The Man of Her Dreams: A Sexy Shifter story.

by Robie Madison

  His smile was slow and sensual, reaching straight up to his eyes. The deep blue color was now diluted with a touch of silver that sparkled with knowledge. Intimate knowledge.

  “What do you know about my dreams?” she challenged.

  He couldn’t possibly know anything about them.

  He slid one hand along the back of her chair, leaning his body closer to hers, until his mouth was right next to her ear. “I know the last time I visited you, by the time my hand reached the edge of your nightgown, your sweet pussy was full of cream.”

  Oh my God, he does know about my dreams.

  She couldn’t seem to find her next breath. There was no way he could have known such an intimate detail. Unless. Unless he really was the Owain of her dreams.

  “Come on.” Abruptly he shoved his chair back, stood up, and hauled her to her feet. “We’re getting out of here. You need some fresh air.”

  Still dazed by the unexpected discovery, she allowed herself to be led out of the pub. A soft breeze ruffled her curls, clearing her head a little.

  “Hold your horses,” she said, pulling free of his grasp.

  An instant later, he whirled around to face her. A feeble light spilled from a bulb over the entranceway to the pub, casting Owain’s face in shadows. For a second his features looked grim then he shifted into the light and she convinced herself she’d been mistaken. His gaze was heated with desire and he made no secret of the fact that he was studying her.

  She swallowed, hard. Was he seeing the Megan he met in their dreams? Or was he trying to rationalize the situation, just as she was?

  Even with his clothes on, this man looked exactly like Owain. He admitted he was Owain. Knew her name and that she dreamed about him. Then he’d gone ahead and proven his claim, which could only mean one thing.

  “You’ve known about me all along, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But then you’ve known about me, too.”

  That was just her point. She hadn’t. Didn’t. Despite knowing every intimate detail of this man’s naked body, she hadn’t known he was a real person. More to the point, he was essentially a stranger to her.

  “I don’t know your name. Your full name.”

  He bowed, slightly. “Owain Deverell, Ms. Jones.”

  He was trying to ruffle her. She refused to be ruffled. “In my dreams your hands—”

  Without a word, he held out his hands for her inspection. She reached out and cupped them in hers. They felt strong and amazingly familiar. She brushed her thumbs against the edge of his index finger. He had calluses.

  Her thumbs grazed his palms. “What do you do?”

  His hands jerked in hers. “I have a farm just outside the village.”

  A raucous laugh burst from the partially open door of the pub. Muttering something she doubted was either complimentary or in English, he reversed her hold on his right hand and laced his fingers between hers.

  “Come with me, Megan Jones. Let me prove I am who I say I am.”

  She nodded, not relishing another audience and frankly curious. Were she and Owain linked by some sort of psychic bond? Crazy as the theory sounded, it made an odd kind of sense. Owain certainly physically resembled his distant relative, just as her mother often remarked that Megan looked like her Aunt Margaret.

  He led her around the side of the building and deep into the darkness. His pace was confident, suggesting he was familiar with the lay of the land. Less certain of her surroundings, she hesitated slightly when they reached a line of trees. Firm pavement gave way to the soft crunch of leaves and twigs under her feet. When she tripped over an exposed root, Owain caught her easily, but instead of holding her steady, he backed her up against a tree.

  “Owain.” She whispered the word on the night air. But unlike all those other nights when she’d spoken his name with a sense of frustrated longing, this time her voice was filled with awe. She reached out and skimmed her fingers across his cheek, just to make sure. His skin was warm to the touch and slightly rough with a five o’clock shadow. He was real all right.

  Capturing her other hand, he pulled them both behind her around the trunk of the tree. The move forced his body closer to hers. So close his warm breath laced with a hint of ale fanned her face. He groaned low in his throat and his erection nudged her belly.

