The sane thing would be to put some distance between us.
Instead, I throw myself at him.
It isn’t graceful. It isn’t thought through. I just lean in and wrap my arms around him and hold on as if the last few seconds of the dream are still happening and I can stop them from coming true by keeping him here. He catches me immediately, one arm around my back, the other sliding up between my shoulder blades.
He’s solid. Warm. Alive.
I bury my face against his neck and breathe him in.
He strokes my back slowly, once, twice, his big hand moving in a steady rhythm that should calm me down and does not. Or maybe it does, just not in the way it should. Because under the fear, under the relief, my body starts answering him.
Traitorous thing.
My nipples tighten against my thin top. My thighs press together under the sheet. His heart is beating faster now too. I can feel it through his chest, heavier and harder than before.
He notices the change in me almost at once.
His hand stills on my back for one suspended moment. Then it slides lower. Not hurried. Not tentative. Just certain. He cups the curve of my ass through the fabric and pulls me closer into his lap, and the friction between my legs sends a helpless sound out of me.
He goes still, and then one hand moves between us.
He looks at me once, just once, and whatever he sees in my face must be enough, because the next second his palm settles over my cunt through my underwear and he exhales hard against my temple. “Christ,” he whispers. “You’re wet.”
I whimper and clutch at him harder, my hips moving before I can stop them, chasing the pressure of his hand. It’s humiliating and desperate and I can’t make myself care. Not with him here. Not with his hand there. Not after waking up certain I’d lost him.
His fingers press in more firmly and I gasp into his neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined. “Show me.”
I rock against his palm in short, needy movements, and the friction is already enough to make my whole body throb. He lets me use him for a few seconds, just feeling how badly I need it, then his hand slides under the waistband of my underwear.
I freeze.
Not because I want him to stop, but because I want him so much it frightens me.
His fingers find me hot and slick and swollen, and he lets out a rough sound that goes straight through me. “Soaked,” he says, almost to himself.
Then he strokes me.
Slow and firm. Exactly where I need him.
I cry out and grab his shoulders.
He does it again, dragging two fingers through my wetness and circling my clit with his thumb, and my whole body jolts. I’m so sensitive already from the dream, from the panic, from the way he held me. Everything feels too bright, too raw.
“Viktor,” I gasp.
He lifts his head from my neck and looks at me. His eyes are dark, fixed on my face, watching every twitch and breath. “Do you want this?”
“Yes.”
He kisses me then, hard and deep, while his hand keeps moving between my thighs. His thumb works my clit in slow, unbearable circles while his fingers slip lower, gathering more wetness, learning me all over again. I kiss him back helplessly, open-mouthed and greedy, my body rocking into his hand with no shame left in it.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down my throat and say against my skin, “Good.” Then he pushes one finger inside me.
I moan so loudly it embarrasses me even as I do it.
He stills for a fraction of a second, feeling the way I clamp around him, then slides deeper. His thumb never stops. The stretch of him and the steady pressure on my clit hit together in a way that makes my head fall back.