What happens when your dream becomes a reality or does it?
Each night is the same. A handsome, mysterious stranger visits Catherine in her dreams, never allowing her to see his face, and leaving her body satisfied, but her heart wanting more. With a chance encounter in the smoky confines of a night club puts Caroline face to face with a man whose eyes seem eerily familiar, dreams and reality colliding in a way that frightens and inflames her. Are her dreams real? Is Blake the key to her future—and her past?
The atmosphere in the club is intoxicating. Dark and smoky, with the only source of light an occasional multicolored flash from the strobes recessed high in the vaulted ceiling. The aroma is a violating assault of smoke, booze, sweat, and sex. The music pounding through the speakers is hard core hip hop, a rhythmic cadence of words and beats, the bass cranked so loud that I feel, rather than hear, the pulses reverberating through my body and vibrating into my bones. Here, now, beneath the haze of intoxication and desire, anyone can be sexy. Anyone can be the one.
I grab a drink from the bartender – vodka martini on the rocks, double olives – and make my way back out onto the dance floor to find my friends. Halfway across the sea of people throbbing in time to the music, I feel strong hands grasp my waist, halting my progress.
"What's the rush, baby?" a voice murmurs in my ear. I'm amazed that I can hear him above the heavy beat pumping out of the speakers, but his words are clear and vibrant within my mind.
Why the hell not? I shrug, falling back against the assailing hands to find them accompanied by a hard, lean chest. He's tall. My 5 foot 5 frame doesn't even reach his shoulders.
His hands circle my front and press into the exposed midriff of my stomach, pulling me closer. My free hand floats up behind me to caress his neck.
"Let's see how you move, sweets," he whispers.
Obediently, I let my hips sway to the music, pushing my ass into his groin with a suggestive tease. In response his hands pull me tighter against him, and I feel the telltale sign of his arousal through the clothes that separate us.
My head falls against his chest and I close my eyes, swept away by the music. His lips trail up my neck and I shiver. I've played this erotic game half a dozen times tonight alone, but this time…it's different. I'm as turned on as he is, without even seeing his face. The way his hands sweep along the curves of my hips, the hot puff of his breath against my ear, it's all strangely familiar.
The music ends, far too soon for my tastes, and reluctantly I begin to withdraw; this is how it's done – a dance, a tease, perhaps a drunken, slobbering kiss, but never anything more. It's the art of 21st century flirtation, and the anonymity of it all is what makes it exciting.
His hands don't let me go, so I rotate my body in his arms, prepared to explain the rules to him, with a swift kick between the legs if necessary.
"I don't like rules," he says with a grin, and again his voice is eerily clear in my head, almost as if he is speaking inside my mind.