  A cornucopia of sensual experiences assaulted her—the rough bark of the tree against her back, his hard body pressed against her own. She inhaled and caught a heady masculine scent that was all Owain. Only unlike in her dreams it was sharper, more pungent. Oh, yeah, he was definitely the real thing.

  Her own breathing grew harsher as a primitive lust surged through her body. Her nipples hardened, pushing against the lace of her bra, demanding to be released from their confines. She suppressed the desire to grin. Dream or real, her reaction to him hadn’t changed one iota.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into the woods,” he said, though he didn’t sound the least bit regretful. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I need to kiss you.”

  A bolt of heat shot through her as he bent his head. The anticipation alone was enough to induce a heart attack. She’d waited so long, believed it impossible that he was real. His lips touched her jaw right next to her ear, at once tickling her and stirring something deep inside her that hungered for more. Instead of being sated, her hunger grew as he ran a string of kisses along her jawline. Her body trembled each time his lips touched her skin. He might as well have been tracing a path to her core. That’s where the fire burned. By the time he reached her mouth, she’d creamed her panties.

  On a groan, he rocked his erection against the apex of her thighs. He caught her at just the right angle and her clit welcomed the friction. Demanded more.

  “I can smell you, sweetheart.” Words whispered in the darkness, only this time it was no dream. His breath mixed with the sweet summer breeze caressed her ear.

  Her tiny gasp of longing was all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue inside her mouth. Their dream kisses were absolutely nothing like the real thing. For one, her senses were sharper—she tasted a hint of the bitter ale he’d been drinking and the flavor of Owain himself. For another, there was nothing gentle or teasing about this kiss. His tongue explored her mouth with an exquisite thoroughness. He traced the edges of her teeth and then plunged deeper, stealing her breath and giving her life.

  Emotions assaulted her, battering her wits. When at last he broke the kiss, she swore she could hear their hearts hammering a duet between their bodies.

  His eyes burned with a hunger that mirrored hers and she decided she’d been cast under a spell of some sort. How else to explain walking into a pub and finding the man of her dreams sitting there as though he’d been waiting for her to arrive? Psychic phenomenon or not, the situation defied any attempt she could make to rationalize it. And suddenly she no longer wanted to. For once in her well-ordered life she wasn’t going to ask for explanations or analyze the situation to death. If this was an enchantment, she didn’t want to wake up.

  He stepped away, pulling her arms from around the tree at the same time. Then he ran his hands up to her shoulders, easing any strain. Despite the small distance, she was still keenly aware of the sexual tension arcing between them.

  “I don’t think I can stop touching you,” he said.

  Now that her hands were free, she settled one against his chest. Heat radiated through the soft cotton of his T-shirt. All this clothing between them was an unexpected novelty. An enticement to bare some skin.

  “What about me touching you?”

  “Dangerous, very dangerous.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Her fingers caressed his chest, grazing over his nipple. It hardened on contact. He hissed and she felt the slight tremor of his muscles beneath her fingers. Her lips parted. His descended. Her eyes blinked once and then closed on a sigh. The tiny sound quickly morphed into a whimper of need when his tongue traced a path along her collarbone. She arched her neck, of
fering him more. He lifted his head instead.

  “I like your dress,” he said.

  It was white and patterned with whimsically styled deep-red flowers. It was one of her favorites, which was why she’d chosen to wear it. But that didn’t change the incongruity of his comment given the erotic thoughts tumbling through her brain.

  “Except,” he continued, “it’s far too long.”

  She frowned. The dress fell to mid-thigh. What was too long about that?

  “And it’s in my way,” he muttered, finally releasing his hold on one of her arms.

  The next instant his hand slid beneath the hem. She cried out when his hot, calloused fingers brushed against her bare flesh.

  “Hush, sweetheart. I’m going exploring.”

  That he was. Straight up what was left of her leg to the elastic edge of her modest white panties. She jumped as one long finger slipped beneath the cotton barrier. Not that he noticed.

