She reacts to his damp touch as if he’s fingering her clit, not her nipples. Crying out and arching in ecstasy.
Fuck.
I want.
Why am I this detached observer? Dreaming about watching myself in a dream? I don’t want to observe, I want to feel, even if it is only a dream. I want his fingers, his lips, his gaze...
I want to experience what she is—what I am—dreaming about.
I will myself into dream-Tessa’s body but it doesn’t work.
Dammit!
I’m stuck watching some strange man knead and suck greedily at my breasts. I’m trapped in this ethereal space as a witness not a participant in the scene before me.
Watching myself writhe beneath his touch, wriggling to tug up on the silk of my negligee, I recognize that I may not be an active participant, but my dream-self is acting exactly like my wakeful-self would; eager for his hand to slip between my legs, impatient for his fingers to fondle my clit, excited for his cock to fill me, stretch me, complete me. She is racing toward the heavenly sensation of starbursts and moonbeams that is the wonderful culmination of all of this; the beauty and satisfaction of an amazing orgasm.
So, I am not the least bit surprised, when dream-Tess takes hot-dude’s hand and pushes it past the bunched up silk to where her legs meet. I can empathize with how frustrated she must feel when her legs are caught between the twisted sheets and she’s unable to part them as much as she’d like.
I feel pulses of pleasure watching the two of them, their hands—one of top of the other—cupping her mound. I can imagine the heat they feel through her panties, and I suspect the heat is a wet one. Soaking wet and smoldering.
The man groans and crawls up onto the bed, tugging at the sheets, freeing her legs so that he can kneel between them. He’s in profile now and I try to make out his features but the moonlight is so bright that I still can’t tell who he is.
He could be anyone.
It is a dream after all.
I think.
I need you, dream-Tessa says, moving the damp material of her panties to the side. Please. I need you.
Yep. That’s me.
With one hand propped on the bed beside her hip, he leans over her and slides his other hand up the inside of her thigh, circling that part of her that is exposed. She tries to move her hips into the path of his touch, but he keeps avoiding the place she wants it most.
Please, she begs. Please.
All in good time. This is said so softly and so deeply, I almost can’t discern the words. But I know I’ve heard that voice before.
Oh God. Where?
The man lowers himself and kisses her in the places he has been caressing; the inside of her thighs, her hips, that deep crease where leg meet pelvis.
Finally, finally he moves to her center, licking between her fingers and down to where they are in contact with her open body. The second his tongue touches her, she screams.
Or is it me?
I don’t know because suddenly it’s me lying in the bed, not some other Tessa. Me.
I can no longer see what’s happening, I can only feel. Even though I try to open my eyes, they remain closed as I’m consumed by sensation. From zero to a million in one second, I go from a semi-objective observer to a full on participant. My body is on fire. My clit is pulsing, aching to be sucked and fondled. My pussy is wet and throbbing, demanding to be fucked.
Please, I beg. Not dream Tessa. Me
Please, I need you inside of me.
His tongue complies, not with the plunging action I crave, but with a slow easy sweep of someone intent on taking in every inch of my anatomy. Discovering all my nuances. Tasting me. Savoring me. This man is not heeding my urgent demands in the least.
Your cock, I need your cock.
Shh. You’re too impatient.
That voice! I know that voice. I try again to open my eyes, but I can’t. And then his tongue makes me forget and I buck with need and desire. He holds my hips still and stops.
What are you doing? I ask. Don’t stop. I’m about to come.
That’s exactly why I’m stopping.
Oh my God! I know who it is!
Suddenly my eyes are open.
Suddenly I’m sitting up.
Suddenly sunlight is streaming through the windows and I’m awake. For real.
I swivel in the bed because in the doorway is a man, standing motionless, watching me.
Christophe!
Chapter Ten
“Good morning, Tessa. I hope you slept well.” He starts making his way into the room holding two steaming cups of coffee.
I jump out of bed.
Then I jump right back into bed because I’m buck naked.
“What have you done?” I shout, clutching a sheet to my bare chest. “What happened? How did you—”
Christophe kidnapped me! Trapped me. And...and...seduced me in my sleep! Pointing a shaking finger at him, I shout, “Get out! Get the fuck out of my room.”
He frowns. “Sorry if I startled you—”
“Out. Now.”
Clasping the sheet to me, I wrap it around my body before stumbling out of bed. Being naked in bed makes me feel way too vulnerable when I’m so fucking confused. Not that standing up against the bedside table with only a sheet to cover me makes me feel any better.
He sets one cup down on the nearest armoire and raises a hand in appeasement. “Okay. I’ll be right outside.”
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him and I collapse back onto the bed. Holy shit. What the hell is going on?
All I know is that this place is totally fucked and I need to get the hell out of here.
I storm out of the room. I do not engage Christophe, I do not pass go, I do not collect two hundred dollars. I head straight for the door and try the knob that I must have tried a thousand times yesterday. It turns easily in my hand. The door swings open as if it was never stuck, never locked.
