Dreams are the perfect shelter for our fantasies, safe havens to step inside without changing our daily lives. For Lark Braithwaite, all that is about to change. During the last six months, Lark has dreamt of a mysterious Irish lover who knows what she wants and gives her exactly what she needs. In her waking life in busy London, things aren’t as ideal, as her long-term relationship with Charles, her controlling fiancé, has hit a dry spell. When Lark is called home to Oregon for her father’s funeral right in the middle of a high-stakes corporate merger, she heads back to face the demons from her past. What she doesn’t expect is to meet her dream lover in the flesh. Niall O’Hagan steps straight out of her fantasies and right into her life, and the powerful connection they share rocks her foundation. Although she’s dealing with the bitterness of being betrayed by Charles and his jealousy, Niall soon stirs Lark’s awareness of the superficiality of her existence and reawakens not only her sexuality, but her soul.
The blindfold was tied on and made of soft black material that caressed her skin. Though she knew it was light out, the mask bathed her in darkness. Still, she was aware of his touch, his heated, pulling kisses that moved away from her lips and trailed down her jaw to her throat, over her collarbone, toward her breasts. A tug pulled her hoodie up a little, and he slowly zipped it open, yanking the front of her T-shirt down, her bra right along with it. She couldn’t see anything, but knew it was him. Her dream lover. She expected him to latch on to her nipple, but he didn’t. He caressed it instead, flicking his fingernail along the sensitive bud, marking a trail of pebbling, tantalizing kisses around the entire circumference of her right breast. He laved the sensitive underside with his warm tongue, making her whimper, while his hand came up to fondle her left breast. Lark was aware they were both lying on the porch swing, but he distracted her by seizing her nipple with his teeth. She groaned. He chuckled, the vibrations reverberating through her whole body. She clutched him tighter. Lark wanted to pull off the blindfold, but he had her pinned down. He continued his ministrations, kissing his way over her bared, flat stomach, across her hip bone, and closer to his ultimate goal. She covered his hand at her hip with hers and grasped it. She was a sweaty mess from her run, but it seemed like he was taking in everything about her. “Wait,” she said. “I-I can’t see you. I want to. Take this off.” “I’m here,” he assured her, crawling back up over her body. Knuckles brushed softly down her cheek, and she could feel his gaze on her. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. Lark gave up fighting her blindness and self-lamentations as his lips pressed against her own. “Mmm, yes,” she moaned between kisses. “Kiss me, God, yes. I don’t want to feel anything anymore but you.” There was something about the darkness that emboldened her. She felt his chest and encountered the lapels of a jacket of some sort. She yanked him all the way down, moaning and sucking his lower lip between her teeth. In an instant, the full weight of his body came down upon her, and his kisses changed from having been demanding and passionate to the complete polar opposite. It was as if he was timid and reluctant, yet the more she gave to him—putting her arm around his neck and releasing the fury of her frustrations out on him—the more he began to respond. Tentative at first, with a hint of reluctance he’d never shown before. What was this? A cool breeze blew past her face, and a sense of déjà vu of the night before overtook her.
* * * *
If the kiss had stayed careful and guarded, she might have continued to question it. But the blindfold disappeared, and she realized she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes flew open, and he was there. Oh my God. He was there! Heated eyes watched her. Rakish dark hair fell over his forehead as he breathed hard, and the morning sun lit up the world behind him. She took a deep, shuddering breath to speak, but his hands moved to cup her face. He held still and closed his eyes as his lips took her mouth. Right then and there, it was very clear that this was real. That was the weight of a real man on top of her, clothed, and smelling citrusy and clean. What in the hell is happening here? How did he get here? He was only her dream lover. Or was he? Confused beyond all comprehension, Lark didn’t have any time to contemplate what was really going on. His lips delivered a breath-stealing, soul-shattering kiss, and then they were all over each other. This, ah, this she knew. Lark hooked her ankle over his and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to rid him of his jacket and draw him closer. She clenched her hand in his hair as he devoured her mouth. He tasted the same as her dream lover, and she put her tongue in his mouth to savor more of that tangy sweetness. They were both making noises they never had in her dreams, little breathy gasps and blasts of air as their mouths met and separated as they sought new angles and depths to their passion. He made a disgruntled sound as he tried to get more comfortable in the cradle of her hips over the hindrance of clothes, and she realized she really wasn’t dreaming anymore. He nibbled on her lower lip as she opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but then she was carried away in the undercurrent of his large, warm hands, which were caressing the skin of her stomach beneath her hoodie and T-shirt. She continued to accept his kisses but pawed down her still zipped-up sweat jacket. Okay, so she was still clothed. He was rock hard against her, and he ground his hips into her, a disbelieving grunt escaping his lips. Lark rolled her eyes back, shivering at the jolt that went through her. “Wh— Mmm. Whoa. Stop!” She finally managed to say against his mouth. She furrowed her eyebrows and scrutinized him as he breathed in and out, bracing himself on the weight of his hands above her, his bright green eyes bearing into hers. His face was the face of her dreams—the sensual, bowed lips and cleft chin, the built body, and the thick hair. His hair… She blinked. It was cut at the nape and styled for a day at work. She glanced down at what he was wearing. “Um, why are you wearing a suit and tie this time?” she asked, squinting against the sunlight. Please, God, let this be a dream. He moved his head, putting her in shade. “This time?” He lifted an eyebrow, perplexed. “You’ll have to forgive me, lass, but I’ve no idea
