I was in bed on my stomach. My lacy underwear were being pulled down my hips in slow, gentle tugs. I squirmed a bit as they were freed past my thighs, down my knees, then poof, gone. Hands started rubbing at my feet, running a big thumb up the soles, then knuckles ran down the arch. Special attention was spent working at the sensitive pad below my toes, knowing just where to target, lulling me with a rough, addictive touch. I knew those big, skillful hands. They were Heath’s, of course. Who else would I be dreaming about? I moaned into my pillow as he massaged his way up to my calves, digging deep into the muscle tissue. When he reached my thighs, I pushed up on my elbows and knees, rising a few inches from the bed. This was my dream, after all, and I was in the mood for more than a massage. I felt his knees wedge between mine from behind, denim abrading against my bare skin, keying me up. His chest pushed into my back as his hands snaked down under my shirt, fondling my breasts, his lips brushing lightly against my nape.
