“Come back to the surface with me,” she said. “Later, when you’re fully rested, I’ll help you search this dreamscape.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve come down too far this time. Never been this deep before. But I can see things here that I’ve never seen before. Maybe tonight I’ll find what I’m looking for.”
“It won’t do you any good if you can’t get back to the surface. I was afraid of this. Listen up, Coppersmith. You went too deep into your dreamscape tonight because of that psi-burn at Louise’s house today.”
“You were there, too. Why didn’t you crash and burn the way I did? Have you got some special psychic superpower?”
“No, I’m okay tonight because you protected me from the worst effects of the storm in Louise’s house,” she said. “But you were also shielding Nicole and Max and yourself, as well. Heaven only knows how much energy you had to focus through your ring to save us all. But you temporarily exhausted your senses in the process. You need to be sleeping soundly now, not visiting this dreamscape.”
“You should leave before you get trapped here with me.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she said. “Come back with me, Judson.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. Too late.”
There was no emotion in the words—neither regret nor despair. Judson sounded as if he was making an observation about the weather, detached. Like one of the ghosts, she thought. Another chill shivered through her. This was not going well. She had never dealt with anyone who had fallen this far down the rabbit hole of a dreamscape. She was out of her depth, as well, but she was very sure of one thing. She had to get Judson back to the surface before he went any deeper.
“No, it is not too late,” she said. “We can get out of here, but we have to do this together. You’re not the only one who went too deep tonight. I had to come this far down to find you. I am trapped with you.”
“I told you that you should not have come here.”
This time she thought she heard a flicker of emotional intensity in Judson’s dreamscape voice. He sounded angry. She told herself that was a good sign.
“Well, I did come here and now I’m stuck,” she said. “If you don’t come with me, I won’t be able to leave this place.”
“You’re the psychic dreamer. Get out of this hell while you still can.”
“Not without you. Stop arguing with me. This isn’t just an ordinary dream. This could become a coma. We have to leave. Now.”
It was weird, but she was starting to lose her temper, too. That wasn’t supposed to happen to her in a dreamscape. She had trained herself to be the clinical observer and guide. It was her job to gently lead the client out of the closed loop of a recurring nightmare. Any strong emotion on her part caused distortions and confusion in the world of dreams—a world that was constructed of distorted and confusing images.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” Judson asked. He sounded intrigued by her stubbornness.
“No,” she said. “Not when it comes to my clients.”
“Is that what I am? A client?”
“That’s what you are tonight. Take my hand, Judson.” She made it a command.
For a harrowing eternity in dreamtime, she thought that he would not respond. Then, to her overwhelming relief, he reached for her hand. She knew the action was just her mind’s way of interpreting what was happening. In a very real sense she was dreaming, too. Judson was resurfacing. He wasn’t really reaching for her hand. She knew that. The hand-holding was a dream metaphor.
Which was why it came as a physical as well as a psychic jolt when she felt his powerful fingers lock fiercely around her wrist in the waking world. The shock brought her instantly out of the dreamscape. Judson came with her.
He opened his eyes. Simultaneously he tightened his hand around her wrist.
“It’s okay, Judson, you’re awake.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, assuming that, with his preternatural night vision he could see it. Delicately, she wriggled her fingers, trying to free her manacled wrist. He did not release her. Instead, he continued to shackle her while he watched her with eyes that burned.
“I’m not one of your clients,” he rasped.
“You’re awake. It was just a bad dream. I was afraid you might be sleeping a little too deeply, you see.”
“I’m not one of your damned clients.”
“What?”
“I said I’m not your client.”
She reminded herself that after awakening from a deep dream, the dreamer often continued to be confused by images from the underworld for a time. The goal was to soothe and reassure and guide the dreamer all the way back to the shore of the normal.
“You’re not a client,” she said soothingly.
“Damn right.”
He used his hold on her wrist to pull her off her feet and down onto the bed. The maneuver was conducted with the precision of a judo throw. One instant she was upright, the next she was flat on her back. The shadowy bedroom spun around her.
Okay, this was a new experience in the uncharted waters of psychic dream counseling, she thought. She had lost control of the session. That was not supposed to happen.
Before she could reorient herself and come up with a game plan for dealing with the situation, Judson was on top of her, one muscled thigh pinning her leg to the quilt. He captured her other wrist, anchored it beside her head, and took her mouth with a ruthlessness that stunned her senses.
The kiss was incendiary, literally. Hot energy burned in the atmosphere. She was mildly astonished that they did not set fire to the drapes. But unlike the terrible energy of the dream, this was the fiercely exhilarating fire of turbocharged passion.
Judson was running hot. She was still fully jacked from the dream therapy work. That made for a lot of heat. But it was the return of the breathtaking sensation of psychic intimacy that shocked and thrilled her. Something very strange had happened between them last night and it was happening again tonight. Her intuition warned her that the more time that she and Judson spent together—not just having superheated sex but within range of each other’s auras—the more powerful the bond would become—at least on her end.
Judson freed one of her wrists so he could untie the sash of her robe. His palm closed over her breast. He moved his mouth down to her throat.
She slid her hand up under his T-shirt and clawed at his muscled back. He was burning up with a psi-fever.
“Judson,” she whispered.
“Not a client,” he growled. “Say it. Not a client.”
“Not a client,” she gasped. “You can’t be a client, because I never sleep with clients.”
“That’s right. You don’t sleep with clients. You sleep with me now. Only me.”
He yanked opened the top of her nightgown and kissed her breasts with a hungry, desperate reverence. At the touch of his tongue on her sensitive nipples, she cried out. He released her other wrist to unzip his trousers. He fumbled the hem of her nightgown up to her waist. Then his hand was between her thighs.
“Wet and hot,” he said against her throat. “That’s how I like you.”
She reached down and circled him with her fingers. “Hard and hot. That’s how I like you.”
His laughter was low and dark and wicked. “We were made for each other, Dream Eyes.”
Maybe, she thought, but probably not. This wasn’t love. They hadn’t had time to fall in love. This was raw passion fueled by the bond that had been forged in the paranormal fires of shared danger and the dream therapy experience. She knew she could not trust her emotions tonight, but in the heat of the moment she did not care.
Judson got his pants off and then he was back on top of her, driving into her hard and deep. She pulled him close and wrapped herself fiercely around him.
Her release swept through her in seconds. She heard Judson groan as he followed her over the edge and into the effervescent seas that awaited them.