Sex And The Sleepwalker. Donna Sterling

that startled him, she yanked her gown over her head, struggled briefly to free her arms, then flung the garment aside. The effort threw her off balance. She swayed.

      He grabbed her, pulled her to him. And his breath left him in a whoosh of sudden sensation. Her bare, jutting breasts, firm and full and impossibly soft, pressed against his chest, and a lavish abundance of cool, fragrant hair spilled over him. And her scent…ahh, her scent. He’d almost forgotten.

      “Brynn,” he breathed, holding her tightly to him. She felt incredibly good. Incredibly right.

      He fell back against the pillows with her, feeling as if he’d fallen into a fantasy. A purr hummed in her throat—a long, low moan of approval—and her breath steamed against his shoulder. His temperature spiked. His body hardened in arousal.

      Sweeping his hand down her back, he relished the softness and warmth of her skin. It had been so long since he’d touched her. She wore panties, he discovered. But only panties. And she was here, in his arms, in his bed. Brynn.

      She shifted against him, their bodies connecting fully from breast to hip, and she murmured something he didn’t quite catch. He rolled onto his side and pressed her down onto the bed, twining his leg with hers. He wanted to kiss her. Connect with her. Delve into her sweetness and heat. See if the magic could possibly be as potent as he remembered.

      Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. He swept his mouth across them, wanting her. Wanting her.

      “Mmm,” she moaned. And smiled. And turned her head.

      Turned her head? The surprise of that made him draw back. Never had she failed to respond to his kiss. It was her one true weakness. His doorway to heaven. If his lips touched hers, he’d always been assured of long, lush kisses, each one hotter and wilder than the last. He believed that was the reason she’d never let him too near, after they’d broken up. Because she couldn’t resist his kisses. Yet she’d turned her head just now. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

      “Brynn?”

      As he watched, she lapsed into deep, rhythmic breathing, as if she were asleep. Which was impossible. No one went from anger to passion to sleep in a matter of minutes.

      Thoroughly confused, he rose up on an elbow, reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on. He saw her clearly then. Lots of creamy skin with a natural honey glow. Dark, lustrous hair spread over the pillows. Sinfully beautiful, she was. And nearly naked beneath him. And, unquestionably, asleep.

      But…but how? Why? It made no sense.

      A vague memory stirred. A bothersome suspicion.

      The light, or maybe the shifting of his weight on the bed, disturbed her, and she frowned. Blinked. Opened her eyes. For a moment, she stared blankly, toward nothing in particular. Perplexity entered her gaze. And then she turned her head and focused on him.

      Her eyes widened and she shot up into a sitting position, gaping at him as if he were a two-headed space alien. “Cade! What are you doing here?” It was as much an accusation as a question.

      As if he’d done something questionable. “What am I doing here? That takes some nerve.”

      She glanced around the room, and gradually her expression turned from perplexed surprise to distressed understanding. “Oh no,” she whispered, clearly mortified. “I’m in your room.”

      He didn’t bother to confirm that conclusion. He just watched her through narrowed eyes. Maybe she understood what had happened, but he didn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to understand.

      “I…I guess I was…sleepwalking.”

      “Sleepwalking.” He said it as if the idea was ludicrous, although the suspicion had flitted through his mind. He remembered hearing something about her sleepwalking in the sorority house. But, damn it, he didn’t want to accept that as the explanation. She’d come to him, wanted him. There was no mistaking that. He forced a nonchalant shrug and leaned back against the pillows. “Whatever you say, darlin’.”

      “It’s true,” she insisted vehemently. “I was sleepwalking.”

      He nodded and smiled.

      She glared at him, then glanced down at her naked breasts, so high and round and pretty, with their proud coral tips and lilting bounce. With a little cry, she grabbed for the rumpled sheet and yanked it up to cover herself. The accusation returned to her gaze. “What did we do?”

      Now that irked him. Did she really think it would be possible, if they’d made love or anything close to it, for her to sleep through it? He managed not to grit his teeth. “You’re telling me you don’t know? That you were unaware of what you were doing when you came to my room, unlocked my door, climbed into my bed and got naked?”

      “I’m not naked!”

      Heat sluiced through him in a surprising rush, just from thinking about her sitting there in nothing but those little panties and a bedsheet. He wanted his hands on her. And his mouth.

      Along with the heat came unreasonable resentment. She’d been in his arms, ready and willing. He would not disregard that. “Oh, you’re not naked?” His gaze traveled pointedly to the sheet she clasped to her slim form. “Then show me what you’re wearing.”

      Her fists tightened on the sheet. “I’m sure you know.”

      “And why is that?” He tilted his face close to hers, the anger and the desire flaring in him. “Because you crawled into my bed wearing only those little panties and rubbed your body against mine, promising to keep me occupied.”

      She looked stricken. “Oh, God.”

      “Then you said something like, ‘Let’s go, Romeo.’”

      “No!”

      “You want me to believe you don’t remember any of that?”

      His chiding pushed her too far, it seemed, and the spunk and sass returned to her face. Leaning back against the pillows, she crossed her long, shapely arms and lifted her delightfully cleft chin. “I don’t care what you believe. The truth is I was walking and talking in my sleep. It meant nothing.”

      “At the very least it means you were dreaming about me. Dreaming about having sex with me.” The thought pleased him. Immensely. He raised a brow. “How often does that happen?”

      “Don’t flatter yourself. You could have been anybody. I had no idea who you were.”

      “You said my name. You called me Cade. How many Cades do you know? And how many are registered to this room?”

      “If I was dreaming about you, which I don’t remember at all, it had to be the first time. I haven’t given you a thought in years.”

      He might have believed her if rosy color hadn’t climbed her cheekbones and she hadn’t averted her eyes. She was, without a doubt, lying. She’d dreamed about him before. Pleasure warmed him like fine whiskey. He wondered how often she’d dreamed of him, and if those dreams always involved sex. He hoped so.

      But then another question occurred to him. “My God, Brynn…how often do you walk in your sleep? How many guests have you surprised like this?”

      Her mouth opened and hung ajar for two or three heartbeats. “I’ve never done this before,” she cried, aghast. “I haven’t walked in my sleep since college. Well, except for once, when I ended up in the broom closet. Alone. Wearing pajamas.”

      He believed her, and couldn’t have been more relieved—or more pleased that thoughts of him and him alone had stirred her to rise from her bed at night.

      Then again… “If you don’t remember your actions after you wake up, how can you be sure? Maybe this happens more than you realize.”

      “It doesn’t. I would know.”

      He rubbed his chin and regarded her doubtfully. “I’m not too sure about that. You seemed pretty