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He’d returned.
Thankfully.
Her body preened its thanks, arching from the downy folds of the bedcovers, aching for his touch, temptation overruling any coherent thought.
This was her fantasy played out in the shadowy hours of pre-dawn.  She welcomed him with open arms, an internal greed of sensual need cohabited with the desperation of an addict for a fix.
He was her fix.  And she wanted him.  Now!
Each night proved the same. He came. He teased.  And she desperately wanted him.
She couldn’t see him clearly, the mists of fantasy versus reality obscuring him partly.  But it was what he did to her that called to her.
His kisses. His touch.  His loving.

It refueled her hope he would return.

His hand caressed her breast, tipping her into a world of mindless pleasure.

The purr seemed a whisper at first, slowly intensifying, dragging her heated body from his arms.   He shifted away and instantly a sense of bereavement washed across her nakedness left cold and empty by his departure.

“No.  Please stay.  Love me.”

“Why?”

“Because I...”

The acerbic ring of her alarm sliced through her dreams with a brutal thrust.  She jolted upright, shocked at her traitorous body and mind.

She’d been about to say she loved him. But how could she love a fantasy?