Volume 2: Ryder
© Cyndi Friberg, May 2005
All Rights Reserved

Sheri awakened slowly, or rather, she emerged into the dream. Her senses came alive, though her consciousness remained submerged. Something coarse pressed against her knees and spread beneath her shins. Rough rope bound her hands behind her; a pole pressed into her back. Blinking repeatedly, she brought the room into focus -- not a room but a tent.

Okay, Vellmos, think! What in the world is going on?

Her mind felt muddled, so she inventoried her surroundings. Expensive-looking rugs covered the ground. A mound of furs lay directly to her right. Smoke rose from wide metal braziers elevated on slender tripods.

The tent flap raised and a man strode in, adorned in familiar golden armor. He appeared battle-weary and dirty. She smiled, remembering where she'd seen this scene. Spicy food, restless nights, and visual stimulation -- she was having one hell of a dream!

He lowered the tent flap, reducing the light. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Tension coiled deep in her belly, sexual awareness heightened by fear. Her subconscious had perfectly duplicated the setting, but this man was no Brad Pitt.

As he removed his armor and scrubbed the grime from his flesh, her discomfort mounted. Scars marred his muscular torso. Identical silvery slashes intersected across his broad back. A wide, raised scar high on his side made her breath lodge in her throat. How had he survived such a wound? Forcing air out of her sluggish lungs, she drank in the masculine power of his nearly naked form. A true warrior would be covered with scars, regardless of his renown.

Eyebrows slightly darker than his golden hair drew immediate attention to his chocolate-brown eyes. With a strong jaw line and high, hollow cheekbones, his face was less elegant than the actor's, though no less attractive.

He unfastened the last of his garments, and Sheri swallowed hard. Good Lord, she'd never seen a man fashioned quite so well! All rippling muscle and corded sinew, the warrior stood before her naked and unashamed.

Remembering her comment to Meagan about the camera angle, Sheri released a nervous laugh and dragged her gaze away from his fabulous body.

“I disrobe, and you find it amusing? We shall have to work on your opinion of my anatomy.”

Deep and faintly accented, his voice caressed her senses like a physical touch. Spanish? No, something more exotic. Not Italian, either. She couldn't place the unusual inflection in his voice. The fact that he was naked and stalking toward her might have something to do with her inability to concentrate.

As he pushed his burnished hair out of his eyes, she reassessed his features. Captivating. He emanated masculine grace. Distinct brackets framed his mouth, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. She guessed him somewhere in his late thirties. Did age really matter in dreams?

“Have you nothing to say?”

“The casting director missed the boat.” She cleared her throat. “You're a much more believable Achilles.”

Deep, boyish dimples framed the most devastating smile Sheri had ever seen. His eyes sparkled, and her insides clenched. She should eat Thai food more often, if he was the result.

“We both know I'm not Achilles and you're not a captive acolyte.”

“But I do seem to be a captive. Would you mind untying me?”

His warm, utterly tangible fingers cupped her chin and raised her face. “This is your dream, my sweet. Why did you envision yourself bound?”

Good question. This was so strange. Why was a character in her dream telling her she was dreaming? Licking her lips, she tried to look anywhere but at him. Her nipples gathered against her filmy gown. The diaphanous garment was more of a negligee than a dress. This had to be a dream, yet nothing had ever felt more ... real.

“Who are you?” she whispered. His touch made her restless and hot.

“Your lover.” He knelt as he whispered his reply.

She laughed. “I'm pretty sure I'd remember sleeping with someone like you.”

He flashed that bone-melting smile, and heat spiraled from her breasts to her core.

“You'll remember. Long after you awaken, you'll tingle as you think of the pleasure we'll share.” He brushed his mouth against hers; not a kiss really, more like a caress. “You're mine for the taking, but I'd rather accept what is freely given.”

Sheri sighed. It felt good. Hell, it felt wonderful. Parting her lips, she offered her mouth, and he eased his tongue inside. Once there, he stroked, delved, explored so thoroughly, she couldn't suppress a moan. Her heart leapt and pulsing need erupted between her thighs. She'd never been this turned on by a dream!

His fingers splayed against her cheek, while his other hand wandered along her throat, across her shoulder, and down her arm. Would he untie her? An odd pang ricocheted through her stomach. She refused to consider that the sensation was disappointment. Not even in dreams was she so brazen.

His fingers glided along her inner arm and onto the upper curve of her breasts. Had her skin always been this sensitive? Her core throbbed painfully, her breath coming in short, shallow pants.

He deepened the kiss, thrusting into her mouth with a distinct rhythm. She angled her head, accepting the penetration, craving the act he mimicked. She arched into his warm body and felt an unmistakable bulge against her belly. Standing naked as he bathed, he'd been impressive. His arousal had lengthened and thickened his shaft until a powerful shiver passed through her body.

A rumbling chuckle escaped his throat. His hands settled on her hips, and he rubbed himself against her. “Feel what you do to me, how badly I need to be inside you.”

“It's a little hard to miss.” Leaning against the pole, she closed her eyes.

Cool air wafted across her skin, and her eyes flew open. Why was he moving away? She wasn't ready for the dream to end. He returned with a wicked-looking dagger -- no jewels, just a very sharp blade.

“What are you --” He sliced the straps of her gown, and it drooped to her waist. Her mouth formed an O, but her voice failed to produce the word. He threw the dagger with deadly accuracy. It lodged in a tent pole across from them as he cupped her breasts in his hands.

“I had to see you.” He sighed, his eyes closing for a moment as if he savored the feel of her breasts in his hands. “I've waited so long to touch you.”

Before she could argue that they'd just met, his mouth claimed hers again. His hands caressed, thumbs rubbing her nipples. She arched into his touch, yet she needed so much more. He couldn't take her like this; he could only tease. She wanted his body covering hers, pressing her into the furs. Imagining that long, thick shaft sinking into her core, she shivered and moaned into his mouth.

“What do you want, little love? Speak the words and I'm yours.”

“I don't even know your name,” she murmured.

One of his hands slipped under her skirt and stroked her thigh. He took his time, memorizing the texture of her skin. His fingers eased inward, beginning a slow ascent. She dragged her mouth away and closed her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his touch and kiss.

Tension bordered on pain. Her abdomen pulsed with need. Still, he tormented her with feather-light caresses. She trembled. He cupped her mound, but made no move to touch her more intimately.

“Tell me your name.” She'd never made love to a stranger, even in her dreams.

“I thought it was Achilles.”

She looked into his eyes, her gaze uncertain. “I don't want to do this if you won't even tell me your name.”

“Ryder.” His gaze remained locked with hers as his fingers dipped and parted. “Now I want to hear you say it as I give you release.”