeks pressed against his sheets.

“It is,” I agree, blushing at the very fresh memories of last night.

“I have to check in at my parents’ house, but other than that, my day is completely free. I’m all yours,” he says, his lips still askew as if he’s up to something.

“Okay,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip and looking to the bed and ceiling in an attempt to avoid his stare.

“Is there…maybe…something you have to do? Like…some plans you have or…I don’t know,” he says, coyly.

I blush hard at his suggestion.

“Again? Already?” I ask.

He holds my stare, but his smile grows as he chuckles.

“I mean, well…sure. I’m definitely up for more of that, but I meant the birthday party your brother keeps texting you about, asking where you’ve been and what kind of cake you want your mom to make,” he laughs, and my breath rushes away.

“Oh, shit!” I yell, covering my mouth. “I completely forgot!”

“You forgot your own birthday?” he laughs, slipping my phone from behind his back. I take it quickly and begin typing a message to my mom, requesting chocolate, and then apologizing for being out late. I delete that last part though because I’m not late—I never came home. But I’m an adult, and this should be normal. I need my own place. And oh my god my brother is wondering where I am. I’m typing feverishly, deleting like mad because my thumbs are massive and I’m the queen of typos, and I just wrote
smurf
for no reason.

“Murphy,” Casey whispers. I keep typing, and he says my name again, a little louder with a laugh. His hands cover mine and he makes me put down the phone.

“It’s your birthday,” he says, his head lifted slightly and his eyes soft. Oh man, he’s going to think I’m weird when I explain this.

“Actually,” I say, my face bunching with humiliation because I’m a twenty-two-year-old still obsessed with birthday parties. “It’s not
really
my birthday. It’s my half birthday.”

“Your…half birthday,” he repeats.

I grab my phone and continue to text my mom, making sure I get the chocolate order in at the very least.

“Yes,” I say, now sitting, sheets wrapped around my waist and one of his old T-shirts over my body.

He wraps his hands around mine to force me to pause again, but I shake him loose.

“Just let me send this last one, and I’ll explain,” I say, my tongue out on the side while I type quickly with my movie request, and a warning that I might be late, and I may bring Casey with me. I hit SEND rapidly, but instantly want to take the message back when I realize that the sequence of my texts pretty much lets them know I spent the night here with
him
, but then I just give in and drop the phone to my lap because fuck it, I’m an adult. My father will want to punch Casey, but he won’t
really
do it—he’ll just look at him with those threatening eyes that say “I’m not so old I can’t whoop your ass.”

“Half birthday?” Casey questions, bringing me out of my manic state.

I take in a full breath to reset my nerves and look into his smiling eyes.

“My real birthday is on Christmas Day, and I hated that. I used to complain a lot when I was little, so my parents instituted the half-birthday plan. We’ve been doing it this way for so long, it’s kind of become this tradition. I didn’t think we were going to this year, but then the other day, my mom asked me if there was anything I wanted, and I got kind of excited,” I admit. I pull my thumbnail to my mouth and scrunch my eyes, ready for how this is going to sound. “I really like presents.”

“Awww, baby likes presents,” Casey teases, tugging me to his lap and wrapping my legs around his waist. My emotions switch gears at the feel of him against me.

“I do,” I say, as he nuzzles his nose against mine.

“Do I get to come to this party?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” I breathe, my eyes now closed, because his hands have sunk down to my thighs and are working their way up the curve of my ass, pulling me forward even harder.

“Do you…do you want your present from me?” he teases, but I don’t laugh because now, right now, yes. I do want my present. I want
this
present. And I no longer care about the chocolate cake or a party or…

“I am fairly fond of your birthday suit,” he jokes as his thumbs lift up the bottom of the T-shirt I’m wearing, dragging it up my body, but stopping when my arms are above my head and my eyes are covered with cotton. His mouth covers one breast, sucking me hard while his hand falls behind my back and pulls me into him.

My phone rings, and Casey flails his hand around the sheets next to us until he finds it, then throws it to the floor. He lifts me up in one single motion to lie flat for him, my arms still tethered and my eyes still covered in his shirt, and for the next hour, I let him do anything he wants.

C
asey takes
me back to my car near the club, and I make it home around lunch, and I can smell chocolate baking when I enter the house. There’s no use in hiding any of this. It was either come home in the dress I wore to the club last night or walk into the house in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and T-shirt from Casey. I was going to get stares either way, so I opted for the soft comfort of wearing him home instead.

When his eyes hit me, my father pauses at the exit from the living room with a small plate and fork from whatever snack he was sneaking in his hand. I step inside the house, and I offer a tight-lipped smile as I hold up one hand for hello, my dress gathered in a pile under my other arm.

“I was…” I start, but then my father holds up his hand, clearly not symbolizing
hello,
but
stop.

“You were nothing. And the teasing about you and Casey is no longer funny to me, so just…go get ready for your party,” he says, not able to look me in the eye.

I nod and look down to my feet, which are still in my boots, Casey’s sweats stuffed in the top. I look ridiculous. This is how those magazines get those absurd pictures of famous people doing the walk of shame.

My father moves on to the kitchen, his back to me while he rinses off a plate and dries his hands. I watch for a few seconds, but decide nothing is really going to make the awkwardness of this any better, so I eventually retreat to my room.

“You look good in Casey’s clothes,” my brother says from behind, following me inside. I grab my chest when he startles me, but chuckle when I look down at my form. Only Lane would think I look good like this, and it’s just because he thinks Casey is cool.

“Thank you,” I say, tossing my dress to the corner and turning to sit on my bed so I can yank my boots from my feet.