what the devil you’re talking about.” He maneuvered himself off her and sat upright at the end of the swing. She tucked her feet against her and sat up, unable to do anything more than blink at him in utter disbelief. “I was coming up to knock on the door when I saw you lying here, and given how you were tossing and the noises you were making, it looked like maybe you were having some sort of a seizure.” He seemed contrite, and he turned his head as he licked his lips, full and abused from her kisses. Something close to mortification bloomed inside her. “Erm, you…begged me to kiss you, and then you yanked me down. One thing led to another and, well, that was pretty much the way of it. I am only human, though I know that’s no excuse.” He swallowed and stared at her, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have gone down when you pulled me, but it was strange—like you knew me or something.” Lark leaned forward and rubbed her eyes. This couldn’t be real. She was hallucinating. She had to be. When she opened her eyes she’d see a man in his fifties with a receding hairline, glasses, and a beer gut. She reopened her eyes, and there he was: The full package. In the flesh. There was an air of intelligence in the way his eyes scrutinized her. She sat up and planted her feet on the porch, then put a hand to her head. The vertigo from earlier returned. “No, I’m sorry. I was dreaming…” “Excuse me for saying so, but it must’ve been one hell of a dream.” Lark nodded and tried not to black out as a wave of dizziness came over her. “You look like you’re dehydrated. Hold on.” The lilt of his familiar Irish accent soothed her like warm milk. He stood and walked over to a black laptop case propped near the front door that had several thick manila folders sticking out of its open center, one of which she could see said BRAITHWAITE in large, capital letters on an index label. He crouched down and unzipped the front pocket, extracting an unopened plastic water bottle. “Here,” he said, unscrewing it and holding it out to her. “Thanks.” She accepted the bottle and took a long sip of the cool water. It almost instantly revived her. She wiped a little water off the corner of her mouth with the top of her knuckle as he watched her. She offered it back to him, but he shook his head and reclaimed his seat next to her.
“Keep it. Drink.” “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and took several large gulps, the cool liquid a balm to her throat. “My name’s Niall O’Hagan.” His voice was deep and pleasant. It sounded different, lighter than the sultry bedroom voice she was used to from her dreams. “I’m the Braithwaites’ attorney.” Lark paused in midsip and lowered the bottle in her hands. “You—no.” She laughed, glancing at him. His mouth lifted at the corners, as if it were dawning on him he was the butt of a joke he wasn’t aware of. “I…what?” Oh, the irony of dreaming about her father’s lawyer this whole time. Oh my God. She started giggling. This was it; she was officially losing it. She got up and walked over to the top step of the porch, put a hand over her face, and plunked herself down. “I am so messed up.” A sudden, unwanted flash of Gemma saying “darlin’” to Charles yesterday surfaced, and tears stung her eyes. She went silent and willed them not to fall. It was no use. After a moment, Niall sat down on the step beside her. “I’d offer you a drink, but I quit ten years ago.” Lark laughed, despite the tears. “An Irish attorney who doesn’t like Guinness is like an Englishman who doesn’t like fish and chips or something.” “I know; shameful,” he said with mock contrition. “Don’t hold it against me. I’m doing the world a favor. Trust me. I was a horrible drunk. Seriously, though, are you okay, miss?” Lark scoffed and gesticulated with her hands to the sky. “It’s Lark. And what a loaded question of the day.” She couldn’t look at him, not after what happened. She clenched the edge of the step on either side of her and stared out at the trees. “Well, considering we’ve already gone to second base, we might as well be open with each other. Forgive me if I’m candid, but it seems you were having an alleged, eh, intense dream, and you woke up and believed I was him. Is that right?” Horror dawned on her at what she’d done, and her jaw dropped. “No!” Yes. She glanced at him,
