Chapter 9: The Dream and the Awakening
Abby was dreaming.
The bed was huge, a foreign expanse of cool, black sheets. She was naked, spread-eagled, the air chilling the sweat on her skin. Thick cuffs of leather and cold metal bound her wrists and ankles to the ornate bedposts, pulling her taut, utterly exposed. She tested the restraints, a futile, delicious tug that sent a spike of heat straight to her core.
He stood beside the bed, dressed in dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt that showed the lean lines of his arms. It was Leo, but not the Leo from the library. This version had his same sharp face, but his eyes were dark pools of calm command. He looked at her, not with shyness, but with a possessiveness that made her breath catch.
His hand trailed down her side, from her ribs to the flare of her hip, then over the curve of her ass. He admired the landscape of her tattoos, the pale skin. Then his palm cracked down, a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the silent room.
She jerked against the cuffs, a cry tearing from her throat. It wasn’t pain; it was a bright, white spark that ignited her nerves. He did it again, on the other cheek, harder. The flesh warmed under his hand, and she moaned, pushing her ass up, begging for another.
“Greedy,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones.
He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock. It was hard, thick, the head flushed and wet. He didn’t ask. He fisted a hand in her short hair, pulling her head up from the pillow, and guided himself to her lips. “Open.”
She did, and he filled her mouth in one deep, relentless thrust. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but he held her there, not letting her retreat. He started to fuck her face, a steady, punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting the back of her throat. Drool and pre-cum slicked her chin. The sounds were obscene, wet and choking, and a frantic, deep part of her loved it, loved being used like this, owned like this. She moaned around him, the vibration making him grunt.
He pulled out, her lips swollen and slick. He flipped her onto her back again, the cuffs clanking. He climbed over her, his weight settling between her thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging at her soaked entrance. He hovered there, denying her.
“Beg for it,” he said.
She was trembling, a live wire. “Please,” she whimpered.
“Not good enough.”
“Please, Leo. Fuck me. Please, I need it.”
He drove into her, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt. She screamed, her back arching off the bed. He gave her no time to adjust. He set a vicious pace, his hips slamming against hers, the slap of skin on skin a rapid, obscene drumbeat. The bedframe rattled. He fucked her like he was trying to break her apart, and she was coming, her body seizing around him in a sudden, violent climax that ripped a sob from her throat.
He didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, his rhythm unrelenting. “Again,” he growled.
Another orgasm built, a tidal wave pulled from the depths of her, even sharper than the first. She convulsed, her cries turning into hoarse, broken pleas. “More, oh god, more, don’t stop…”
He leaned down, his mouth on her neck, then lower. He took a peaked nipple between his teeth and bit, not gently. The sharp pain blurred into blinding pleasure. He sucked the mark, then lifted his head, his eyes locking with hers. “You’re mine now,” he stated, each word a nail in a coffin. “You understand that? My little slut.”
The declaration, the filthy word in his calm voice, triggered a third climax, so intense her vision whited out. She shattered, screaming into the void.
BRRRRRNNNNT! BRRRRNNNNT!
The sound was a jagged knife slicing through the dream’s fabric. Abby jolted awake, gasping, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. The phantom sensations clung to her—the bite on her nipple, the deep, aching fullness, the sting on her ass.
Reality seeped in, harsh and mundane. The narrow, lumpy dorm bed. The striped light from the blinds. The hum of the AC. She was in Leo’s arms, her back to his chest, exactly as she’d fallen asleep. She was still drowning in his oversized gray hoodie. Underneath, the lace of her bra chafed against her hypersensitive nipples. She was aware, viscerally, of the absence of her panties, lost last night when he’d ripped them from her in the bathroom. Between her legs, she was slick and throbbing, a warm, insistent wetness that was a direct legacy of the dream.
Leo stirred behind her, his arm tightening reflexively around her waist. His face nuzzled sleepily into her hair. “S’your phone,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
From across the room came a groggy, bewildered sound. A grunt. Then the creak of mattress springs.
