Chapter 55 - 0055: It Was Just A Dream

Chapter 55: Chapter 0055: It Was Just A Dream

Elena’s Point Of View

The dream started before I even realized I was asleep.

A low, rough chuckle curled around my ears, dark as sin, thick as honey. "You like being eaten, Bambina?" His voice... Jaxx’s voice, was a physical thing, a weight pressing down on my chest, a hand sliding between my thighs. My breath hitched in my sleep, my hips rolling against the sheets, my body already aching, already begging for something I couldn’t name. Some traitorous part of me leaned into it, hungry for the very thing my waking mind refused to admit I wanted. I hated him for it, hated myself more for wanting him to keep going.

I was back in that restroom.

The cold marble of the counter bit into my back. The scent of him - cedar, whiskey, male - wrapped around me like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. His fingers, rough, demanding, dug into the soft flesh of my thighs as he spread me open, his breath hot against my skin. "Look at you," he growled, his thumb ghosting over my slit, teasing, taunting. "Dripping for me already."

There was something cruel in the way he said it, cruel and utterly intoxicating, and I hated how much I wanted to hear it again. Even in sleep, some small, rational corner of my mind whispered that I should be ashamed, that this wanting was a betrayal of everything I thought I stood for. The whisper went unheeded.

My body pulsed in the dream, my clit throbbing, my walls clenching around nothing. I could feel him... his tongue, his lips, the way he sucked at me like a man starving, like he wanted to consume me whole. The sound of his mouth on me was obscene... wet, sloppy, filthy, and I loved it, loved it in a way that made my stomach twist with shame even in sleep.

My fingers tangled in his hair, my nails scraping against his scalp as I ground against his face, shameless, desperate, chasing a release that felt just out of reach. Every rational thought dissolved into sensation, into need, into the single, consuming truth of wanting more.

"Jaxx... fuck..." My voice came out raw, broken, my body trembling as his tongue flicked over my clit, fast and relentless. His fingers slid inside me, deep, rough, stretching me, filling me, and I screamed, a gasp tore from my lips as I jerked awake, my body arching off the bed, my thighs clenching around my own hand. My fingers were slick, wet, tangled in the sheets, my nightdress riding up around my hips. The fabric clung to my skin, damp, and the air hung thick with the scent of my own arousal.

Oh my God.

My breath came in ragged gasps, my chest heaving as I stared up at the ceiling, my body still thrumming, still aching for release. The dream had felt so real... his voice, his touch, the way he’d licked his lips after, his eyes black with hunger as he’d tucked my panties into his pocket like a trophy.

My hips rolled against the mattress, my body searching for something, anything, to ease the fire burning between my thighs. I pressed a hand to my sternum, willing my heart to slow, willing the heat to fade. It didn’t. If anything, the stillness of the room only made the ache sharper, more insistent, a cruel reminder of everything I refused to name.

I bit my lip, my fingers trembling as they hovered over my own skin. I shouldn’t. I knew I shouldn’t. But the memory of his mouth, his tongue, undid every ounce of resolve I tried to summon. My husband slept just down the hall, and here I lay, unraveling over a man who wasn’t him. The thought should have stopped me. It didn’t.

A low, needy whimper escaped my lips as my fingers finally gave in, sliding between my thighs, my touch light, teasing. The first brush against my clit sent a jolt through me, my back arching, my toes curling into the sheets. I was soaked, dripping, my body already primed from the dream, my skin sensitive, electric, every nerve ending raw and exposed.

"Jaxx..." His name left my lips like a prayer, a curse, a plea, all three tangled together in a single breath. My fingers moved faster, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as I imagined him... his hands on my thighs, his mouth on my pussy, his voice growling against my skin. "You taste so fucking good, Elena. Like sin. Like mine."

My hips bucked, my body chasing the pleasure, my fingers circling, pressing, rubbing... KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sound was jarring, a gunshot in the quiet of the room. My eyes snapped open, my body freezing, my fingers still buried between my thighs. The knock came again, sharper, more insistent, and reality slammed into me like a freight train.

Shit.

I ripped my hand away, my chest heaving, my skin burning with embarrassment. The sheets lay in a tangled, damp mess, undeniable proof of what I’d been doing. My nightdress clung to me, the silk transparent where it touched my skin, my nipples hard, aching, betraying me. I could smell myself, thick and musky and unmistakable, and I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. My pulse hammered against my throat, equal parts arousal and horror, an ugly, tangled cocktail I had no idea how to swallow.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my body trembling, my thighs sticky with my own arousal. The wooden floor was cold beneath my feet, a stark contrast to the heat still pooling between my legs.