“Mom said you shacked up,” Lane says, stealing my breath. My face falls and I fling my boot to the floor as my mouth stumbles for some type of response. “That’s like a sleepover, right? I want to shack up with Casey sometime. Is he coming to the party? Maybe I’ll ask him.”

I shut my mouth and keep my focus on my other boot, which I take off more slowly—buying time. I’m mortified that my brother overheard this and that my mother said this, probably in a conversation with my father.

“You should,” I say, looking up at him with a smile. Something funny should come out of my humiliation. “I bet Casey would like that.”

“Cool,” Lane says, leaving me in my room alone. I close the door and let my head fall flat against the wood.

I’m embarrassed. I should be. This situation…it’s super embarrassing. But I’m also…happy. And I’m not nervous, or worried, or feeling like I’m not good enough for something—I’m just happy. Content. And I actually feel kind of beautiful.

I pick at my guitar for an hour before finally showering and drying my hair. I decide on my comfiest pair of jeans and match it up with my vintage Bangles tank top and the necklaces Sam made me with small bottles of pretend potion at the end. My phone dings just as I finish pulling my hair back in a braid, and I skip to it, excited to read that Casey is out front in the driveway.

Then, his next text comes.

Your dad is walking out of the house.

My brow furrows and I glance to the window. I take a few steps forward to glance out, and I only see Casey’s form sitting in his car, typing on his phone. I type back.

I don’t see him.

And I wait for a breath, watching his head move to look out the window and then back to his lap and phone.

Really? You don’t see that man standing on your porch with an ax?

Oh…shit!

I lean completely forward and press my face to the glass of my window, but all I can see under the overhang is the tips of my father’s shoes. He’s wearing sneakers—perfect for wood-chopping. I shake my head and mumble my way out of my room, past my brother and down the stairs where my father is in fact standing with the door open and a towel in his hand, wiping away the rusted blade for the ax I am pretty sure he hasn’t used since I was twelve and we took it up north to chop down a Christmas tree.

“Daddy,” I sigh.

“Oh, hi, birthday girl,” he says, leaning his head back and tilting his chin. I step toward him and kiss him on the cheek.

“So,” I hum, nodding. “What’s with the ax?”

My father’s chest shakes lightly with his laughter, the silent kind that brews in his belly. He runs the towel over the blade a few more times and twists the heavy metal tool by the handle in his giant palm before holding it out in front of him and taking a small test swing.

“I’m just messin’ with your boyfriend,” he says with a faint laugh.

Boyfriend.
I smile at the word.

“He’s not going to get out of the car while you’re holding that,” I say.

“I know, Murph. I know,” he says, still chuckling. “I’ll let him in after a few minutes. Just let me have my fun.”

I twist my mouth and lean to the side for a better view of Casey. He’s resting against his steering wheel, hat low on his brow and arms folded, and when our eyes meet, he lifts a hand and gives me a slight wave. I wave back then feel the buzz in my pocket and pull out my phone.

I’m not going in there.

I laugh to myself and put my palm on my father’s back.

“Carry on then,” I say, turning around and joining my mother at the counter where she is icing my favorite flavor of cake.

“It makes him feel better about you growing up,” she says, not raising her eyes to look at me.

“I know,” I concede.

After about five minutes, my father walks back through the house and exits through the back sliding door into the backyard. He returns ax-free, just in time for Casey to be standing at the doorway with an opened box of chocolates and a small gift bag. He doesn’t cross the threshold until my father meets him there and finally cracks out a laugh, sliding his arm around him and patting him on the back.

“I like to kid,” my father says, and Casey responds with a nervous
oh
mixed with his own unnatural laugh.

When Casey makes it to where I’m standing, his hand finds mine at my side quickly, and he squeezes my fingers hard. His palm is sweating, and it amuses me that the boy who isn’t really afraid of anything is scared shitless of a man in his late fifties.

My father pulls a soda from the fridge, but turns around quickly, his face bugging in front of Casey’s as he yells “Boo!”

“Oh…god,” Casey startles, taking a step back, dropping the bag he was still holding in his hand. I hear something break.

My father laughs harder this time, pulling the tab on his Coke—or should I say one of
my
Cokes—and takes a long sip as he passes, shaking his finger at Casey. “You’re funny,” he says. “I like it.” His chuckle grows quieter as he finally leaves the room.

“You okay there?” I ask, not able to hide my grin.

“Oh, ha ha. You thought that was funny?” He bends down and picks up the small bag, sliding it on the counter in front of me. “I’m pretty sure I just busted your gift…”

“And crapped your pants,” my mom throws in before licking away the extra frosting on her spatula and tossing it in the soapy water in her sink.

Casey’s head falls and his eyes close as he bites his lip.

“All signs of endearment, Casey,” my mom says, squeezing his shoulder once as she rounds the counter and begins to bring plates and dishes to the table.

I watch his face for a few seconds, enjoying the smile on it from our teasing. This is sort of the way in the Sullivan house, and while I think my dad was partly also
not
joking with the ax, I know that my parents’ behavior does mean that Casey has won them over to some extent.

“Can I?” I ask him, nodding toward the bag he handed me.

“Go on. It’s not much, but…it’s
really
not much now that I dropped it on the ground,” he grimaces. “And I brought chocolates, but I ate four of them in the car because, well…I thought I might be in there for a while—ax and all.”

“Four?” I ask, noticing the completely empty top layer exposed in the small box by his hand.

“Maybe six…” he smirks. “Okay, seven. Fine. Eight.”

I laugh because he’s silly. My eyes remain on him, the sweet dimple when he grins, the way he looks at me—I watch it all as I slide the bag closer and pull out the few layers of tissue on top. There’s a card, so I pull that out first and begin to open it, but Casey stops my hands.