The scream was silent, trapped in the cage of my ribs as I jolted upright, the phantom sensation of Crosby's hands branding my skin evaporating into the cold morning air. My heart hammered against my sternum, a frantic, trapped bird. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. My entire body throbbed with a desperate, aching emptiness, the ghost of the dream so vivid I could still smell his dark, spicy cologne on my skin.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my closed eyes, as if I could push the images out. The cool, smooth piano against my back. The heat of his mouth. The possessive, demanding grip of his hands. A shudder wracked my frame, part shame, part pure, unadulterated need. This was wrong. It was twisted. He was Riven's father. And yet, my body, still humming from the dream, didn't care about morality. It only remembered the promise in his touch.