I stumbled toward the mirror, my movements clumsy, my legs weak, like I’d just run a marathon. My reflection greeted me like a disaster... hair wild, lips swollen from biting them, skin flushed, eyes dark with lingering desire.

Fantastic.

I yanked my robe from the back of the chair, my fingers fumbling with the tie as I wrapped it around myself. The fabric felt rough against my sensitive skin, but I didn’t care. I just needed to cover myself. To hide. To pretend, even for a moment, that I hadn’t just fallen apart over a man who wasn’t my husband.

"It didn’t mean anything," I muttered, my voice raspy, raw. "Nothing happened. It was just a dream. He’s just a..." My teeth clenched. "A good-for-nothing, smug, arrogant bastard."

Saying it out loud didn’t make it feel any truer. If anything, the words rang hollow against the quiet of the room, mocking me with their obvious lie.

The knock came again, firmer, louder, and I flinched, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Mrs. Sinclair?" The maid’s voice carried polite professionalism, but I knew she could hear the way my breath was still ragged, sense the way my voice would crack if I tried to speak. I imagined her on the other side of the door, her crisp uniform, her judgmental eyes, her knowing smile, and the thought alone made heat crawl up my neck.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my robe. Pull it together, Elena.

I forced my legs to move, my body still thrumming, still aching as I padded toward the door. My bare feet slapped against the wood, the sound too loud, too revealing. I paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob, my breath hitching as I glanced down at myself... my robe barely tied, my skin still flushed, my nipples hard beneath the silk.

Damn it.

I adjusted the tie, my fingers trembling, my body betraying me at every turn. I could feel the wetness between my thighs, the throb of my clit, the ache of my own fingers still lingering on my skin. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and forced a mask of indifference over my face, praying it would hold.

Then I opened the door.

The maid stood there, her posture perfect, her face blank, but her eyes flickered, just for a second, down to my disheveled state. She noticed. Of course she noticed. My hair was a mess, my skin glowing, my lips swollen. I looked like I’d just been fucked. Or at least fucked in a dream so vivid it might as well have been real.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair," she said, her voice smooth and unbetraying. But I saw the way her gaze lingered, the way her cheeks pinked just a little. She knew.

I raised an eyebrow, my voice hoarse when I finally spoke. "Morning."

She cleared her throat, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Sinclair asked me to let you know breakfast is being served downstairs." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "He said... you shouldn’t be late."

I stared at her, my body tensing, my jaw clenching. That man. Of course he did. He knew. He always knew, and some sick, twisted part of me wondered if he’d somehow heard me, sensed me, from wherever he’d been that morning. The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing through me, hot and unwelcome.

I forced a smile, slow and tight, my eyes narrowing. "Tell Mr. Sinclair I’ll be down shortly."

She bowed her head slightly, her movements quick and efficient, as though she couldn’t wait to escape my presence. "Very well, ma’am."

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, I leaned against it, my breath rushing out of me in a shaky sigh. I closed my eyes, my head thunking against the wood, my body still trembling, still humming with the aftershocks of a dream I couldn’t shake.

Fantastic.

What did he want now? To gloat? To toss another smug smile my way, to remind me of how easily he could unravel me? To rub it in my face that he knew, knew how wet I’d been for him, how desperate I’d been in that restroom, how pathetically I’d begged for his mouth?

"Breakfast?" I muttered, my voice bitter. "Is that what we’re doing now?"

I pushed off the door, my body still humming, my skin still tingling from the dream. I spun toward the mirror, my reflection mocking me, hair tousled, robe loose, face flushed. I looked like a woman undone. A woman burning from the inside out, and no amount of cold water or forced composure would change that.

"What does he want this time?" I snapped, my voice sharp, harsh. "Another apology? A conversation about boundaries?" I laughed, the sound dry, hollow. "Or maybe..."

I turned back to my reflection, my eyes dark, my lips parted. My fingers tightened around the fabric of my robe, my nails digging into my palms. "Maybe he wants to reopen the already open marriage."

The words tasted like ash in my mouth. Elena Sinclair. The woman with a husband who paraded his pregnant mistress into their home. The woman who’d let him. The woman now dreaming about another man, craving another man, while her husband played house with someone else.

The irony wasn’t lost on me, and it burned worse than any shame I felt over the dream itself. I wondered, not for the first time, how I had become someone I no longer recognized... a woman ruled by desire she couldn’t control, trapped in a marriage that had long since stopped making sense.

What a joke.

I scoffed, the sound loud and disgusted, echoing through the empty room. I turned toward the closet, my movements sharp, jerky, as I yanked open the doors, my fingers tearing through the hangers. I needed clothes. Something decent. Something that didn’t scream "I just woke up from a wet dream about a man who isn’t my husband."

Because the last thing I needed this morning was another performance in this circus.