Chapter Eighteen

Trig

The pain always starts at the base of my skull. Before long, it corkscrews my shoulders. My head feels like it’s squeezed by a vise and sometimes the agony makes me sick. The meds I take knock me out big time, but even so, I still dream. Usually about Maggie. I’ll wake, the pain gone, resting in my bed with the sheets twisted.

I’d like to think she dreams of me and that in her dreams she wants me like I want her. It’s wrong and totally fucked up but I can’t help what I want. A friend told me once that our lives come down to three things: what we say, think and do. I figure it’s okay to think about Maggie naked in my bed, me exploring every inch of her soft body, as long as I don’t actually do it. During the day, I can keep her away, but at night I can’t fight my need.

I’ve stripped down to my boxers and drift in and out of sleep. The dogs bark half-heartedly, and I should check on them, but I’m not going to when I feel like this. They don’t usually bark at night, but fuck if I care. I go back to sleep. Other sounds float through my mind. The front door opens and softly shuts. Sometimes Jane brings me dinner. Leaves it in the fridge along with a note on the counter.

The scent of food hits me along with a soft fragrance and I sink into a dream of Maggie. She’s as difficult and contrary in my dreams as she is in real life, darting away from me when I want to hold her. This time she teases me, strokes my face with her fingertips and asks if I’m okay. Then she’s gone, but I hear her voice. It’s like she’s talking to someone. Jane… Wes? Telling them she’ll stay with me.

The pain eases. Her touch skims my shoulder. I wrap my fingers around her wrist and tug her closer. Of course, she resists. Even in my dreams she’s argumentative. I want to say something like how I need her, but the only thing that comes out is a growl. Rolling to my side, I wrap her up with my arms, pin her with my leg and hold her down. She laughs softly and says my name.

Beneath me, she breathes fast, panting. Like she’s scared. I tell her it’s okay and she strokes my head. I lie with my head on her chest. When she replaced the hoodie with girly tops I couldn’t help noticing her tits. They make the best fucking pillow. Ever.

Her heart thumps hard, but her breathing slows. While her chest is soft and nice and better than I’d imagined even in my dirtiest thoughts, her body is tense. My dream-Maggie is still scared.

“S’okay.” I tell her.

Her hand settles lightly on my back. That’s better. The grip of pain weakens as I hold her. The relief makes me groan. I need her right here with me every night. Which is impossible. I know she’s not for me. Sprawling across her, my blood warms and hardens my body. Her breathing ratchets up again and I soothe her with a few words. Everything feels so real. I don’t want to scare her.

She’s soft and smells good and when I slip my hand under the hem of her sweater I revel in the feel of her skin. Nuzzling her neck, I kiss her, bite her gently, and she arches beneath me. Cupping her breast, I’m surprised how well if fills my hand. Her gasp makes me smile. Her fingers grip my shoulder and her breathing’s back to soft little panting breaths.

“Trig…”

I suck the soft skin of her neck. The need to mark her takes over the primitive depths of my mind. Beneath me she squirms. I half-expect her to protest but she doesn’t. My dream version of Maggie might be sweeter than the real-life Maggie.

With a flick of my finger, I snap open her bra clasp.

“Trig…”

I love hearing her say my name almost as much as the way her nipple hardens beneath my touch. Teasing her with my fingertips, I whisper how I need her in my bed every night, not just when I’m hurting. That I’m addicted to her scent.

“And your tits, damn. They’re bigger than last time.”

It’s true. In the past when I dreamt of her, she was nothing like this.

She draws a sharp breath and grabs my hand, shoving it away from her breast. Then she says something about not being some cheap hook-up. Also, she calls me a dick and laughs at me like the smart ass she is. Yanking her sweater down, she giggles, tries to wriggle away from me.

Not happening. I might stay away from her tits, but I’m not letting her go. With a growl, I flip her to her stomach, pin her with my leg and lay my head between her shoulders. Not as nice as her chest, but at least I won’t be tempted to put my hand up her shirt. I settle against her and draw a deep sigh, resting my hand on her ass.

I groan. The curve of her ass is pretty sweet too, but she snarls at me telling me something about moving my damn hand. Ignoring her, I give her a squeeze. Vaguely, I’m aware of her cussing at me. Such a little potty mouth. I move my hand and wrap my arm around her.

“Not my fault,” I manage. “You always feel so good.”

She responds by calling me a jerk.

I pull her closer and grind my cock against the curve of her hip. “And you’re a brat,” I whisper. “But you’re my brat.”

The sexy dream stays with me longer than usual. All through the night I get flashes of her in my arms, under me, beside me and best of all, partly draped over me, her head resting on my shoulder. In the morning, she’s gone, of course. Like always she vanishes from my dreams with the first rays of dawn. I feel strong and well again. Thank you dream-Maggie.