Page 45 of Mario
Five nights of this.
Five nights of falling asleep like a normal person and waking up like a woman with no sense and no shame.
The first night was bad enough.
The second was concerning.
By the third, I considered drinking chamomile tea in the evening and removing all caffeine from my life after noon.
By the fourth, I started wondering if sleep deprivation might be preferable.
Now, on the fifth, I am genuinely considering legal action against my own brain.
The problem is not just that I keep dreaming about him.
The problem is that the dreams are getting worse.
More vivid.
More specific.
More impossible to dismiss as the random misfire of a tired mind.
Tonight, it was his office.
What I imagine his office looks like anyway, because I’ve never even been in it.
Dark wood, glass, city lights behind him, that massive desk between us until there wasn’t a desk between us at all. He had looked at me the way he does when I challenge him, like every word out of my mouth is one more reason to lean closer.
In the dream, I told him he was obstructing my work.
In the dream, he said, “Then perhaps you should do something about it, Ms. Murray.”
And because dream Victoria is apparently an idiot, I did.
I pushed him.
Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
Just enough for him to catch my wrist, turn me, and press me against the desk with one hand at my waist and the other sliding up beneath my skirt.
My skin goes hot remembering it, and my fingers, still lodged firmly between my legs, start moving of their own accord.
“Tell me to stop,” dream Mario said. His accent was thicker, darker. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
And dream Victoria, who is clearly a woman with very poor judgment, didn’t say anything.
She arched her back against him instead.
He groaned and pressed himself harder against me, his dick pressing against my ass.
The heat that goes through me now is so intense it borders on pain.
I am mortified.
I am horrified.
I am so turned on I could scream.
