Love on the Dark Side

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by Love on the Dark Side [Black Lace] (retail) (epub)


  ‘I won’t,’ he said.

  Lying in the too-wide king-size bed that night, I tossed and turned, unable to find sleep. What do they say? No rest for the wicked? But I had to sleep; I was powerless awake. I took up the most comfortable position I could find in the middle of the bed, eyes closed tight, refusing to open them or to move, and gradually I slipped into the first fuzzy wave of semi-consciousness. I took my usual route, slipping through brick and cement walls out to where I was free. But tonight I had a purpose and I wouldn’t be thwarted. Tonight I was going to find him.

  I stood somewhere not far above him and looked down at him sleeping. I called his name and he turned, restless, but didn’t wake. So I touched him, and then pulled my hand back in surprise at the prickle of stubble on his cheek. Wondering at the roughness and how strange it felt … to feel that in a dream where before all I’d ever known was softness. But as I stood marvelling, he woke and smiled.

  He reached up and the bedcovers slipped back from his body. I caught my breath; he was naked as the day he was born, but Holy Mother Mary his body was perfect. He looked like a boy out of those jeans commercials except for the curls of dark hair across his chest, trailing down to his navel and between his legs. And, where the pictures in the jeans commercials stopped, my gaze kept going. Down to that … thing between his legs that was so not what I had dreamt about before.

  I was still staring when he put his hands on my hips and I looked up at him. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The evidence was pressing into the silk of my pyjama bottoms as he unbuttoned my top, button by slow button. His fingers stroked the space between my breasts and, although warmth surrounded us, I shivered. He pushed the pyjama top off my arms and sighed.

  ‘You …’

  It was all he said. But it was all that was needed.

  His gaze followed where his fingers moved across my chest and the curve of my belly, caressing, lingering. And then, moving again, down to the waist of my pyjamas, pulling them down. The silk co-operated, eagerly falling to my ankles to leave me bare to his inspection.

  While I stood still, not daring to move. Not having a single goddamn clue what to do next; only knowing I wanted him to keep touching me. Keep feeding the need growing in my pussy and my breasts and my arms and my legs and, oh, God, everywhere. He pushed me backwards and I panicked for a moment because I remembered standing somewhere high up when he came to me. But it was my own bed that enfolded us.

  The bed that had felt so comfortless and frustrating not so long before, now hot and soft and seductive under me. Like his mouth on my skin leaving wet tingling trails as his tongue moved over my chest. His hands were warm, rough on my flesh that didn’t know what to make of this harsh maleness. Except to respond and rise and send pleasure rushing down between my legs.

  I ran my hands up his shoulders and arched as his mouth dipped between my thighs. I’d heard the stories from girls who had been with men before. Too rough, too timid, too clumsy. And granted, this was a dream, but his mouth – oh, dear God! Oh, Jesus. I was screaming by the end of it, screaming when I was the type to barely do more than gasp and sigh. My hair was soaked, the sheet beneath me was soaked, and, as I leant on my elbows, trying my best to breathe, he lifted his head and brushed wet hair from his eyes. He smiled and wiped his mouth and then licked his fingers clean one by one, looking at me.

  I lay back and covered my eyes with my hands, ran my hands through my hair. I felt like I’d run a mile, my breathing refused to find a rhythm anything like steady, and he was looking at me with that impish smile. Jesus. The night was far from over and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.

  He lay next to me, one leg bent at the knee, his hand moving lazily over my torso while he waited for me to catch my breath again. He nuzzled my neck and kissed me and then I felt the sharp pinch of his teeth. Laughing, I batted him away, but I didn’t mean it. I loved his strong arms against my back, the way his stubble tickled my neck and made me squirm. He smelt strong and sharp, like soap, and I wrinkled my nose, wondering why my dream sense had come up with something so bizarre and not erotic. And why I liked it so much.

  I pushed him off finally when I was back to some semblance of control. He watched me sit up and shake my hair back and stare him down, ready for round two, and he reached downwards. I beat him to it. He looked surprised and then he smiled, pleased and aroused, although his body didn’t show it yet, but that part didn’t take long, even with my clumsy efforts. He guided my fingers, showing me how to stroke him the right way, and, when I figured it out, he swallowed and closed his eyes. God, I loved being able to do this to him.

