She remained quiet, willing him to sleep. He never seemed tired, yet she could see the lines of strain on his face. She smoothed the lines gently with her fingertips, went back to combing his hair with her fingers. She needed to touch him. She wanted to touch him. He slept lightly. She was very aware on some level he would know the liberties she took, but it didn’t matter. Let him sleep and dream of her.
Dahlia’s fingers slid over his chest, beautiful fingers with more strength than he expected. More magic. Her fingertips played a sultry rhythm on his skin, tightening every muscle, heightening his pleasure. She seemed small and fragile to him, but there was purpose in her touch. Demand even. The night breeze fanned his skin, cooling the rising heat and adding to his sensitivity.
Nicolas knew he was between sleep and awake, somewhere in the twilight in between the two stages. He might have been dream-walking. He was capable. It didn’t matter to him, and he refused to analyze it. He wanted her touch more than he wanted to know what was reality.
He heard her whisper, as soft as any breeze, the warmth of her breath sliding over his face. A brush of her lips against his. Soft, teasing—little feathery kisses tantalizing him. Her teeth nibbled at his lower lip. Her tongue traced the outline of his mouth. His heart thudded in his chest, the echo in his head like thunder.
He shaped the back of her head with the palm of his hand, crushing her silky hair in his fingers, and held her to him so she couldn’t escape. Why did he always feel as if she were on the verge of slipping away from him? He was dreaming. It was his dream, and he wanted to kiss her. His mouth took possession of hers. He was lost there in the silken heat. He gave up all pretense of sleeping, wanting it to be reality, losing himself in her taste and texture. “Dahlia,” he whispered her name against her skin. Inhaling her scent, taking her deep into his lungs. “What are you doing?”
“Losing my mind,” she whispered back, her mouth on fire, pouring molten lava into his bloodstream. “Just this once I wanted to feel like a real woman. You were lying there so beautiful, so peaceful, and the night is so perfect, I almost forgot what I am.” She lifted her head, resisting his firm grip, her black eyes liquid with sorrow. “It’s time to wake up.”
Nicolas caught her face in his hands, held her there. He knew what she meant, but he wasn’t willing to let his dream go. “We’ve been awake. All this time, we’ve both been awake, Dahlia.” He kissed her eyelids gently. The tip of her nose. The corners of her mouth. “You’re a GhostWalker, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
She pulled away from him and settled back against the tree. “For a man who is very grounded most of the time, when it comes to me, you’re not very realistic. You took a terrible chance on the ferry. What if instead of the violence being diluted by the sexual energy, you’d been burned when it flashed? Did it occur to you that could have happened just as easily?” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “It occurred to me.”
“Of course I thought of it, Dahlia. What was the alternative? I could have thrown you in the river I suppose, or let you have a seizure right in front of everyone.” Right in front of me. I can read your thoughts, remember? I knew if it happened you’d never want to look at me again.
Her head snapped up, her eyes beginning to smolder with temper. “So you risked your life rather than allowing me a little humiliation? Damn it, Nicolas, that doesn’t even make sense. I don’t need a white knight.” If anyone needed a white knight it was definitely Dahlia. And worse, the thought of the risk he’d taken for her nearly curled her toes. She rubbed her pounding temples. “Did it occur to you that you could have raped me right there in front of all those people?” She said it deliberately harshly, needing him to snap out of his dream world so that she would too.