Blood Red. Sharon Page

      “Can you imagine both our mouths on you, love?”

      Althea sighed as the seductive male voice whispered behind her. His warm breath danced over the nape of her neck, stirring loose strands of her hair.

      A moan spilled from her lips as his big hands closed over her shoulders, slipping beneath the straps of her chemise. One pair of hands—a gentleman’s hands, long-fingered, elegant. Hot, slightly rough, and all too real.

      How could a dream stir her senses so?

      Her dream lover massaged her shoulders and the controlled power in his touch vibrated through her. His fingers stroked the top of her spine. A bolt of desire raced down and exploded between her legs, drawing out a gasping sob from her very soul. A desperate sound. A plea.

      For mercy? Or for more?

      With a low chuckle, he held her as her legs melted beneath her.

      Against her ear, his husky voice promised sin.

      “Can you imagine my hands and his worshipping you?”

      No. Althea shook her head, and that, too, felt real. No, she could not begin to imagine it. It was too scandalous. Too forbidden.

      How could she, a virgin, be dreaming this?

      “Then perhaps it is not a dream, Althea. Perhaps it is a premonition.”

      No, she argued. It is a dream. Only a dream.

      His head bent to her neck. His silky hair brushed her tingling skin. She shuddered at the gentle scrape of pointed teeth. But she could not pull away, even as he drew the straps from her shoulders. He’d unfastened the tapes and the neckline gaped at her breasts, exposing them. He tugged it down further and she grabbed at his hands to rescue her modesty.

      “No, sweet. Let us enjoy.”

      Her mouth dry, Althea stared down at her pale curves tipped with puckered nipples, small and pink. Two large male hands framed her bosom, holding the lacy neckline.

      She’d never truly looked at her own breasts, not with the interest, the fascination, of these men. She’d never caressed them, never.

      For the first time, the second man spoke. “Beautiful.”

      Her gaze riveted on him. He lounged on a massive bed, shirt open to reveal sculpted muscles, swirls of golden curls and dusky pink nipples. Skin-tight buff breeches encased his powerful legs. His long fingers skimmed over his crotch, stroking the thick curving ridge that lifted the fabric. Her body ached in response. Her heart hammered, lodged in her throat.

      His long golden hair fell across his eyes, shadowing his beautiful face. Only moonlight lit the room, glittering as it fell across his dark eyes. In the bluish light, his hair glimmered like moonbeams, but she knew, the way dreamers did, what his coloring must be.

      “Aren’t they?” Satin brushed her back as the man behind her moved closer. The buttons of his waistcoat pressed into her spine. Althea felt engulfed by him, small, delicate.

      But not afraid.

      She tried to twist around to see the man behind, but she couldn’t. He seemed formed of light and shadow. Only his hands were rendered in detail. The backs traced with veins, the knuckles large, the fingers astonishingly strong, yet graceful. Mesmerized, Althea watched his fingers release her fragile chemise, which dropped to her waist.

      She swallowed a cry as those sensual hands cupped her naked bosom. Her tight, swollen breasts fit into his big palms like ripe apples. He lifted them, displaying them to the other man.

      “Pinch her nipples,” suggested the man on the bed, and he flicked open the first button securing his breeches.

      Thumbs tapped her hard nipples, shocking her with jolts of pleasure and agony. He strummed them, and she arched back, thrusting her breasts forward. He wasn’t so gentle anymore. He squeezed tight, plucked, pinched, and tugged at her nipples. But she loved every coarse, rough caress. He knew, far better than she, what she wanted. What her breasts enjoyed.