I am so shocked by this that it takes me a moment to realize that Andre is heading straight for the door, toting my bags.
“Your luggage.” He sets the bags down inside the door. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” His gaze travels the length of my body and he frowns. “I hope you found everything you needed in the villa.”
I narrow my eyes at Andre. “Um...everything except my freedom.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was locked in. Trapped. Kidnapped.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Confined. As in the doors were all locked. No way in, no way out. It was like being in jail.” I waffle. “With lots amenities.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“The lines were dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me, I tried everything.”
“Tessa?”
Christophe is behind me. I turn, watching him cross the foyer looking concerned and, unfortunately, handsome. How the fuck does he appear even more appealing in casual clothes than in the tux he wore every night in Monte Carlo?
Of course, he’s not quite as appealing as he was lying half-naked between my thighs, his tongue doing naughty things to my pussy...
I shake away the unwanted— unfulfilled—bizarrely real images.
I summon all the anger percolating in my belly. “You!” I point accusingly at him. “You stay away from me.”
“Ms. Savage? What happened?” Andre’s expression clouds with alarm.
“He...” I pause. “He...”
“Tessa?” Christophe takes two more steps toward me, cautiously, like I’m a feral cat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you yesterday. All the planes were delayed due to the storm. I just arrived moments ago. I didn’t mean to barge in on you like that, it’s just I was worried. It’s almost noon.”
Noon?
I never sleep until noon.
I back away from both of them, tripping on the step but thankfully catching myself before falling flat on my face. “What is going on?”
With a hand to my forehead, I say, “What are you doing here, Christophe?”
“What do you mean? I invited you here.”
What?! He invited me? Not Connor? Not Wade?
Shit, shit, shit!
I rub my temples. “Oh no. This is a mistake,” I mumble. I shift my gaze between the two men. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I need to get off this fucking island.” I start weaving my way—like I’m drunk—down the flagstone path. Footsteps follow me.
“Tessa, wait!”
“Ms. Savage. Please let me assist you.”
I spin around, addressing Andre who is nearest to me, “I almost died yesterday. The plane almost crashed. Then I got whisked off to this place under false pretenses.” I wave my arm around my head haphazardly, indicating the island. “Then I was trapped and then...” I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to remember. “Then...” I pause again because a very, very vivid image from my dream flashes through my mind’s eye; Christophe kneeling beside the bed, half-dressed. Me touching him. Wanting him.
“You.” I shake my fist at him accusingly. “You were in my dreams.” I pause. Then, more softly, “You were in my dreams.”
His eyes flash, as if he’s fighting a smile.
“Don’t you dare laugh. This is not funny and I’m not joking.” To Andre, I say, “I need to leave. Can you please arrange a flight?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Savage, but there are no more flights today. I can certainly get you another room if you like.”
I glance back and forth between the men. They are regarding me strangely. Cautiously. Like I’m a lunatic.
Which I just might be.
And then I notice my bare toes. My bare legs. Realization dawns.
Shit!
I’m standing on the walkway wearing nothing but a sheet.
Lifting my chin as if it was my intention to storm off wrapped in one-thousand count Egyptian cotton, I say, “Yes, another room until I can leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put on some clothes.
***
The interior of the castle is much more modern and luxurious than one would expect from the exterior. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, I particularly like the central fountain which is a carving of an explicit orgy that is somehow both tasteful and erotic, but I think I would have preferred the interior to have remained in a more original condition, with stonework and tapestries, suits of armor and the hallways lit by candlelight.
Regardless of my opinion on decor, a very helpful and handsome young bellboy, wheels my luggage to room three hundred and thirty-three. My bracelet easily opens the door and I’m greeted by cool air-conditioning and...the smell of Frangipani again. When I try to give him a tip, he won’t accept it.
“It’s a firm rule,” he says with a smile. “No tips.”
The door clicks behind him and I inspect my new lodgings. Though it’s much smaller than the villa—only two bedrooms—it’s still luxurious and well-appointed with a comfortable bright seating area, a full kitchen and two full bathrooms.
I just finished inspecting the place and am at the windows overlooking the pools below when I hear a soft snick at the door. I turn just as the door opens.
“I’m sorry,” I call. “This room is occupied.”
The door closes and standing in the small foyer carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder is none other than Chase Walker, my ex-husband.
He drops the duffel and strides toward me.
My reaction is automatic. I don’t think. I just do.
I race to meet him and find myself engulfed in his massive arms, lifted off my feet and spun around as much as the narrow hall will allow.
“Oh my God, Tess,” he murmurs into my hair before setting me down on my feet.
I stare up at him, blinking, not even sure if he’s real. The only way to find out is by touching him. Reaching up to his face, I trace his strong jaw-line, covered in a day’s worth of growth. God, I know this jaw. I know this growth. I rub my knuckles against the roughness before stroking his lips with my thumb.