  I felt dirty and excited like a teenager getting laid for the first time and I laughed because after all I was a virgin. In a sense.

  ‘What?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘You know, technically, you’re my first.’

  He stared at me. ‘What? You mean … you’ve never been with …’

  ‘Nope, not one.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ He laughed. And when I lay back he moved over me as if afraid he’d crush me. I didn’t know why until his first thrust and then I realised there was a big, big difference between a strap-on covered in lube and the real thing. Not to mention that Casey didn’t like dildos that resembled the real thing, preferring bloopy, neon contraptions that were as far from a man’s dick as a phallic object could get.

  It shouldn’t have hurt, not in a dream. But, then, it shouldn’t have felt so good either. I shouldn’t have been grinding myself against his cock like that. In porn it was always simple: in and out and then ‘cut!’

  No, this went on and on. And it felt so good that I forgot about the pain. Maybe straight girls were on to something. Or maybe it was just him. I didn’t think any other man could have done this to me.

  If any other man had tried to spread my legs in the air and use my cunt like that – because use it he did – I would have fed him his own balls. With béarnaise sauce. But with my boy it was heaven. I lifted my hips for him and fucked him just like a straight girl. I let him roll me over and spoon me while he ground his hips against my ass and came inside of me, crying my name out. And I wasn’t ashamed.

  I adored every second of it. His roughness, his hardness, the sharp scent of our sex, so unlike what I knew that I wondered again where my subconscious had dredged it up from. I revelled in our fucking.

  Because it was just a beautiful dream.

  I woke to an empty bed. Ass naked.

  I sat up, confused and achy. When had I taken off my PJs? There they were at the side of the bed in a silky blue puddle. And why could I still smell the scent of him from my dream? I stared at my naked body, at my thighs and I gingerly touched my sore nipples. And I told myself it was all psychosomatic. I’d wanted it so badly my body had somehow given me the experience I craved. Right? Right.

  Because that was the only logical explanation.

  But something in my brain didn’t buy it. I stumbled out of the bed, staring at the stained sheets in wonder and thinking that, in all my years, with all the lovers I’d jumped in and out of bed with, I’d never ever seen my sheets look like that. But it was me, had to be. Couldn’t be anything else.

  When I made it to the bathroom and saw the purple love bites on my neck, still tender when I poked at the bruised flesh, I started to doubt my sanity.

  I sifted through impossibility after impossibility. An intruder? Not possible. I’d circled the house twice; the alarm was still on. Everything was in place, sealed and unbroken. The only thing that had wandered beyond the confines of the house was my mind. And for all I knew it was still wandering.

  I didn’t sleep much the next night. I stayed awake for as long as exhaustion would let me and, thankfully, when I did drift off, all that haunted my subconscious were the projects I had due the next day. I didn’t dare let my mind go further than that, and truthfully I don’t think I had the energy. The dreams had never left me drained before, not until now.

  Then came Monday
morning. I was almost afraid to go back to work and I thanked my stars Casey was gone all week; it gave the bruises time to fade, and me time to recover. But I still had to face him.

  And why I did it, I wasn’t sure, but I donned a shirt that didn’t quite hide one bruise on my neck. I wore my hair up so that, if I turned my head and bent a little forwards, the bruise would be visible. It was a test for my own peace of mind. I would be able to prove to myself I had invented that night and everything I felt after it. I would have sanity again.

  He wasn’t there.

  I’d forgotten he was working offsite for the day, and when someone reminded me it was all I could manage not to grind my teeth. I haven’t had many days in my life that I prayed would end like that Monday. It was sheer agonising hell. I couldn’t think: the wonderful soreness of my body distracted me, my mind skittered. People spoke to me and I watched their lips move but made no sense of their words. I found myself staring out of the window playing the dream over and over in my mind. Running my hand along my neck. And wondering.

