That night I dream of golden eyes and toilets and sinks and gold four-poster beds, with gold satin sheets—slick and cool beneath my body.

The crescent moon reflects off the mirror, bathing the room in golden light.

If I haven't been clear, everything is gold. Okay?

It's like I'm a hostage in Midas's kingdom or a dictator's ego palace or Goldfinger's lair.

Goldfinger makes me think about Crispin's long fingers. I think I might've mentioned them before, a time or fifty. But I need to make sure everyone knows of their prodigious length.

In my dream, those fingers work their magic ...

... on my body ...

... stroking me ...

... teasing me ...

All of a sudden, my 2D dream movie shifts into 3D and then into a hologram. I've never had a dream this realistic before.

The golds are so bright, for a moment I'm blinded.

Across the room, my curtains flutter on a breeze that carries the musky animal scent of Crispin.

My pulse speeds and I almost scream out as I discover Crispin lying beside me, but then I remember it's a dream and there's no need to call 911. He's wearing nothing but those unbuttoned jeans, and ooooh! He's teasing my sex in long, languorous strokes with his long fingers. He feels so real.

"Do you like this?" Crispin growls. Wow, he also sounds real.

"Yes!" It's a strangled cry. I'm panting as the blood rushes to my cheeks making me flush with pleasure. My inner goddess is also panting and flushing. Hey, bitch, get your own reaction.

Holographic dreams are intense. Maybe I'm having this sensory hallucination as a direct result of sexual deprivation. Or maybe it's because Crispin has awoken something primal in me. Or perhaps I shouldn't have eaten day-old oysters for dinner.

He rubs the stubble on his chin against my cheek. It's rough and fucking sexy, and I realize his musky scent reminds me of the dog park. He's marking me.

"You. Are. Mine," he growls possessively.

See? I'm totally marked.

"But I haven't signed an NDA," I point out.

"This is only a dream," Crispin says enigmatically. "Do you want me to stop?" He removes his long, agile fingers from my cleft leaving me throbbing with need.

"No," I cry. "Get back there!"

"No, what?" he teases, still withholding his silken touch.

"No, please?"

"Incorrect."

"No, way?"

"Uh, uh."

I try to grab his hand and place it on my throbbing nub, but he's too strong and immovable, and he pulls it further away. "Please," I beg. Panting. Flushing. Quivering. I shiver in anticipation of the greatest orgasm of my life.

Well, if you want a job done, you've got to do it yourself.

Figuring out why dream-Crispin is such a controlling asshole, will require years of therapy, which I don't have time for right now. All I need is to get off. One flick of my finger, and I know I'll shatter into a million pieces. Which if you think about it, is kind of gross. Cleaning up human remains from a body that's been broken into a million pieces would require a hazmat team at a minimum.

What is it about Crispin that makes me think of crime scenes?

But back to the problem at hand.

Which is the lack of a hand.

Crispin will. Not. Let. Go. Of. My. Hand. My teeth grind in frustration, and I growl. "What the hell do you want me to say? Can't you just be clear? Why do we have to play fucking games?"

"Aren't you enjoying the fucking game we're playing right now?" Crispin whispers in my ear, sending shivers down my neck.

"No, to be honest. I'm not. I need an orgasm, and I need it now." I turn on my side, writhing, trying to press my clit into the prominent bulge in his groin, but he won't allow it.

"Arrrgggh," I cry in frustration. "What do you want me to say? Oh, wait. I got it! No, SIR. Please, sir. Do not stop, sir."

"Better," he drawls. His finger returns to my core, the center of my world, and he applies the perfect amount of pressure that I'd been craving. I come, roaring his name as pulses of pleasure explode throughout my body. The orgasm goes on and on, as dream-Crispin continues his onslaught. Holy crap!

I'm gasping for air, and soaked with sweat, barely recovered from the most intense sexual experience of my life. "Oh, Crispin," I say reaching for him. But he's not there.

The dream must be over.

"Fuck!" I holler, shivering, teeth chattering.

My bedroom door creeks open, letting in the light from the hall. Clary is in the doorway in her weird Sponge Bob pajamas. "You, okay?" she asks.

Am I okay? I have no idea. But I don't want to explain the holographic dream principle to my roommate at three in the morning. "I'm fine. Sorry, I woke you."

"Wow, it's freezing in here. Did you leave your window open?"

"No, I haven't opened it all week." I pull the bedcovers over me, trying to warm up.

Clary waltzes further into my room and closes the window. The curtains fall limp. "You should be careful, Ani. Someone could sneak in. You could have a stalker who likes to watch you sleep or something like that."

I laugh at the ridiculousness of this. I don't know any hundred-year-old vampires, and everyone knows they're the only ones creepy enough to watch innocent women slumber. "Maybe I opened the window in my sleep. Thanks for caring about me." I smile.

"Of course. See you in the morning," she says, pausing by my dresser. She picks up a book and opens the cover. "Who's this from?"

"Crispin. The cheapskate gave me a book as some kind of obscure billionaire warning instead of just using his words. Are all billionaires this cryptic?"

"Dunno, but dude, it's a first edition of Tess of the d'Urbervilles. It's worth a flipping fortune."

"Don't be ridiculous; it's from 2019."

"Nope, 1891." She stomps over and thrusts it in my face."

"Holy, cow. It is a first edition! But how did it get here?"

***

What do you think, dear reader? How did the book get there? Was it all a dream, or did it happen?

You'll find out soon! I promise.

***

Dedicating this chapter to masonfitzzy. She knows why.