Yep. Those are Chase’s lips alright. Full, wide, laughing. Sometimes stern. Always sexy.
My hands drop to his chest where I lay my palms flat, absorbing the familiar heat and breadth of him. I trace his muscles through his t-shirt, moving to his shoulders and down his bicep to where my name is inked into an intricate Celtic design, accentuating his muscle definition. I close my eyes and breathe in, nice and deep. Same cologne he’s always worn, Polo. The scent bringing up long buried memories of us dancing, kissing, making love...
“Tess.”
The sound of my name is so familiar, like he is the only one who knows how to pronounce it correctly.
God! Being with Chase is like coming home. Everything fits. His body against mine, his hands on my lower back, his lips and tongue.
Yes, the man is kissing me this very second. Softly. Sweetly. A re-acquaintance, tentative, how-are-you-doing, sort of kiss. I can’t think, I can’t hear, I’m simply overwhelmed by his mouth on mine, after so many years apart. He’s speaking but his words are jumbled. Something about thinking about this day, dreaming of it, waiting for it.
Wishing we’d stayed together...
Bam!
It’s like someone dumps a bucket of ice water on my head. I push Chase away and stumble back from his embrace.
Oh. My. God! What am I doing?
I stare at him wildly. “What are you doing here?”
It’s like the wall and ceiling come crashing down as the magnitude of Chase’s presence turns my world sixty-nine degrees, throwing me off balance, ripping my footing right out from under me.
“What do you mean, Tess? You invited me.”
I cover my open mouth, shaking my head in denial. “No. No I didn’t.”
He takes a very familiar looking card from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to me. I unfold it slowly, my hands shaking. The invitation is identical to the one I received in Paris. Except at the bottom of this invitation is my name, my signature, inviting my ex-husband to Eden.
“No.” I shake my head as the room spins out of control. “This can’t be happening.” I back away from him. “This isn’t real.” My back is against the door and I see—not Chase—but a specter, an evil entity bent on driving me fucking insane.
“Tess. This is real.” He starts walking toward me. “Come here.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” I put my hands up to ward him off. With the invitation crumpled in one hand, I reach behind me to open the door with the other.
Please don’t be locked. Please open.
The knob slips out of my grasp. I try it again. This time it turns and I open the door. Once in the hall, I run as fast as I can to the end of the hall where’s there’s a red exit sign. I don’t take the elevator, it’s too slow, instead I take the stairs, my feet barely touching each step as I fly down three flights of stairs.
Once back in the lobby of the hotel, I march up to guest services, my confusion and fear morphing into red-hot-rage. I pound my fist on the desk and demand to speak to a manager, to whoever’s in charge. Andre appears from a back room and he comes around the desk, an enigmatic expression on his face.
“I think it’s time,” he says in a quiet soothing tone.
“Time? Time for what?”
“Time you speak with The Master.”
Chapter Eleven
I follow Andre down a secluded path to where there’s a wooden building that seems totally out of place with everything else around it, like it’s a remnant from another time and place, a steeply pitched, thatched roof structure, the supporting timbers dark with age. Inside there are a few rows of simple bench seating before an open space, that is nothing more than packed earth. Behind that is a raised altar upon which an open bowl sits, smoldering, the scent of sandalwood and some other floral aroma wafting through the air. Fresh calla lilies are the only decoration.
Andre leads
me to an alcove behind the altar and instructs me to sit facing a carved screen...almost like a confessional.
“It’s you.” An ethereal voice whispers from the other side of the screen. Raspy and breathy, yet deep, touching chords low in my chest, making them thrum. “You’ve come back.” The outline of hands pressed against the thin lattice divider compel me to raise my hands and to press them against the person’s standing on the other side.
I squash the compulsion by fisting my hands at my side, crumpling the invitation in the process. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, Tessa Savage, you do.” His voice is rough and hoarse, but he says my name like a caress.
“Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me?” He doesn’t wait for my response. “No. Of course you don’t.”
“What do you mean? Have we met before?”
“Yes. But it was in a different time.”
I move closer to the screen, trying to peer through. “Tell me.”
“What do you want to know?”
I think about his question. “What is this place?”
“This is my church. My place of silence and meditation. This is where I come to find myself.”
I look up at the vaulted ceiling of the building. It’s cathedral-like structure. “I’m not talking about the building, I’m talking about the island. This place makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what’s happening?”
A gravelly laugh filters through the screen. “No, but I’ve lived here long enough to know the feeling.”
I lean my forehead against the intricately carved screen all the fight drained out of me. Maybe it’s this place, the silence, the sweet scent of incense, the aura of holiness. Maybe it’s the rough-as-raw-silk disembodied voice from the other side of the screen.
I press the crumpled invitation up against the panel. “What is this?” I ask softly. “My signature is on this invitation. How did it get there? Who did this?”
“You did.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Sending an invitation to Chase Walker is something I would definitely remember. Something I would definitely not do.”
[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon Page 8