  That night he came to me first, almost as I drifted into unconsciousness. He was waiting, sliding into bed beside me and reaching for me under the sheets with a smile.

  ‘I was thinking about this all day,’ he whispered as he kissed my cheek and then my lips and then parted my mouth with his. ‘And I missed you,’ he murmured into our kiss while his hands smoothed the shape of my body under the sheer babydoll nightie. I had worn it on purpose, hoping and dreading. And now I was rewarded.

  ‘Same here. I wanted to talk to you,’ I said.

  He only murmured assent because his mouth was occupied with the embroidered bra-cups of the nightie, but, after only a second or two, he raised his head and frowned.

  ‘About Saturday? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  He had gone from ardent lover to fierce protector in a flash and it made me smile. My boy, all impetuous charisma and dash.

  ‘No. I wanted … I wanted to see if you’d dreamt the same I did.’

  ‘Of course, silly girl,’ he said, descending again to the scented warmth of my curves. ‘I’m here with you.’

  Strange how in dreams everything makes sense.

  But we had no time to talk. I lay on my stomach and his weight and heat covered me, pressing me into the pillows. His cock moved wet and fast between my thighs, slicking my ass cheeks and legs with our moisture, his balls slapping my clit, teasing it in the lewdest way. I was a she-wolf taken by her mate, my nails digging into the backs of his hands as he held me and drove into me. Hard. Harder. I tore the skin over his knuckles and almost broke my back arching up into him. He slid one hand under me, held me to him and filled me.

  We had no breath left to whisper endearments before we swam away again, back into our own beds and minds. But I left him marked that night; his shoulders and arms and hands. I hadn’t meant to, but I wasn’t sorry. There, in the dream, I wanted to give him sweet pain and let him know he was mine. Here. Beyond consciousness.

  I was exhausted the next day. I felt as if I hadn’t slept in days. OK, Sunday. But what about last night? I yawned and poured coffee and slumped into a chair at a table beside the window. My pussy ached delightfully, but I was too tired to try to figure it out. I’d accepted that my overactive imagination was taking its toll on my body, somehow. Maybe next week I’d see a shrink, get my head right. Or maybe I’d just get laid by a guy, see if it cured me …

  ‘Hey there!’

  I turned immediately, smile at the ready as he pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Hi.’

  He began to ask how my day was going as he set his breakfast tray down and reached for a bagel. I looked down at his hands, smiling at the memory of what I’d imagined last night.

  And then we both saw the mark on his wrist.

  Just a small red line left by a sharp fingernail in the heat of passion. A scratch that could have been caused by anything, anywhere: a doorframe, a zipper, a million other objects in the rush of life. But I remembered grabbing his wrist as he reached under my stomach to tease my clit as he brought himself to climax. I remember forcing his hand hard against my body, our combined weight pressing down as he slammed into me.

  I reached for his other hand, the one nearest to me and turned it over, palm down. A half-moon cut over the third knuckle, a scratch just above the wrist. I keep my nails long because Casey likes me to tease her with them, trailing them over her breasts and her clit when I tie her up. I keep them sharp.

  We looked at the cuts on his hand. And we stared.

  Time slowed down and halted while we sat there. Me with my heart pounding, because the impossible – when finally you confront it – is scary. Thrilling. Confusing. I sat afraid to move or breathe or think because God only knew what might happen next, and he pulled his hand away. He reached up, brushed my hair aside and gently pulled the neck of my sweater forwards.

  And he found his proof, as I had found mine.

  I couldn’t drink my coffee, it was choking me. But I sat there, cup in hand as he sat with his barely touched breakfast before him, both of us staring at the TV and seeing none of it until the break room emptied of everyone but us. Then he put one hand over my trembling one and he smiled at me. As if to say it would be OK. That we had nothing to fear because, somehow, some way, our deepest truest wish had come to pass.

  Despite reason, despite common sense and logic and all the things we cling to in order to stay sane. We knew.

  It had been real. We did have that power.

  He came to me just once more. Three times, a lucky number, he said.

