The fantasies she’d indulged in for years all centered on her ghost man. Seeing him, touching him, and finding pleasure at his hands had proved her dreams paled in comparison to the real thing. Knowing firsthand what it felt like to embrace her carnal urges, she craved more.
Harley curled her hands and fought the desire to give herself a little relief from the needs swamping her. It wasn’t right. While she sat in her living room, naked and aroused, Calan hung from chains, alone.
She’d caught glimpses of torture from his mind when he’d invaded hers. Images of burning alive, drowning, and being repeatedly stabbed had flashed across her eyes. He’d yanked the pictures away as if he hadn’t meant for her to see them, but she suspected it was part of his suffering, what he’d alluded to the Huntsmen enduring for centuries. Real or illusionary? She couldn’t be sure, but his anxiety over the scenes had resonated through her.
Harley wanted to run back to his side and release him, exactly as he’d ordered her. She resisted. Caution. The word had saved her too many times for her to ignore her golden rule because she lusted for a man who might condemn her to the same torment he suffered.
If what she suspected held true, though, he wouldn’t be able to harm her without hurting himself too. She carried a piece of him much the same way she did the infectious chaos from her father.
One day. She’d take the reprieve Calan gave her, fulfill her obligation to Ian tonight, and return to Calan. She’d survived almost a decade on her own. One more day wouldn’t matter. When she did get him alone… She shuddered at the rush of desire tightening her nipples and skipping tingles along the walls of her sex.
She wanted him inside her. The orgasm he’d ripped from her had stoked her desire. The experience, though mind-blowing, had only set her needs to simmer. She wanted more, everything he could give her. She craved the thick length of his cock pounding into her. She yearned to feel his lips on hers. And she hungered for his passion. She wanted to swallow his release and know she’d been the one who’d sent him over the edge.
Unable to resist any longer, she skimmed her fingers down the center of her body, starting at her upper chest, between her breasts to her bellybutton. The slow stroke quickened her breath. Nearly every night, she’d brought herself to orgasm by fantasizing about her ghost man.
Calan, not merely her ghost man.
He was real. Alive.
Hers.
Harley shook her head at the last thought, unsure where the certainty came from, but positive it was true. Calan was hers…if she returned to him and finished their bond.
She pushed away the thought before she rushed back to his side. The truth was he’d claimed her years before with only a look. Every night, she imagined how his kiss would feel and how his voice in her ear would sound as he made love to her. Nothing had prepared her for the man she’d encountered when she’d walked into his cell.
He oozed sexuality. Everything about him appealed to her—his hard body, the harshness of his features, and the gravelly growl punctuating his words. His scent, however, sent her up in flames. She’d always loved the smell of a campfire. Calan captured the soothing and tantalizing fragrance and infused it with life.
She conjured his image, and a wash of arousal coated the lips of her sex. The thump to her clit demanded his touch, and the quivering of her sex begged to orgasm around his hard length. She slid her fingers to the smooth skin of her cleft. A moan escaped her. The amount of wetness awaiting her shocked her. It shouldn’t have. She’d been aroused all night thinking of Calan.
Another slow trace of her folds, and a whimper fell from her mouth. She squirmed and fought the urge to thrust her fingers into her opening. With the way she responded whenever Calan had starred in her fantasies, she knew it wouldn’t take long to careen into ecstasy. She didn’t want to rush into the one-sided bliss. After learning what her phantom lover looked like, she wanted to pretend he was here, touching her.
For her entire adult life, she’d been half in love with Calan. Or at least in lust with him. Either way, no other man had been able to compete with the release she found by picturing Calan’s eyes and touching herself. Sad in a way but true nonetheless. Calan owned her. He had for nine years.
She pictured his eyes first, the thick swoop of his lashes against the tanned skin of his face. His stark cheekbones, long, straight nose, and strong chin added to the image she’d always imagined. Full lips softened his face. When he’d parted them and invited her kiss, he’d looked like an incubus, one who’d take her to the highest levels of passion possible.
With two straightened fingers, she breached her opening. Slowly, oh so very slowly, she pushed her fingers in until her palm met her wet lower lips. A twist of her wrist and a curl of her fingers, and she tortured herself. In and out, she moved them in controlled strokes. At the end of each thrust, she swiped her fingertips back and forth over the hidden section that sent whipping pulses through her. A shuddered groan escaped. Mini waves danced through her.
She had to push deep to reach her G-spot. Calan wouldn’t have a problem reaching it. His long, slender, and slightly roughened fingers guaranteed he’d take her over the edge with a few swipes. One kiss, and he’d stimulated her in inconceivable ways. She’d never experienced an orgasm like the one he’d pulled from her. When he