and his knowing expression said he knew that was exactly what happened. “I see,” he said, his tone careful but persistent. “Then why did you kiss me like that?” “I-I don’t have to answer that.” She lifted her chin with defiance. He scooted closer to her. “No, you don’t. But I wish you would.” She scratched her head in frustration and jumped up, moving toward the door. “I’m sorry to embarrass you,” he said, and she paused with her hand halfway to the doorbell. “I’m decent. I would never— I never meant to take advantage of you at all, please know that. When you kissed me like that, so familiar, I…” It occurred to her Niall was being a lot more of a gentleman about the whole thing than most men would be, given how horrid the situation was. And she, meanwhile, was being a total bitch. And the poor guy had no clue as to why. He met her in two quick strides, and his proximity alarmed her. They’d never both been standing in any of her dreams. He was at least a few inches over six feet, well built with wide shoulders and a lithe, muscular frame to complement the height. He assessed her as well, and his eyes widened with realization. “Wait. Lark? Rick’s daughter? But you’re so little,” he said, surprised. “From the pictures, I assumed you’d be, erm—” “Fatter?” she asked, glad she was at least back on sure ground. She could always toss jokes around about her heavy days. “It’s okay. You can go ahead and say it. I’ve lost a lot of weight.” Niall put a hand to the back of his neck. His eyebrows rose. “I think ‘a lot’ is an understatement. Good on you! My mam struggled with her weight too; I know from growing up with her how hard it is to lose it. Well, you look amazing. Wow.” He rolled his eyes at himself and glanced away. The bizarreness of seeing him act misplaced and common, and not at all like a sex panther, was messing with her. “I’m sorry.” He laughed. “I sound like an idiot. Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m some leering wanker. This is…awkward.” “You can say that again,” she murmured with a small smile, wondering what he would say if she told him she’d been having erotic dreams of him every night for the last six months. It was bad enough she’d just made out with the guy. She held out her hand but didn’t make eye contact. “So listen, how about we forget it ever
happened, okay? I’m Lark Braithwaite. I flew in a couple of days ago from London.” He took her hand and closed his long fingers over hers. “Niall O’Hagan. Pleasure.” He stepped a little closer. “And I’m all for a clean slate, but forgetting’s not on my agenda, lass. I’m taking that one to the grave. Hands down the best snog I’ve ever had in my life. Client’s daughter or no, you can’t take it back.”
She bit her lower lip, trying to get on solid ground, but from the hunger on his face, she shouldn’t have done that. The imprint of last night’s dream was still fresh in her mind, and she went for a bitchier approach, hoping to deter him. “Oh, please, Niall. My dad was more of a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do type of parent. So right now, I need these more than I need to be lectured, thank you very much.”
He shrugged a shoulder, and a wayward dark curl fell over his left eyebrow. “Fair enough. Could I make an observation, though?”
Lark put the cigarette between two fingers and played with the lighter in her other hand, prepared to take it outside. “Could I stop you?”
The corners of Niall’s mouth twitched. He glanced down, and she moved in for the kill.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, are you intimidated by strong women?”
His gaze shot back up and fixed on hers. “Oh, no. On the contrary; I find it alluring. I find you, in particular, extremely alluring, though it’s unethical.”
Panic shot through her. What in tarnation was she doing? She should tell him she was with Charles, discourage him. But the way his eyes caught the hallway light, turning them a deep viridian, reminded her of their tryst in the cottage. She said nothing, but her nipples peaked and pressed against her shirt like hard pebbles. He glanced down at them and moved toward her until she found herself pushed up against the wall, trapped. She wasn’t an expert at reading people or anything, but I want you might as well have been written on his forehead in permanent marker. He dropped his law books on the floor without preamble and cupped her face in his hands, leaning forward to kiss her, with no uncertainty this time.
Stunned, she dropped her smoking items as his mouth claimed hers. She let out an involuntary whimper as he touched his tongue to hers, and it appeared to be all the encouragement he needed. With a groan, he fisted the lower back of her shirt and tugged her toward him as his other hand sought the side of her neck.
She sucked on his tongue, twining one of her legs around his as she devoured his mouth. He rubbed his cock against her tentatively and then pressed harder, rubbing it into her pussy through their barrier of clothes.
She should push him away—she should, this was insane—but he tasted like her dreams, warmth and earth and mint, and she craved to feel that again, needed it. She brought her arms up to his shoulders, unsure. He covered her hands with his own and placed them around his neck as he dived into her mouth again, groaning. She kissed him back, the tentativeness fading away with each pull of his lips, each stroke of his tongue.
Liquid warmth rushed to her pussy as his hands slid beneath the back of her shirt, exploring her skin. The amount of passion she got from this single kiss trumped anything she’d ever experienced. She shivered as he rocked against her, hard and hot in the cradle of her hips. He grabbed her bum, tugging her closer as he rubbed against her, his staggered breath against her mouth. Oh yes, he wanted her.
About Roxanne D. Howard
Roxanne D. Howard is a U.S. Army veteran who has a bachelor’s degree in Psychology and English. She loves to read poetry, classical literature, and Stephen King. Also, she is an avid Star Wars fan, musical theater nut, and marine biology geek. Roxanne resides in the western U.S., and when she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and children. Roxanne loves to hear from her readers, and encourages you to contact her via her website and social media.
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