My exhaustion saved me. I hadn't realized how tiring the evening had been, but the added pressure of performing for the reporters took a greater toll than I expected. I fell asleep almost instantly, but fate—or perhaps Sinclair—pursued me even in my dreams.

I knew I was dreaming from the outset. I was in Sinclair's bed, but instead of his opulent mansion, we were in a starlit forest, surrounded by trees and wilderness as far as the eye could see. I wore a simple white negligee—further proof of the dream's unreality, as I own nothing like it. A cool breeze caressed my skin, carrying the scent of evergreens, moss, rich amber, and…Sinclair. I would recognize that scent anywhere, even though I couldn't yet see him.

He appeared slowly, moving toward me through the darkness, his green eyes glowing. He wore only black slacks, and for the first time, I felt no shyness in appreciating his physique. I'd always averted my gaze when he undressed, but that didn't prevent me from feeling his muscles and…well, everything else…when we were close in bed. Now, I openly admired the rugged planes of his face and the contours of his chest. His tall frame was powerfully muscled—muscles most men could only dream of, some I hadn't even known existed.

"Hello, beautiful," Sinclair greeted me huskily, moving closer with each ragged breath I took, his naked torso gleaming in the moonlight. "Didn't you get enough of me while you were awake?"

"How could I?" I pouted, unable to fully express my frustration. "You teased me all night, and I haven't had any relief. It's torture!"

"It's not easy for me either," he murmured sympathetically, climbing onto the bed. He moved with lethal grace, crawling over the covers until he was close enough to touch me, which he immediately did. He lay on his side, inviting me into the protective circle of his arms. I didn't resist, sliding into his embrace easily, feeling completely at home with this dangerous man. It seemed strange that he had terrified me just a month ago; now, he was my safe space.

"It's not the same," I insisted, looking up at him from beneath my lashes.

"Why not?" Sinclair asked, brushing the hair back from my face.

"You don't know the effect you have on me," I confessed, pressing closer. I might have been asleep, but my breasts ached, and my sex was swollen and dripping with need. It was liberating to rub myself against Sinclair without embarrassment or fear.

"Tell me," he growled, his voice deep and rough. One of his large hands tangled in my hair, while the other slid down my bottom, pressing our bodies together.

"Even the smallest touch sets me on fire," I complained. "You holding my hand feels more intimate and arousing than another man kissing me."

"And when I do kiss you?" Sinclair prompted, guiding my hips to rock against his.

"I might as well be molten lava. My entire body turns to liquid—figuratively and literally," I confessed, and I knew he understood. My wetness had already seeped through my panties and onto his trousers. "You have a power over me I don't understand. I've never experienced anything like it."

"You don't really think it's different for me, do you?" Sinclair murmured, lowering his mouth to my throat.

"Of course it is," I whined, so frustrated I felt like crying.

"Can't you feel how hard I am for you, Ella?" Sinclair asked gruffly, nuzzling my skin, his fangs grazing my neck. "How hard I always am for you?" I shivered with need, especially as his words combined with the feeling of his hardness against my clitoris.

"Well, that doesn't mean anything. You're in bed with a half-naked woman; it would happen with anyone," I reasoned miserably.

Sinclair chuckled. "I think you've been around human men for too long. They've given you a very low opinion of my…abilities." He raised his head. "Trust me, it doesn't happen for just anyone, no matter how lovely they are."

"But I'm nothing," I insisted. "I'm just a human; I don't have the kind of power you do."

"You're not nothing," Sinclair growled, a dangerous edge in his voice. "And you might be human, but you have a power all your own. Don't you know how difficult it is for me to be near you without touching you? How impossible it is to control myself when you're in my arms? Ever since we met, I've felt like an addict, and you're my only fix."

"That's probably just the baby," I murmured, sighing as my negligee slid off my breast, allowing a nipple to touch Sinclair's chest. "It has to be. It doesn't make sense otherwise."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Sinclair answered, his lips mere inches from mine. "And you give me too much and too little all at once."

"What do you mean?" I wondered aloud, not really wanting an answer. I just wanted him to kiss me, to strip off my negligee and relieve the ache that consumed me. I think Sinclair sensed my desperation, but he held back, withholding his kisses and touch.

"I don't do casual, Ella," he said, catching my hips when I stopped listening, too focused on my own pleasure. I whimpered when the friction ceased, and Sinclair clucked sympathetically, but showed no mercy. He tilted my chin up. "I don't waste my time on people I'm not serious about, or relationships that aren't going anywhere."

"I don't know why we're even talking about this," I said. "It's not even real; it's just my imagination."

Sinclair's eyes shuttered, and he leaned his forehead against mine. "Goddess, sometimes I forget how much you don't know about shifters."

"Please, Dominic," I begged. "Won't you kiss me? Won't you touch me?"

"I'd like to touch you and taste you and all the rest," he grumbled reluctantly, then pulled away. "But I need to leave before I do something I'll regret, something you'll regret."

"I don't understand," I admitted, confused.

Sinclair paused only long enough to smooth the wrinkles from my nose. "You will when you wake up."

Before I could respond, Sinclair disappeared, leaving me alone and unsatisfied.

When I woke up, Sinclair was watching me, stroking my hair and gazing at me with a tender expression. "Welcome back."

I blinked and stretched. "It's not morning already, is it?" I yawned.

"No," he smiled gently. "You're just coming out of the dream."

"How did you…?" I stopped short. Logic suggested he was guessing, or that I'd talked in my sleep. But looking into Sinclair's eyes, I saw the truth. He wasn't speculating; he knew I'd been dreaming, and he knew the details. He knew everything.

"It's okay, Ella," he soothed, petting me.

No. Oh, no. He knew everything.