mouth grazed her jaw, stoking the heat through her body. Her lips parted. Oh, please, just one kiss. She could drown in one kiss and a keen frustration began to build in her as he lingered so close to her lips , but never reaching them. He seemed to hold what she desired most out of reach, like a reward, if she would succumb and open her eyes. Open her eyes and see him.
The worrisome fear expounded. A thought, a memory she couldn’t define, held her back. His mouth caressed down her belly. Drawing closer, so close to the apex of her hunger. Her heart slammed inside her chest , making it ache. Or was it her breathing? His tongue, so wet, so soft, down lower, on her thigh, upward. So close to giving her what she wanted.
Her hands found his head again, her fingers wound into his hair. Then she remembered what she didn’t want to see. A wave of shame washed over her, extinguishing some of the fire. Sorrow built within her, aching in her chest alongside her heart and panting.
If she opened her eyes…? His heat shifted. His kisses fell away. Her body clamored for more , but her limbs wouldn’t obey.
Her pulse pounded. She fought to recall what exactly she feared. His heat evaporated and her heart plummeted. “Don’t go,” she managed to whisper. Her hands twitched, now empty. Her chest burned.
She opened her eyes. Her vision oriented to the darkness around her. She realized she was in her own room, in bed, and utterly alone. Another dream. Sweat dripped down her forehead and neck. She sat up. Swallowing hurt. Her body felt leaden, as though she’d run a marathon. “Just a dream,” she said into the dark.
He was only a dream. Still, she found herself scanning her room, listening past the drumming in her veins, for signs of him, signs it had been real.
Regret swelled up her throat. Even in a dream, couldn’t she bring herself to interact with him? To stand up for herself? Anger pushed her regret aside. She tore back the covers and strode to the kitchen. She got a glass of water, looked at the clock. Four? “Crap.” How would she get to sleep now?
Her body was keyed up. Her mind, too.
Was Jen home yet?
Probably not. She didn’t see her purse or phone sitting in the usual spot by the fridge.
She set the empty glass in the sink and decided to journal. Maybe if she wrote the dream out, she could decipher some sort of meaning from it. Every time she dreamt of him, she awoke feeling like she’d missed some very important clue, like he was counting on her for something.
Sitting in her room, the bedside lamp spotlighting the blank page, she scribbled down every last sensation. She couldn’t open her eyes. Or wouldn’t? Yet, she’d seen him, in a way. She’d envisioned him, hovering over her, afloat in the air over her lying form. She’d envisioned his supple mouth as he kissed her. She’d imagined his wings.
Why wings? Had her mind chosen him as some sort of savior? She didn’t need a doctorate to know growing up fatherless had a certain impact on her. And if so, then why did it feel like he was asking her to save him and not the reverse? Unless that was the meaning and her mind was still fighting to work out her mother’s suicide. Was she trying to save her mother?
She wrote the question on the page: Why wings? What am I trying to save/be saved from? Dr. Meyers’ final request today resurfaced. What could she possibly bring? Weren’t all of her previous pieces painted over with Elijah scenes? Him, bare and arched like an angel of destruction, against a clouded moon. Hunched like a gargoyle upon the lip of a skyscraper, a bony mountain’s cliff. Waiting, contemplating.
Paint something else for the doctor?
Again, she looked at her writing, remembering her mother's feverish scribbling in her many books. Nancy Graves would spend hours rushing the words onto paper, sheaves littering the floor, her hand unable to keep up with her racing thoughts. As a child, Sadie had a sense of awe over her mother's
The worrisome fear expounded. A thought, a memory she couldn’t define, held her back. His mouth caressed down her belly. Drawing closer, so close to the apex of her hunger. Her heart slammed inside her chest , making it ache. Or was it her breathing? His tongue, so wet, so soft, down lower, on her thigh, upward. So close to giving her what she wanted.
Her hands found his head again, her fingers wound into his hair. Then she remembered what she didn’t want to see. A wave of shame washed over her, extinguishing some of the fire. Sorrow built within her, aching in her chest alongside her heart and panting.
If she opened her eyes…? His heat shifted. His kisses fell away. Her body clamored for more , but her limbs wouldn’t obey.
Her pulse pounded. She fought to recall what exactly she feared. His heat evaporated and her heart plummeted. “Don’t go,” she managed to whisper. Her hands twitched, now empty. Her chest burned.
She opened her eyes. Her vision oriented to the darkness around her. She realized she was in her own room, in bed, and utterly alone. Another dream. Sweat dripped down her forehead and neck. She sat up. Swallowing hurt. Her body felt leaden, as though she’d run a marathon. “Just a dream,” she said into the dark.
He was only a dream. Still, she found herself scanning her room, listening past the drumming in her veins, for signs of him, signs it had been real.
Regret swelled up her throat. Even in a dream, couldn’t she bring herself to interact with him? To stand up for herself? Anger pushed her regret aside. She tore back the covers and strode to the kitchen. She got a glass of water, looked at the clock. Four? “Crap.” How would she get to sleep now?
Her body was keyed up. Her mind, too.
Was Jen home yet?
Probably not. She didn’t see her purse or phone sitting in the usual spot by the fridge.
She set the empty glass in the sink and decided to journal. Maybe if she wrote the dream out, she could decipher some sort of meaning from it. Every time she dreamt of him, she awoke feeling like she’d missed some very important clue, like he was counting on her for something.
Sitting in her room, the bedside lamp spotlighting the blank page, she scribbled down every last sensation. She couldn’t open her eyes. Or wouldn’t? Yet, she’d seen him, in a way. She’d envisioned him, hovering over her, afloat in the air over her lying form. She’d envisioned his supple mouth as he kissed her. She’d imagined his wings.
Why wings? Had her mind chosen him as some sort of savior? She didn’t need a doctorate to know growing up fatherless had a certain impact on her. And if so, then why did it feel like he was asking her to save him and not the reverse? Unless that was the meaning and her mind was still fighting to work out her mother’s suicide. Was she trying to save her mother?
She wrote the question on the page: Why wings? What am I trying to save/be saved from? Dr. Meyers’ final request today resurfaced. What could she possibly bring? Weren’t all of her previous pieces painted over with Elijah scenes? Him, bare and arched like an angel of destruction, against a clouded moon. Hunched like a gargoyle upon the lip of a skyscraper, a bony mountain’s cliff. Waiting, contemplating.
Paint something else for the doctor?
Again, she looked at her writing, remembering her mother's feverish scribbling in her many books. Nancy Graves would spend hours rushing the words onto paper, sheaves littering the floor, her hand unable to keep up with her racing thoughts. As a child, Sadie had a sense of awe over her mother's
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