And pissed me off.
“One, I don’t see why what or who I dream about is ANY of your fucking business, and secondly—” I held up two fingers. “I don’t want to sleep in bed with you. It’s you who carried me here. And three, how do you know it WASN’T you I was dreaming about?” I’d hoped to take some of the embarrassment off of me, but with every word I spoke, it built and built until I felt everything from my eyelids to my ear lobes burning red hot.
“You weren’t dreaming about me,” he said confidently, crossing his arms. Suddenly, I was aware of something.
“Did I call out someone’s name? Whose name?”
“No, pup. You didn’t call out anyone’s name. Although I can’t wait until I’m making you call out mine.”
“You weren’t in my head so there is NO WAY you could know who or what I was dreaming about,” I argued, my voice getting louder with each sentence. Dissapointed that I’d gotten my hopes up over a name. Angry with myself for enjoying the mind-blowing orgasm he’d given me.
“Pup, do you want to know how it is I knew you weren’t dreaming about me when you were about to come in your sleep?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The anger faded from his eyes for a brief moment. He fixed a cocky smile on his perfect lips and rolled over on top of me, forcing me to lie back against the pillows as he caged me in. He lowered his face to mine, his breath cool against my heated skin.
“Cause, baby, if it were me you were dreaming about, you’d been screaming a fuck of a lot louder than that,” King growled.
“You cocky son of a fucking bitch!” I shouted, but he’d already leapt off the bed and left the room. My shouts reaching no one but the already closed door.
As much as my body responded to him, as great as I knew he could make me feel—and I had no doubt he could fulfill every promise he made about making me come—I had to stay away from him and keep my renewed promise to her.
Which was going to be very hard, since I was going to be sleeping in his bed.
The dream I was having before King interrupted me was too real, too vivid. I had an underlying sense that it was more than just a dream. Maybe, if I was lucky, it was a glimpse into my past.
The chestnut brown eyes just might be the key to unlocking the truth about who I really was and what had happened to me.
I went back to sleep that night dreaming that the boy with the chestnut colored eyes came and rescued me, taking me back to a life filled with family and friends, and everything that had happened in the past few days was nothing more than a quickly forgotten nightmare. I dreamed there were really people out there who were sick with worry, who wouldn’t rest until they found me.
I ran this scenario through my mind over and over again until I almost believed it.
King was smart, calculating, and cunning. Worst of all, he had the power to make my knees both tremble in fear and weak with desire. He was someone I had to stay away from, but according to him, that wasn’t about to happen.
I didn’t dream about him; he was right about that. Because King wasn’t a dream.
He was a nighmare.
King never came back to bed, and I was relieved. As much as I didn’t want to be the property of someone who ran hot and cold faster than a faucet, I decided to focus on what was in front of me. Or rather, what was under me.
And over me.
And around me.
And inside me.
A bed. A roof. Walls. Food.
The sun beamed through the windows. I stretched out my arms and legs and took a deep breath. My situation may not be as good as I’d hoped it would be, but it certainly had some perks.
At least, my hands weren’t cuffed.
“Rise and Shine!” Preppy shouted, flinging open the door and tossing some clothes on top of my head. “We’s got shit to do, and I hate fucking waiting, especially for chicks.”
I pulled the clothes away from my face and onto my lap. “Why are you so chipper? Don’t you hate me for what I did to you?” I asked, referring to the not so pleasant kick to the nuts that sent him down a flight of steps.
“Nah, I was kind of impressed, actually. Don’t get me wrong. It was fucking stupid. You should have seen the look on boss-man’s face. He looked like he was about to bust an artery or something. And if Little Preppy and the boys weren’t working properly, you would be singing a different tune, but thankfully the boys know how to take a hit. Sometimes, they like it. But they’re good, so no foul. Now, let’s fucking go!”