Heat began to penetrate her
Heat from Justin’s body as he pulled her close and caught her mouth in a sweet, savage kiss. “Oh, chère,” he murmured.
Part of Lucy knew this was wrong. That she should back off before they got caught up in something they couldn’t stop. Something that might even get him killed.
But another part of her couldn’t help herself. One kiss, Lucy thought. Just one sexy kiss.
Justin swept his hands over her breasts. Her nipples hardened and the soft flesh ached for more. His tongue plunged deep inside her mouth, the rhythm making her think of him plunging deep inside her.
A moment later he pulled her out of the chair and against his chest. She felt his throbbing length through her clothing. Hands cradling her bottom, he pressed his erection low against her belly. Oh, the sensations that spread through her like wildfire! Her hips began to move, and more than anything she wanted to rid them both of their garments.
She could just picture it. Naked. Her straddling him in the darkened bedroom.
She moaned and Justin swallowed the sound as if he were having the very same fantasy.
As if he’d had the very same dream…
Dear Reader,
What’s hotter than a sultry Louisiana night? For my heroine Lucy Ryan, nothing. Lucy has psychic dreams…psychic erotic dreams of a man she doesn’t know…yet. Justin Guidry comes into her life just when she needs him to get her out of a jam. Then, not only is her life at risk, but her heart, as well.
I had a great time writing Lucy and Justin’s story. Almost as great as I did exploring New Orleans itself. So pull up a comfy chair, pour yourself a cup of chicory coffee, grab a beignet and enjoy In Dreams.
Happy reading,
Patricia Rosemoor
Books by Patricia Rosemoor
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
35—SHEER PLEASURE*
55—IMPROPER CONDUCT*
95—HOT ZONE*
IN DREAMS
Patricia Rosemoor
To Edward…see you in dreams…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
1
SHE SWEPT HER TONGUE up his hard length. His moan sent fingers of fire down her body to the heat between her thighs.
She wanted him there.
Slowly, she eased her body upward until their mouths met. He swallowed her whole with that kiss, making her feel as if she were drowning. Ending the kiss, she pushed herself up so she could see him. His sharp features, punctuated by a fall of inky hair across his high forehead, had never seemed so alive. Heavy lids over pale brown eyes revealed the promise of pleasure…bedroom eyes that could make her insides curl.
Her insides were curling now.
She felt him moving under her, his hot hands on her thighs, a clever thumb lingering at her sweet spot. He stroked her clit until she arched back and opened herself wider to him.
“Now, chère, now,” he urged.
She wanted to hold on, to draw out the pleasure a while longer, but he wouldn’t ease up on her and the friction push-push-pushed her over the edge. As the pulsing began deep inside her, she dug her nails into his thighs. He jerked and made a low guttural sound. Then a treacherous sound pushed them both into the abyss from which there was no rescue….
“A-ah!”
Suddenly awake, Lucy Ryan sat straight up, her body soft and humming with pleasure from the erotic dream. But there was no pleasure in the pounding of her heart, like that of a frightened bird captured in flight.
In flight—that she was—and the erotic dream was in reality a nightmare….
The image of her lover came back to her as clearly as if he stood before her. Sharp features. Inky hair. Bedroom eyes.
She didn’t know anyone who looked like that.
At least not yet.
Dear Lord, no. She couldn’t bring anyone else into this, she couldn’t risk another life. But even as she denied it, Lucy knew she had no control over what was shown to her in dreams.
A glance at the glowing numbers of the digital clock told her it was barely four. She’d slept a little more than an hour. Climbing off the thin mattress, she tried to stop herself from shaking as she made her way into the bathroom.
The motel was cheap and threadbare, but at least it was clean. She washed her face, then stepped into the shower, hoping the warm water would soothe her. Instead, it cleared her mind, made her remember too sharply what she had witnessed several hours ago, a nightmare turned real.
She couldn’t stop the dreams from coming, couldn’t change them. And because of that, a young woman was dead. And she was on the run, fleeing from the murderer’s accomplices who were after her.
The only witness.
So what the hell was she supposed to do next?
Now that she had time to think, to consider her options, Lucy realized she had to go back to New Orleans and contact the police, tell them everything she knew. Rather, a version they could handle. That was the only way. Earlier she’d panicked and headed out of the city to anywhere away from the danger following her, but eventually she’d lost the thugs. And if she went back to the city how in the world would they know where to find her?
Reassured, she quickly pulled on her cotton flood pants and crop top, then shoved her feet into thick-soled sandals.
The authorities wouldn’t believe her if she told them everything, but she didn’t have to explain that she’d purposely gone to the scene of the crime, but had been too late to save that poor woman. She could simply say she’d been out for a walk and had stumbled on the murder. That would be believable. New Orleans was a late-night town and on weekends pedestrians crowded French Quarter streets.
