Chapter 4

The command was absolute, a vibration that went deeper than sound, straight to the core of her. Let me drink you down. His mouth was a brand of pure, wet heat, his tongue a relentless, learned instrument that knew exactly how to play her.

Susie’s back bowed off the cool grass, a silent scream trapped in her throat. The orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It was a white-hot star bursting behind her eyes, melting her bones, liquidating her will. Wave after wave of pure, convulsing pleasure racked her body, her hips bucking against his anchoring hands, against the devouring insistence of his mouth. He drank from her, his low groans of approval vibrating through her sensitized flesh, each one sending a fresh, shattering aftershock through her system.

In the attic, her real body thrashed against the wooden floor, her own fingers digging into her thighs, a poor, frantic mimicry of the exquisite torture happening in the garden. The bear was a hot, purring weight on her sternum, the engine of this impossible connection.

When the last tremor finally subsided, she was a hollowed-out shell, gasping, utterly spent. The man lifted his head slowly, his chin glistening in the moonlight. He looked ... satisfied. Reverent. He pressed a soft, final kiss to her inner thigh before sitting back on his heels.

The garden began to waver at the edges, the scent of jasmine thinning. No. Not yet. The plea was a desperate, silent cry in her mind. She couldn’t go back to the quiet, empty attic. Not now.

As if hearing her, the bear responded. The gentle purr didn’t fade. It intensified, shifting its frequency into a deeper, more resonant thrum. The world didn’t snap back to reality. It morphed.

The velvety grass beneath her dissolved into something softer, plush. The night air warmed, carrying a new scent—vanilla and old books and a familiar, faint hint of lavender perfume. The marble fountain blurred and reshaped itself into the familiar curves of a wingback chair.

She was no longer in the garden. She was in a sitting room, lavish and intimate, lit by the soft glow of a single Tiffany lamp. And she wasn’t lying on the ground. She was sprawled on a deep, crimson velvet divan, her legs still bare, her body still humming and exposed.