The dream didn't fade in; it seized me.
One moment, I was tangled in my sheets, the hum of the city a distant lullaby. The next, I was standing in the center of Crosby Blackwood's private library, a room I'd only glimpsed during the ball. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, fine whiskey, and him.
He was seated in a large, oxblood leather wingback chair, a king on his throne. The low light from a single table lamp carved shadows into the breathtaking topography of his chest and abdomen. Those tattoos, intricate and dark, coiled over the defined muscles of his shoulders and down his powerful forearms, which rested on the arms of the chair. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, swirling it slowly, his dark brown eyes fixed on me with an unnerving, predatory stillness.
I was wearing the emerald velvet dress, but it felt different. The fabric was somehow softer, more pliant, as if it were an extension of my own sensitized skin.