Abby turned her head slightly, peeking over Leo’s arm.
Marcus Chen was sitting bolt upright in his bed, his hair sticking up at wild angles. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again, staring directly at them. His expression cycled through sleep-confusion, disbelief, and dawning, comic shock.
“What the fuck?” Marcus’s voice was a dry croak. He cleared his throat. “Leo. Is that… the goth chick? In your bed?”
Abby felt a hot flush creep up her neck, but she didn’t pull away from Leo’s warmth. Her body was still humming, distracted, caught between the dream’s violence and this mundane confrontation.
Leo sighed, a long-suffering sound. He propped himself up on one elbow, his body still curled around Abby’s. “Morning, Marcus.”
“Dude. You didn’t say you were bringing… I mean, I knew you went over to her dorm last night for your ‘date’ or whatever.” Marcus made air quotes, then seemed to realize how stupid that looked and dropped his hands. “But I was asleep when you guys got back. Waking up to this is… a lot.”
“It’s just a bed, Marcus,” Leo said, his tone flat. “We’re just in it.”
“Just a bed? She’s Abby Holloway. From the Kappa party. The one who…” Marcus trailed off, likely recalling the rumors, the reputation.
“The one who what?” Abby’s own voice surprised her, clear and cool despite her racing heart. She shifted, turning onto her other side to face the room, pulling the hoodie tighter around her. Leo’s arm remained draped over her hip, a casual claim.
Marcus flushed. “Nothing. Sorry. Just… unexpected.” He swung his legs out of bed, wearing only boxers covered in cartoon tacos. “I gotta pee. And then, for the love of god, put some pants on. Both of you. I need brain bleach.”
He stumbled out of the room, shutting the door a little too hard behind him.
The silence he left was different now, charged with a new awkwardness. The dream’s intensity still clung to Abby, a secret film over everything. She could feel Leo’s hard length pressed against her lower back, a mirror to her own unspent tension.
“Sorry about him,” Leo whispered, his lips close to her ear. “He’s a drama queen.”
“It’s fine,” Abby said, but her voice was distant. She was cataloging the differences: the gentle weight of Leo’s arm versus the bite of leather cuffs, the morning sun versus the dream’s shadowy room, the shy computer science student beside her versus the dominant phantom who had just owned her body in her subconscious.
Yet, they were the same person. That was the terrifying, thrilling part. The man who had calmly described eating his own cum from her to Chloe was the same one now holding her with a protective, sleepy possessiveness. The potential she’d whispered about on the dance floor had taken root, not just in reality, but deep in her own fantasy life, grown wild and dark in the fertile soil of her mind.
She turned in his arms to face him fully. His dark circles were pronounced, his pale skin almost translucent in the morning light. He looked young, tired, sweet. Her heart did a strange, soft twist.
“You okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You seem… spaced out.”
She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips, a gesture that felt strangely tender. “Just a weird dream,” she said, and the understatement of it almost made her laugh. A violent, erotic tremor ran through her, concentrated between her legs where she was still bare, still wet for him.
Down the hall, a toilet flushed.
“Marcus will be back in thirty seconds,” Leo said, a small, regretful smile touching his lips. His hand slid down from her hip, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her thigh where the hoodie had ridden up. A question. A promise.
The door handle rattled.
Abby leaned in and kissed him, fast and hard, trying to convey the storm inside her—the dream, the need, the confusion. When she pulled back, she saw his eyes had darkened, the calm command from her dream flickering there for just an instant.
“Tonight,” she breathed, the word a pact.
He nodded, just as the door swung open and Marcus re-entered, making a theatrical show of covering his eyes. “Pants! I’m begging you!”
Abby buried her face in Leo’s chest, inhaling the scent of him and sleep, the vivid, raw images of the dream still playing behind her closed eyelids, a preview she desperately hoped would become a reality.