  “This is also in my way,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

  Her fingers crushed the thin fabric of his tee. Not that he noticed that, either. He was otherwise occupied. His brow furrowed, his eyes intently focused on her face.

  The backs of two of his fingers skimmed against the dampened curls of her mound. She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming in frustration. They’d barely started and yet she was on the verge of falling apart. Thank God for the solid tree trunk at her back.

  “Let go, sweetheart.”

  All too familiar words whispered across the shadows. She groaned softly and shook her head. Her body trembled with the need to find release and yet—

  And yet she was close. So close she could swear that this time his fingers would finish the job before she woke from the dream.

  She canted her hips, seeking. Barely daring to hope.

  And then two long, thick fingers slid through the folds of her labia. Her eyes flew open and she screamed. Or tried to. Because his fingers found their prize and rammed home. Filling her even as his mouth closed over hers, drinking in the climax that ripped through her body.

  She didn’t dare let go of him even after the fireworks subsided. Was equally glad when he pulled her impossibly closer and she snuggled her face against the softness of his shirt. He kissed the top of her head and slowly, deliberately, withdrew his fingers from her body. She shuddered. Half sated. Half aroused all over again. An instinctive reaction to the erection pressed firmly against her belly.

  Megan lifted her head. “But you—”

  Chapter Three

  “I don’t want our first time to be a quick fuck,” Owain said with a shake of his head. A sheepish smile tugged at his mouth.

  Megan’s eyes widened at his earthy frankness, in part because it didn’t make sense. “First time?” In her dreams they always lost themselves in each other’s bodies. Real life had been no different, only better. Much, much better.

  “They were dreams,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “I wasn’t really there.” He bent closer and brushed his lips against hers. “And you, sweetheart, were definitely not here in my arms.”

  He was right. As vivid as her dreams with him had been, there was no comparison to the solid, substantial weight of his body so close to hers. It was as if, without her realizing it, she’d been experiencing their dream encounters through fuzzy reception, which had suddenly cleared.

  She looked up into Owain’s face. No matter what kind of response he’d coaxed from her body—and she always responded—she’d always woken up from her dreams and taken back control of her life. From the look on his face and given what had just happened between them, she had the distinct impression that from the moment she’d spotted him in the pub, her life had spun right out of control.

  The idea should terrify her, but it didn’t. Now that she’d found him, she wanted this chance with Owain. Wasn’t that the real reason she’d flown all the way across the Atlantic in search of him?

  “So, um, what are you suggesting?”

  He kissed her forehead and stepped back a pace. He did not, she noticed, let go of her.

  “I want more. Of you.”

  She licked her lips, acutely aware of his eyes tracking the movement. He’d given a precise, definitive answer, without really offering a concrete suggestion. He simply continued to stand there, holding her.

  “There’s always your place, except—”

  “You’d come?” His grip on her tightened infinitesimally.

  It was difficult to tell if he sounded shocked or awed. Surprised at any rate, which made her smile. It wasn’t the response she expected from a twenty-something guy who’d just made her orgasm. In the middle of some woods. Behind a pub. Against a tree.

  “You haven’t asked me yet,” she said.

  “I’m afraid to. I’m afraid if I let go, you’ll disappear.”

  She knew the feeling. “I just got here, remember? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  He let go and she dropped her arm. Neither of them vanished in a puff of smoke, though he did have an idiotic grin on his face.

  “My place, huh.”

  “Except—”

  “I think I better walk you back to wherever you’re staying,” he said. “I want to do this right. I want…I want to ask you out on a date.”

  She nodded in agreement. A date sounded like a promise of more.

  The pub was still crowded, the street beyond deserted. They strolled down the road hand in hand and Megan was suddenly struck by how ordinary it all seemed. The thought scared her a little. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?

  When they reached the B&B, Owain swung her around to face him. He stared at her for a long moment then his hands came up and framed her face.

  “Megan.”

