Danube Adele: Quicksilver Dreams

There are several lovely people I want to thank, beginning with Kiese Hill, my good friend and wonderful critique partner, Courtney, my wonderful agent, for being so supportive when I didn’t know what to do in this new world I found myself in and Jeff Seymour, for making me look good. Most of all, I want to thank my family: my boys, Wolfe and Bjorn, for being so patient while Mom was millions of light years away, though it looked like I was sitting on the couch, and my biggest fan, toughest coach, and dearest love, my husband. You knew it was my dream, and you drill-sarged me when I needed it. Thank you.

Was this a dream?

Had I ever felt this lucid in a dream before?

I could feel the silky material around my eyes, on my wrists and ankles, softly sliding against my skin. With my body waking to sensual heat seeping through my veins, I only wanted to concentrate on what was happening in the moment, appreciate the swirl of masculine energy twining through the feminine threads of my own.

So good ...

My dreams usually had a surreal, nondistinct, floating quality to them. This time, I actually felt a large, rough hand feathering over the skin on my rib cage, my flat stomach, agonizingly slow, avoiding obvious erogenous zones.

It was a hot, searing touch. It was like someone was actually there. Someone I wanted...

More ... Like that ... So good ...

I could scent spicy soap that was subtle, yet distinctly male, arousing, and couldn’t help the feverish whispers of encouragement.

Oh , my God ... Yes ...

My sex dreams usually made me struggle with the frustration of a roller-coaster experience that never finished. I would ride a buildup of desire and a cool down, over and over, my imagination acting as a careless lover with wonderful intent but clumsy execution. This time there was no such neglect. The burn was exquisite, building and teasing, ebbing and flowing, but never forgetful and creating a fever that made me writhe with need.

Please!

Never had I ever felt this way before, chanting my demand, desperately wanting to reach the end of the ride.

Yes! Like that! Yes!

Sudden sensation poured over and through me, powerfully enough that I woke myself and sat up. My breath was short and gasping. My body was quivery and oversensitized. I was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and my sheet was twisted in carefree abandon around my naked body.

I half expected to find a man in front of me.

Rubbing my wrists as though the soft bindings were still tied to me, I glanced around my sparsely furnished bedroom and felt my body quake with a small, faint aftershock. I was alone. Nothing was disturbed. At the same time that I drew comfort from seeing that everything in my world was still in its place, a faint echo of grief, or disappointment, took the edge off my contentment, like I was missing something. I was solo after such an erotic experience.

What about the hand? Who was it attached to?

A part of me had to give a mental headshake of exasperation.

No men for you. At least not yet.

The inevitable weight of responsibility, like a bucket of ice water, reminded me that I needed to work and pay the bills. I had to make ends meet. There was no one who was going to help me.

Usually, I accepted this with a matter-of-factness, but this night, a spike of resentment reared its head.

What would it be like to be a normal girl who had time for frivolity?

I quashed the thought immediately, too tired to let it take root.

Why fight the wave? I just had to ride it.

Settling back on my pillow, I once again closed my eyes and let the languorous effects of postorgasmic lassitude steal over me. Strangely, as my mind once again stretched fingers toward my deep subconscious, the whisper of a gentle caress down my cheek didn’t frighten me.

Hearing Aretha Franklin belt out “Respect” from my alarm clock was enough to rudely jerk me awake. I blindly slapped the alarm button off, appreciating the silence for several moments and fighting my brain’s most sincere desire to slide back into comforting nothingness.

At least it was Friday.

It was while I was pulling the sheet off my body that “the experience,” my sex dream, came back to me, which absolutely snapped me wide-awake. I looked around the bed, but there were no binding materials, and I was left feeling strangely let down, which made no sense. Of course I was alone. This was my room in the apartment I share, and I’d simply had an erotic dream last night.

But it had seemed so real! REAL. What the hell was that last night? Why had it happened? There had to be a reason.

Could women have wet dreams too?

It was definitely worth asking Cynthia, my roommate, about. Of course, she was truly a morning person who went to the gym at the absurd hour of I’m-still-dead-to-the-world 5:00 a.m. before going to work, but luckily we worked together. Come lunchtime, it was on for some juicy chitchat.

I already knew what she was going to say. She would say that I, Taylor Lane, was sexually frustrated, which would be accurate, because I was twenty-four years old and hadn’t had a really good orgasm until last night in a dream. As it stood, I was going to have to wait until lunchtime to dish, and if I didn’t get a move on, I was going to be late for work.

I went to my shit job as an assistant to one of the most successful literary agents for feature film in Hollywood. But hey, if you can do your time at a shit job in Hollywood, you can get in, which is like manna from heaven for a girl like me. If you work hard and can handle the verbal and emotional abuse that’s going to get dumped on you, then you can write your ticket.

“Dammit, Taylor! Get the goddamn phone. Do I have to do every fucking thing myself?” Reggie Mason, my boss, was screaming from inside his office. I’d let a call slide while answering two other lines, because I was a few seconds too slow and hadn’t picked up before it went to voice mail. Shit.

“Sorry, Reggie.”

“Am I supposed to pick up my fucking calls now? Isn’t that part of your fucking job? Do I need to remind you that I fucking pay you to answer the fucking phone?”

“No, Reggie.”

“I can get someone better to do your job tomorrow, Taylor. Fucking take your head out of the clouds and do your job!”

I’d found that redirection was usually the best antidote for his freakish tantrums. “Simon is on line one. Stokely is on line two, and I’ll retrieve the message from voice mail.”

“Tell Simon we’re on for lunch. I’ll get Stokely. And don’t fucking let it happen again!”

And like that, the situation was defused.

I’ve worked for Reggie for nearly a year and a half, and I don’t worry about his firing threats anymore. I know he’s damn lucky that I haven’t gone AWOL on him like every other assistant. He’d have to start fresh and retrain a newbie, which he absolutely loathes having to do. Before me, the turnover rate on his assistant’s desk was about three months due to his daily mantrums.

Me, I’ve got staying power and a thick skin.

Lunch was slow in approaching, especially since I felt driven to find Cynthia so she could help me make sense of what I’d experienced. Sadly, when lunch finally arrived, Reggie stepped out of his office with his “we’re going to get a lot of shit done” expression in place. My heart sank just a little, but I bit back my disappointment with a deep breath and a steady gaze.