Page 90 of Dreamscape Therapies

“Run, little dream,” he calls, his voice low and rough.

A shiver races down my spine. The door finally opens, and I practically throw myself inside. I make it three steps before I hear him behind me.

I squeal and dart toward the dining room, hoping the table will give me some kind of advantage.

It doesn't.

A second later, I'm caught.

I stumble forward with a startled laugh as Vincent wraps his arms around me, and suddenly I'm trapped between him and the table.

“Caught you,” he murmurs against my ear.

His breath is warm against my neck, and the deep rumble of his voice sends goosebumps racing across my skin.

“You're mine now, little dream.”

I turn my head enough to look at him.

“Was there ever any doubt?”

His hands settle at my waist, and all the teasing fades. All the jokes. All the excuses we've made for months. Gone. No longer crowding the space between.

It's just us.

Finally.

“You have no idea how long I've wanted this,” he whispers.

I lean back against him.

“Then tell me.”

His arms tighten around me.

“Every session.”

My breath catches.

“Sitting across from you and pretending I wasn't thinking about what it would feel like to touch you. Watching you talk about dreams and nightmares while trying not to stare at your mouth.”

“Vincent…”

“Leaving your office hard and aching, having to take care of myself in the car before I could even drive home.” His voice drops lower. “Reminding myself that you were my therapist and that wanting you didn't mean I could have you.”

I turn in his arms until we're facing each other.

“And now?”

His eyes hold mine.

“Now you're not my therapist.”

Something inside me finally seems to unclench.

“No,” I whisper. “I'm not.”

His hand comes up to my cheek, and he waits.