Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

the room. His gaze is carnal, hot, and I know my dancing pleases him greatly. The beat is driving, intense. The lyrics apropos, for he has recently taught me that the moment of pleasure is called “orgasm” or “to come,” and the song is a cover of a Bruce Springsteen song by someone called Manfred Mann. Over and over it says, I came for you. I laugh as I sing it to him. I play it again and again. He watches me. I lose myself in the rhythm. Head back, neck arched. When I look back at him, he is singing: Girl, give me time to cover my tracks. I laugh. “Never,” I say. If my beast thinks to leave me, I will track him. He is mine. I tell him so. His eyes narrow. He lunges from the bed and is on me. I exhilarate him. I see it in his face, feel it in his body. He dances with me. I am struck again by how strong and powerful and sure of himself he is. On a predator scale of one to ten, I have enticed a ten. That means I, too, am a ten. I am proud. Our sex is fierce. We will both be bruised. “I want it to always be like this,” I tell him. His nostrils flare, obsidian eyes mock. “Try holding on to that thought.” “I do not need to try. I will never feel differently.”