Laura fed the cats, washed her hands, and set up the tea steeper, spooning her loose tea into the water reservoir. The kettle whistled at just the right moment, she poured the water in for steeping and shut the top—
And promptly burst into tears all over again. She was a single woman living alone with three cats, making tea in the middle of the night. This was not how her twenties were supposed to be.
Closing her eyes, she willed the dream to come back, to feel the sensual heat of those hands. In her mind’s eye she remembered the forearm that was attached to one of those loving hands, the sandy hair that peppered the tanned skin, the twist of muscle under the taut skin. It was a man’s arm, muscled and tight, with tendons and veins rigid and clear under textured skin.
We adore you.
The man’s words whispered through her like the rush of hot wind on a summer’s night, right before a burst of sweet, steamy rain, the kind you run outside and play in, even as an adult. You tip your face to the dark, cloudy sky and let the misty rain blanket you like it’s love.
She could feel the imprint of his palm on her thigh. If she weren’t firmly grounded in the world of logic, she’d think he was here. Right now, in another room in her small apartment, off to the bathroom or back in her tousled bed, waiting for her, warming the sheets and reclined in full, drawn-out nude beauty.
Her hand reached down to touch the expanse of skin that burned from the memory of his touch. A laugh burbled out of her, unbidden and without any pretense. She snorted as her fingers brushed against her own creamy curves, her finger tips sliding from mid-thigh on up.
Quickly, she yanked her nightgown down. Now she just burned with a stupid sense of shame, a cold chill making her shiver as the tea darkened in the clear plastic cylinder she used for steeping.
What had she done to deserve a life where her only intimacy was her fingers, her battery-powered night-table boyfriends, her cats and these all-consuming dreams? Dream men were fine and all, but they couldn’t bite your nipple at just the right time.
He has to be real, she thought, the palpable change in her skin making her more certain than ever that whatever she had dreamed had been more than wishful thinking. He’s out there. He’s real.
He has to be.
Don’t you mean ‘they’, a voice inside her hissed, the trickster who made her doubt, made her insecure and self-deprecating, asked in a disapproving voice.
They.
The second man had appeared with such stealth, yet such prowess, that she blended the two together in her addled mind. They weren’t the same, though. Distinct and heavenly, they were two separate men. She inhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the kitchen counter, her breasts flushed with the memory of how all four hands on her had made her ache.
In the dream, she’d known that ache would soon ease as they pleasured her to release. Too bad life didn’t imitate the movie Inception. If it did, she’d hire someone to hack her back into that moment and live out her wildest sexual fantasies.
Pouring her now-too-strong tea, she smiled at the thought. Fantasies. They’re all fantasies, right? The first sip of chamomile made her mouth twist from the concentration, but by her third she was calmer. More centered.
Thin strands of the dream slowly faded away. She tried to conjure an image of the man’s forearm but couldn’t. Then his scent. Cardamon and freshly-cut grass? Mint and orange? Synapses in her brain struggled to put it all together to form the atmosphere in which she’d awoken.
By the time she finished her cup of tea all that remained was the barest hint of memory, of being touched. Of being loved. Of being cherished.
The actual experience disappeared, though, as the sun made its slow ascent. As if sunlight chased her dream away.
All that remained was her frustration.
Miss Daisy meowed until Laura poured her a shallow dish of milk. As dawn made the sky outside turn a sickly shade of grey Laura sighed and slumped on her couch, turning on the television to catch whatever was on at 5:11 a.m.
The pre-morning-show talk show featured a young woman she’d never seen before and a guy she vaguely remembered from some reality television show where he ate food out of dumpsters for a week. They chatted on a boring, beige couch in a studio that looked like something a hotel designer created.