  “What if this is a dream, too?” she asked. “What if I wake up tomorrow morning and you aren’t here?”

  “I’ll be here.” His tone spoke of grim determination.

  She smiled. “You can’t camp out on Mrs. Smith’s doorstep all night.” And as much as her body might have strong opinions on the matter, she wasn’t about to invite him in, either.

  He pulled her close for a quick kiss. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I’ll take you for a picnic by the river.”

  She grasped his wrists when he would have stepped away. “That wasn’t asking for a date. That sounded more like an order.”

  “It’s my promise to you, sweetheart. Maybe then I’ll believe you’re really here.”

  ***

  Somehow, because ’twas for sure he was not paying attention to where he walked, Owain reached his farm. The first thing he saw was the crumbling wall that surrounded the buildings. The place was in a sorry state. He had no business wanting to bring Megan here.

  “’Tis a sad day indeed when I spy you drinking swill in a place called The Sheep’s Tail,” a voice said from the shadows.

  A shape detached itself from a tree and strode into the moonlight. At six foot four, the black-haired, rugged-looking man topped Owain by a good five inches, but then Rhys was the Pendragon. And Owain was…

  “’Tis the twenty-first century,” Owain said with a hint of rebuke in his tone. “Or do you not remember which Elizabeth is on the throne?”

  Rhys swore, in Latin. A phrase he’d no doubt learned directly from one of the centurions stationed at a fort that had once been just north of Trefriw. “Careful, young foal or should I say bloody fool?”

  Owain stood his ground. While it was true that Rhys had several centuries on him, Owain didn’t care for either epithet. “If you’ve descended from your mountain lair just to pester me—”

  “I didn’t.” Rhys’s black eyes flashed in warning. “I came to ask what that bitch Rhiannon wanted of you two nights ago when the full moon showed her face, but I can see plain enough.”

  While the Pendragon got on well enough with other members of the Tylwyth Teg, he’d never cared much for the Fairy Queen. No
t that Owain had had much use for his fair cousin until recently. Two nights ago he’d struck a bargain with her, a fact Rhys no doubt knew full well.

  “’Tis because of her I’ve roamed this stretch of shore along the River Conwy for the past one hundred and seventy years cursed—neither quite mortal nor beast.”

  Once again the Pendragon swore quite eloquently, this time in English, and Owain had no trouble understanding the insult to his mother, should he be interested in taking offense. “’Tis because you’re a halfwit and flouted the code that governs our interaction with the mortal world. And now look at you. As mortal as the woman you are besotted with. Or near enough.”

  Owain shrugged. He’d intended no insult or disrespect to his friend, who’d been shifting since the age of five when he’d assumed the form of the red dragon. But, since it was also true that the Pendragon was a law unto himself, able to come and go in either of his forms at will, Owain thought Rhys’s argument a poor one. While he had one chance to claim a life for himself.

  “Time stretches before me in a way you cannot understand and I am trapped, neither a part of the mortal realm nor my own. Had I a choice, I would keep this form.”

  Rhys’s black eyes bore into his. “How much time do you have to win her?”

  No. It did not surprise Owain o’er much that Rhys had guessed what he’d done. A form of punishment, any curse could be broken given the right circumstances.

  “Until sunset three days from today.”

  And today was nearly gone. Half of it lost to the curse that bound him to the river. For while he’d anticipated Megan’s arrival in the village, he hadn’t considered that she might fall asleep before he reached her. When she had, he’d been unable to resist either her subconscious call or the equine form he was forced to assume.

  No doubt the Fairy Queen knew well of his folly. And yet, in the end, she’d granted his request for he’d felt the change steal over him the moment Megan had stepped into the pub. For the next couple more days at least he’d remain fully human.

  “The bitch’s price is no doubt steep,” Rhys said.

  It had been, but Owain was not about to divulge as much. ’Twas bad enough that Rhiannon had taunted him two nights before.