In her mind’s eye, Lucy could again see the horror she hadn’t been able to stop. But before fear could change her mind, she shook away the memory.
Scraping a thick skein of coppery hair from her eyes, she grabbed her wallet and shoved it in her pocket—she’d left her shoulder bag on the floor of her car. Then she found her keys and peeked through the blinds. The motel sign glowed at her through a wet neon haze. There was no one was out to see her leave. Opening the door to a blast of humidity, she crossed the rain-slick pavement to her car.
It wasn’t until she pulled out of the parking lot and checked her rearview mirror that she saw a set of high beams turn on.
Her chest tightened, but she told herself someone else had merely chosen to leave the motel at four in the morning. Though the rain had stopped and the moon was trying to pop out from behind a cloud, she turned on her wipers to clear the windshield, then checked the mirror again. The other car swung out behind her. Coincidence, she told herself, but just to make certain, she took a turn she hadn’t meant to on a road she didn’t know.
The other car followed.
She pressed the accelerator harder.
The other car kept pace.
She made another turn.
The other car turned, as well.
Her mouth was dry, her pulse fierce, but she told herself to stay calm. She was intelligent enough to think her way out of this.
Think!
They were speeding along a moonlit bayou, the long narrow finger of water crossed by home-built bridges to small dwellings, mostly ramshackle, some boarded up. Fishing camps probably, but none so far showed any sign of life. And there was no doubling back.
He
r headlights hit a sign that indicated a split ahead.
Which way to go?
Driving on instinct, she stayed left, venturing deeper into bayou territory, and when she saw another road ahead and to the right—this one gravel—she killed her lights and made a wild turn, trusting the moon to guide her.
A check of her rearview mirror revealed a flash of lights as the other car continued on past her.
Drawing a shaky breath, she took her foot off the accelerator and let the car slow. But her relief was short-lived. A beam of light swept over her from behind. Checking her mirror, she realized the other driver had turned around somewhere and was once more on her tail.
The moment of distraction proved disastrous. Her left wheels strayed off the gravel, and when she tried to steer the car back onto the road, she couldn’t. The wheels spun, spitting gravel on one side, mud on the other. The car slipped and slid sideways and then started to tilt as if it were sinking. A cypress loomed before her and she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid crashing into it.
Not stopping to count her blessings, Lucy cut the engine, and grabbed her car keys with its micro light attached to the key ring. Not that she would use the tiny light now, but it might come in handy later. Wincing as the mud sucked at her feet, trying to trap her, she pushed herself away from the road. She had always been a city girl, but thankfully she’d never been girlie-squeamish.
She glanced back. The other car had stopped.
“Don’t run, chère, no place for you to go now!” a man called out as she slopped through ankle-deep swamp water.
Heart beating wildly, she plunged ahead. Two doors slammed and she assumed they were now after her on foot.
“We just want to talk to you,” the second man singsonged. “Them alligators, they like a tasty meal.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she breathed, knowing alligators killed to eat, not because they were trying to cover up a crime. Talk? Yeah, right.
Moonbeams filtered down through the cypress trees, giving her just enough illumination to find her way. Unfortunately, the light was undoubtedly enough for the two men to see her. She heard them splashing through the shallows in her direction. One of them cursed and the word shoe drifted to her.
If she weren’t so afraid she might smile.
She tried to move soundlessly through the swamp.
Maybe she could lose them.
There was a splash to her left. Not the two men. Her throat tightened.
An alligator!
But she realized nature was the last thing she ought to be worrying about when one of the men said loudly, “Let’s get this over with. Shoot the bitch!”
Glancing back, she saw one of the them raise his arm and a dull blue glow suddenly flared into heat…heat that tore at her side and made her stumble….
Shot!
Before she could grasp the concept, before she could move to find a place to hide, a hand covered her mouth and an arm snaked around her waist and dragged her back into the shelter of a cypress.
His “Shhh” was unnecessary. She had no intention of calling out so they could find her more easily.
But who was he? A definite he. No softness behind her. Only hard muscle and a tension that was contagious. Almost enough to distract her from the pain burning her side.
The shooter said, “I think I got her—”
“Dammit, I lost my other shoe!”
“Screw the shoe! Better than losing your life. Let’s go make sure.”
“You wanna go, then you go. There’s something moving in that water.”
“What? An alligator?”
“This is the swamp, idiot, whad’ya think? We can come back to finish the job tomorrow when we can see what’s what.”
She heard them cursing, then their voices receded. They were moving back toward their car. Her knees grew weak and she sagged back in relief.
Her rescuer waited a beat, then whispered, “I’m going to let go, but I would suggest you don’t make any noise until they’re gone.”
