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Of course.
Ian turned to her. "Which ornament is yours? What is it that you want to bring into your life in the new year?"
"I didn't have any specific needs or wants," she whispered, clutching the mistletoe to her chest. "I just wanted contentment, and personal growth." She would never admit that she had wanted a man, a partner, a fulfilling and satisfying relationship with someone who simply wanted her but didn't need her.
Ian looked at the mistletoe she was fondling desperately for lack of anything better to do with her hands.
He shook his head. "Damn it, Bree, this is unreal . . ."
"What do you mean?"
"That's what you do in my dream."
"In your dream?" she asked stupidly, well aware that he was now walking toward her, and she was equal parts aroused and terrified. "I'm in your dream?"
"Yes." Ian stopped in front of her and ran his fingers down the side of her hair. "You hold that mistletoe, just like that, right before we make love, right here, in this room, in front of that fireplace."
Whoa. That was the way her dream always went. "Ian . . ." She had no idea what to say, and her tongue suddenly felt six sizes too big for her mouth. How the hell could they, virtual strangers, hundreds of miles apart, have been having the same dream?
"Bree."
He kissed her, not like before, but with passion and purpose. It took her breath away, the feel of his hands in her hair, his body warm and close to hers, his mouth taking without hesitation, with delicious skill and a definite knowledge. He knew her mouth and she knew his. They fit together, as though their lips had pleasured each other many times before, and deep inside Bree, she felt the burning of desire, knowing that in some way they had. They knew each other from their dreams, and this wasn't new, but was destiny.
"You taste so good, just like I imagined," he said, his lips brushing across the corners of her mouth, up her jaw, and kissing her earlobe.
Bree shivered, her fingers digging into his shoulders, mistletoe still bunched and crushed in her left hand. He said that in her dreams. You taste so good. She had always believed in the power of magick, but this was unbelievable, scary, titillating. It was hard to accept that it was real, and yet it was so very easy to just roll with it, to accept the sensuality of the moment, to know where it was going to lead. They both knew where it was going, because they had both seen it, felt it already.
"Ian, I have a confession to make."
"Yeah?" He was breathing in the scent of her hair while his fingers slipped under her shirt to stroke the small of her back.
"I've been having the same dream."
He pulled back and stared at her. "Are you serious?"
"Yes." She nodded, playing with the collar of his shirt nervously, her fingertips tugging then smoothing. "I didn't know it was you . . . your face is always in shadow. But when you bent over the tree and looked at me, I knew it was you. And you always walk towards me and kiss me."
"While you're holding mistletoe."
"Yes."
"And then we undress each other." Ian's eyes had darkened and his voice had lowered.
Bree swallowed hard. "Yes. Then you pull the quilt off the sofa . . ."
"And lay it down, then you down on it, in front of the fireplace. Then I kiss you from head to toe, and here." His knee touched between her thighs. "And you beg for more."
He did know this dream. "Yes, that's the way it goes."
Ian shook his head. "Amazing. Strange, freakish, weird as hell, incredible . . . and now we're going to live out our dream, aren't we?"
Absolutely. Or she was going to puddle to the floor in a mass of unrequited lust. "Yes."
"Is the dream good for you?" he asked, a small smile on his face.
"Oh yeah."
"Then let's make reality even better."
