Nita Franklin's dreams have gone from sensual to wildly erotic. It might be "the change," but this intrepid reporter is convinced it's something more. When she meets the object of her nightly passion in person, she learns the truth.
Martin Hawley, wealthy, sexy San Francisco aristocrat, wants Nita to help him find his kidnapped daughter. He's well aware of Nita's sensual dreams -- he's having them, too.
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More Than a Hunch
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2018 Kate Douglas
I am alive to his familiar presence; it is powerful, sensual, compelling. He steps out of the shadows into an indistinct shimmer of light. I must look at him. Turning away is not an option. He exudes power -- power laced with enough potent sensuality to bring a flush to my face and throat and a heavy ache to my loins.
He is nude, clothed only in muscle and sinew, a thick mat of iron-gray hair defines his chest, trails down his belly where it darkens and shades his groin. I am naked as well, my flesh tingling with expectation -- knowledge -- my breasts aching with the sense of what might be.
His cock is a rampant beast. It exudes power and strength, but the length and breadth of his erection is not what compels me. Though I see it, acknowledge it, his eyes are what draw me.
Dark, glinting in the pale light, reflecting shards of blue diamond; they're inhuman, compelling. Uneasy, afraid of their power, I study his face, the forceful line of his jaw, the commanding, arrogant tilt of his head. I should know him. Something about him tugs at my memories, begs me to recall -- but the need to remember cannot compete. I am lost, floundering deep within his dark, hypnotic gaze.
Suddenly, without sound or warning, the shadows burst into brilliant light, throwing his tall figure into stark relief. I cry out. He reaches for me, reaches out of the light and takes my hand. His touch is magic, elemental, as our fingers touch, brush lightly, grasp and hold.
There is knowledge in his touch, a sensual knowing I have yearned for, prayed for. My breasts ache, my nipples tighten in heady expectation. Thick moisture dampens the sensitive folds between my legs.
My fingers clasp his ever more tightly. He draws me closer, his mouth hovering barely the space of a breath from my waiting mouth. I lick my lips. I am aware of his dark gaze, his eyes following the damp sweep of my tongue.
He reaches out, his fingers so close, almost touching the swell of my breast.
Suddenly, we're wrenched apart.
I stumble, reach for him again, but I'm falling, falling away from the light, away from the mystifying stranger, falling until the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs grows louder in my ears, pounds faster, faster in cadence with my racing heart, my aching breasts, the soft clenching of the muscles between my thighs.
* * *
"Damned hot flash!" Fighting the remnants of terror, the frantic heat of sex unfulfilled, I groped for the lamp on the table next to the bed. Perspiration flowed in rivulets between my breasts and my hair clung to my neck and face.
I grabbed my notebook, scribbling furiously to record the details of what I had begun to think of as my serial wet dream. My fingers trembled so violently, I dropped the pen. Clasping my hands tightly together, I hunched my shoulders, weighed down by a sense of foreboding.
Once again I tried to recall the man's face.
Nothing. Damn! His face, the sensual line of his jaw, the lean, muscular chest -- all of it was so clear in my dreams. Now, all I can see is that huge erection, his cock standing proud and dark amidst the thick mat of hair.
Had to be the hormones.
This time the dream had been different. We'd made contact, barely, but the shock of that brief touch still tingled through my fingertips, resided in my breasts, my aching cunt. It raced along my arm, settled deep in my gut.
I felt a vague heaviness, a deep, sensual longing not usually associated with my nightmares -- or my dreams -- at least until this most recent series began.
I added a comment to that effect in my notes, not nearly as descriptive as it could have been, then placed the dog-eared tablet back on the table.
The digital clock blinked 5:28. There wasn't much point in trying to sleep for the half hour I had left before I had to get up.
The room seemed to sway, almost to pulsate in cadence with my thundering heart as I crawled from bed and toddled to the bathroom. I shouldn't have -- I knew I must look like hell warmed over -- but I stopped a minute to stare at my rumpled reflection in the mirror. My blonde hair was matted and tangled, the shadows under my brown eyes looked like bruises.
My lips were swollen, as if from hours of kissing.