  ‘How do you know?’ I whispered in the darkness of my bed as he lay beside me, propped on one elbow, and played with my nipples. Rolling and twisting them between his thumb and fingers. Pinching them and then running his hand down my torso to check that my pussy was getting sufficiently hot and bothered and slippery. Teasing me a little down there so that I wriggled and arched, and then smearing moisture up over my pussy and my stomach, up to my breasts again where he began his maddening playing anew.

  ‘Isn’t three times always the charm?’

  ‘Is it? Should you even be here? Should this even be happening?’

  He hand stilled, resting on my chest. He looked at me. Serious, but not solemn, and I could hear the calm, assured happiness in his voice when he spoke. ‘Yes. Yes it should.’

  And he kissed me.

  Three times and the charm would be wrapped up. So I made the most of it. When he lifted me atop him, I rode him until my thighs would not obey my commands to move any more, and when I fell against him, exhausted, he rolled me over, knelt above me and kept fucking me. Kissing me as his cock pumped furiously, hungrily. One last time I felt the pleasure building like rage, like a storm; and I wrapped my legs over his to drive him further in, drive him to the centre of my pleasure and spill it outwards and all through my body. One last time to feel his body tense and jerk, hear him grunt and then sigh. Feel his wet heat trickling down my legs.

  His tongue moved wet and lazy over mine. Saying goodbye; saying ‘thank you’, and, after the kiss, we let go. He faded past the barriers of my thoughts and it was over. As fast and desperate and amazing as it had begun.

  We didn’t speak of it, not in everyday words in our everyday world. Only a look sometimes, or a smile. A reminder. I wanted to say to him at least that I would never ever forget, but silence was the understood price and I never said a word. I think he knew all the same.

  On the last day I ever saw him, before our lives took us different ways, I bent the rules just a little. Out of context, with no warning, I told him thank you and kissed his cheek. He stared, startled for a few seconds, and then hugged me once, smiling.

  ‘You are like no one else,’ he said.

  ‘Did you ever wonder why or how?’ I asked. I bit my lip and watched his face as he frowned a little. Thinking.

  ‘I did. I still do. But –’ he looked up, found my gaze, and gave me a soft smile ‘– I figure it’s one of those things y
ou don’t pry too hard into. You just accept.’

  I nodded, and we left it there.

  I kept my secret and, I imagine, he kept his. We never tried to bridge the miles or the years between us – by ordinary means or not. But every so often, just before waking, I sometimes think I feel a gentle touch on my arm. Or a kiss on my cheek. And I smile before my eyes open. Because, after all, it’s only a sweet dream.

  The Girl of His Dreams Heather Towne

  Laura kept smiling at Evelyn, as the woman prattled on about another adorable moment in the life of her one-year-old wonder son. But she wasn’t listening; she was staring over her co-worker’s shoulder at a man she’d never seen before, walking down the corridor of cubicles into the actuarial department. She brought her ‘Kittens for Mittens’ coffee cup up to her parted lips, her glasses steaming with the hot beverage, at the sight of the man’s tight buttocks twitching beneath his pale-blue suit pants.

  ‘Um, did they hire a new actuary?’ she interrupted Evelyn’s discourse on her child’s diaper contents.

  The older woman twisted her head around to look where Laura was looking. ‘Oh, yes, that’s, oh – what’s his name? Oh, yes, Perkin Miller.’ Evelyn was a payroll officer and, as such, knew everything about everybody at the medium-sized insurance company – and wasn’t afraid to tell it. ‘Perkin. Can you imagine?’

  And she was off on another baby Ezekiel tangent. While Laura studied Perkin’s short taut physique as he turned around. His brown hair was parted to the right with ruler precision, big blue eyes peering out from behind gold-rimmed corrective lenses, his pale face lean and bony. She played with the possibilities – Laura Miller, Laura Litt-Miller, Perkin Miller-Litt (wasn’t that a beer?).

  Nerds need lovin’ too, she well knew. Laura toiled in the accounting department checking expense reports and posting journal entries, but she was a girl with a very active imagination. Among other talents.

  It was at lunchtime when Laura finally spotted Perkin again. He was sitting all by himself at a table for four in one corner of the company cafeteria.

 

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