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Whimpering for more.
And yet as good a dream as all of thatshouldmake it sound, this was not a good dream.
It wasn’t.
I feel my face tingle with heat as I try and ram that mantra down my own throat. Because I have to get it through my brain that the sex dream I just had—about Jackson—was in fact, a nightmare.
My brain, unfortunately, seems to refuse to accept that reprogramming. Spitefully. Instead, it decides to replay the events of my…vividdream involving the king asshole who lives here.
Every. Single. Toe-curling. Detail.
In my dream—no,nightmare, I reminded myself—Jackson was playing guitar alone on a stage. I can’t remember or maybe I never even knew within the dream itself if there was an audience or not at that point, because the concert venue was dark except for a single dim light shining down on him.
Shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips like the leather pants in the infamously scandalousExorcise My Lovevideo. A song that isactuallyone of my top favorite Velvet Guillotine songs. I’d just never in a million fucking years tell Jackson to his face that one of my favorite songs of his is the one where he’s basically fucking the camera dressed like Brad Pitt inFight Club.
I mean, I’m not insane.
But the dream. In it, I found myself walking across the stage towards him, from behind. I was dressed like…well, like a Velvet Guillotine groupie of some kind. But like this weirdly erotic or stripper-esque mix of an Alice in Wonderland costume mixed with rock ’n roll hedonism. I don’t know. There were fishnets.
I got within a foot of him, awestruck at the sounds of pure sexual energy humming from his electric guitar. Before suddenly, he turned, looked right at me, licked his lips, and said “you’re dessert.”
The next thing I knew, I was—shamelessly—on my hands and knees, ass up in the air, shivering as Jackson pushed my skirt up. Gasping as he ripped my fishnet stockings with his bare hands.
Moaning as his tongue dragged like hot silk over my pussy, making my thighs shake as I screamed into the crook of my arm. I could feel him move up behind me, a big powerful hand gripping my ass as he started run the swollen head of his huge cock up my slit.
And then the house lights came on, and I was suddenly surrounded by aseaof strangers, all cheering like this was the perfect finale to the show.
That’s when the thunder woke me.
I rub my eyes, feeling the sheen of sweat across my body. The house is warm, and the blankets I heaped over myself last night, expecting to be cold, have only added to that overbearing warmth.
For a second, I consider trying to burrow back to sleep. But I’m up, and now my dumb brain is awake replaying that horrible dream.
I shiver, thighs squeezing together as I exhale slowly, waking even more.
My nose wrinkles as my eyes scan the dusty, cluttered, whiskey-bottle-littered room I’ve spent the night in. It’s a gorgeous, stunning old home. Or at least it is somewhere underneath the layer of dust, grime, dirty clothes, and crumpled bits of paper littered across, well, basically everything.
How does he live like this?
My eyes land on the coffee table in front of the couch. My brow furrows as I stare at the mirror dusted with white powder. Like a little slice of home.
I ignore the narcotics in front of me and sink into the couch at my back, wrapping the blanket tighter around myself.
Home…
It isn’t lost on me that I haven’t mentioned my last name or who my mom is to Jackson. Partly because I don’t want him to think I got the job interviewing him because of who my mother is. Even if, perhaps I did.
But the biggest reason is that I’m not sure if that last name and who I’m related to will open doors or get me thrown ass first back out of his.
I glance around the room one more time, turning to look at the time again before finally exhaling.
He can’t live like this. This is gross.
I stand and go to tug on my jeans before my nose wrinkles. Most of my stuff is dry from the dryer last night. But denim is denim. And both pairs of my jeans are still slightly damp.
For a moment I shiver, realizing I’m standing in Jackson’s living room in a t-shirt, no bra, and panties. I swallow as my eyes dart to the doorway to the front entryway with the huge, elegantly curved staircase that leads up who knows where.
But then again, there was one moment last night when I woke up somewhere around two in the morning and heard him pacing the floor somewhere in the house above me.