His breath laved her ear, pebbling the flesh along her spine. She nodded her agreement and true to his word, he released her. It took her a minute to breathe normally again, to stand steadily on her own as she heard the car start and the wheels spin away.
That’s when, to thank the man who’d saved her life, she turned and triggered the microlight on her key-chain so that she could see her rescuer’s face.
Sharp features…inky hair…bedroom eyes…
“Oh, no,” Lucy moaned. “Not you!”
And then she passed out.
2
HE PULSED BEHIND HER as she clung to the iron bedstead on her knees, her bottom pressed into his groin.
He ran his hands over every inch of her body as if he were trying to memorize her, as if he might be tested as to the fullness of her hips or the firmness of her belly or the sensitivity of her breasts. Mmm, her breasts…he paid special attention to detail there, his clever fingers rolling and tugging the nipples into hard, sensitive points until she cried out in pleasure-pain. Keeping one hand busy tweaking them, he used the other to feather the auburn curls of her pubis with a light touch before dipping into her well.
“There,” she murmured as he slid a single finger laden with her cream along her clit. “Oh, yes, sweet heaven…”
She’d never been so wet. Or so deliciously hot.
She glanced up across to the dresser with its antique mirror where she caught a reflection of their sexual dance. His bedroom eyes glittered at her via the mirror, and their gazes locked.
Slowly, he rocked into her…buried himself…pulled back so only his tip teased her.
No, no, fuck me deep and hard.
She mouthed the words she couldn’t say. Had been raised not to say. She was too much of a lady. Though at the moment, she looked anything but. Wanton. A lust-filled, flushed-face wanton, her red hair wild and radiant. Her lust for him had transformed her into this creature of seduction.
She could tell he read her lips via the mirror, because his features went taut and his gaze dropped so that he could see what his fingers were doing to her nipple. He squeezed hard and when she sighed, squeezed a little harder until she moaned.
Licking her lips, she rubbed her breast against his hand and lifted her tush and pushed back so they smacked together with an electric wallop.
He was doing what she wanted, doing her fast and hard. His slick cock plunged in and out of her. And his finger, oh, his finger was equally delicious, rubbing her with the same speed and intensity.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and became pure sensation. When she opened them, she caught him watching her again, his eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth open as he gasped harder and faster in perfect rhythm with his actions.
Letting go of the bedstead, she reached back with one hand through the vee of her thighs and let his cock slide her juices against her fingertips. Then she flexed her fingers and scraped her nails against his hard flesh, and the sensation seemed to undo him. He gave a low shout that unnerved her, and then plunged deep inside.
Even as waves of pleasure rippled through her, she stared straight ahead at their reflection, fascinated by his expression of pure lust….
Lucy blinked open her eyes to see the face she’d dreamed. Only rather than expressing lust, it reflected worry. Over her.
“You’re awake.”
She blinked and sniffed the air redolent with chicory coffee and andouille sausage. In response to the heavenly smells, her stomach growled.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“My family’s fishing camp.”
Fishing…water splashed somewhere nearby…and the room with nothing but a bed and some pegs on the wall seemed to shift just a little.
Confused, she murmured, “Feels like we’re moving.”
“We’re on a houseboat tied to shore.”
Lucy started to sit up until a sharp pain reminded her that she’d been shot. The breath whooshed out of her and she froze, her
hands pressed to the mattress of the double bed.
“Let me help you.”
Help meant he had to put his hands on her again. Hands about which she’d dreamed. Erotic hands. Hands that could do more interesting things than help her to sit up.
The thought made her blush.
“Well, at least you’ve got some color,” he noted, which made her even warmer.
When he got her into a sitting position, she realized the wound was bandaged, and that she was still fully clothed. Despite the odds, she was alive and had him to thank for it.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Justin Guidry. Don’t worry about the wound. Flesh only.” He helped her stand. “It’ll smart for a while, but it’ll heal nice.”
“Dr. Guidry?”
He shook his head.
“You’re an EMT?”
“Nope, not a paramedic, either,” he said, heading for the doorway. “And you can call me Justin.”
Now truly curious, Lucy followed him into a larger space that served both as kitchen and living room. There was a small couch and rocker set near the Franklin stove, plus a wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs. The walls were of rough-hewn wood, relieved by a few framed photographs that looked like they’d been taken on family outings.
The wound twitched and she frowned down at the bandage. Conveniently, the thug had caught her flesh on her side between her crop top and flood pants. There wasn’t even any blood on her clothing.
“If you’re not a doctor or a medic, then how did you know what to do to take care of me?”
“Call it instinct, not to mention too much experience tending to my own and brothers’ childhood injuries. Mama probably wished my brothers and I were dead many times over. Not that we used guns on each other. Well, maybe pretend ones.”
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