DREAM The gentle way he touched me bespoke of reassurance. His fingers glided along my skin, igniting want and need in their wake. He pushed a little deeper, past the resistance of my innocence and into the center of my heat, and I knew I was dreaming . . . dreaming of the night Ian made love to me for the first time. The one and only time. I cried out, overcome by him filling me, pressing into me, devouring me. Never before had I dreamed so vividly in life-like detail. His skin slid against mine, hot and damp, and something beyond the physical touched me. Maybe it was the way he trembled as he grasped my hands and held them to the mattress, as if he needed to hold on to something to keep from coming apart. We hadn’t needed words. The brush of our lips, the tender union of tongues, the claiming sensation of his thrusts—the way we came together said more than words ever could. The dream evaporated, and as the light of day seeped behind my lids, I recalled how the morning after—so many years ago—I’d ended up puking.
