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She’d probably be horrified if she knew. I won’t do it. I won’t.
It takes hours to fall asleep, the wind moaning and rattling the window panes, and the whole time my heart pounds loud enough to hear through the walls.
* * *
Lightning flashes. Rain lashes the windows, and thunder rumbles loud enough to shake the mountains. A shy hand taps at my shoulder, and Helen’s voice is soft.
“Mr Grangemoor?”
The dreams start like this, sometimes. My beautiful assistant comes to me in the dark, begging for my touch, and I roll her beneath me in the bed and work her body into a lather. Tonight’s dream is extra vivid, her touch cool on my shoulder.
Christ. It’s torture after wanting her so badly all day. Like pressing on a bruise.
Still, I know the drill.
“The storm,” Helen whispers, but already I’m taking her wrist and pulling her down, gathering her into the warm cocoon of the bed covers. I know why she’s here. In my dreams, she’s always here for the same reason.
“Mmph!” my dream-assistant squeaks as I kiss her, pressing her head back against the pillows, and she’s stiff for one long moment before melting in my arms.
Here we go.
This dream issovivid, her body warm and pliant, her legs twining around mine. Maybe today filled in more details in my brain; maybe I can dream her better now. She’s more realistic, that’s for sure.
“Oh my god,” Helen murmurs, her breath hot on my ear, and I screw my eyes shut as I kiss down her throat.
So realistic. It’s torture.
It’s everything I can never have; everything that my gorgeous assistant would probably be horrified to know that I want. Getting flustered together while painting is one thing, butthis?
“Helen,” I say under my breath, uttering her name over and over like a prayer. “Helen. Helen. Helen.”
She arches up, fingers twisting in my hair.
She’s wearing a set of old fashioned pajamas, with a collared shirt and a fussy row of buttons down the front. That makes sense. I’ve seen her wear these before, so of course my unconscious brain made note of them.
I take note of everything this girl does.
Stripping her quickly, I toss the clothes over my shoulder. Why wait? These dreams always go the same way, and the least I can do is not try to drag them out.
“M-Mr Grangemoor—”
I hush her with a fierce kiss, then rub my cheek against hers. Bristly beard against satin skin.
“Tell me you want me, Helen.”
I know it’s not real, but I like to hear it.
“I…” She gasps as I pinch a nipple, rolling the bead between finger and thumb. “I… I want you.”
My grin is fierce in the gloom. Love that part. And though I’m hazy with sleep, though none of this is real, I always take care of her in my dreams. I do now, too, coaxing her thighs apart and settling above her, one hand smoothing down her stomach. My fingertips seek out her seam.
Soaked.
Like always.
She’s slick and swollen and perfect, bucking up into my hand. And Helen pants like in all the other dreams, squirming under my touch, her body burning up like a hot little ember in the center of my bed.
I press the first finger in slowly, and it’s tighter than usual. That’s odd. But her nails scrabble against my back, and she’s begging so sweetly, so I keep going, pushing to the second knuckle.
