Lily
From the lecture hall, I bolted straight to the washroom and didn't come out for several minutes. I had tossed all my belongings onto the bench outside without a second thought. If someone wanted to take them, so be it. But in a campus this busy, I doubted anyone would even notice the heap of things I'd left behind.
The moment I stepped inside, I rushed to the sink and splashed cold water onto my face. It soaked my shirt, dampened my hair, and even dripped onto the floor, but I didn't care if I was making a mess. My mind was far too tangled to think about cleanliness.
I lifted my head to the mirror, staring at the wreck of a girl reflected back at me. My wet hair clung to my skin, water ran in rivulets down my cheeks, and my flushed face was pale beneath the redness. I looked like I had seen a ghost, and in a way, I had.
Julian Ashford. The ghost from my dreams now stood in the flesh.
This wasn't some vague resemblance, not some trick of my exhausted brain. No. It was him. Exactly him. The man who bound my wrists in the dark, who whispered against my skin, who smelled of smoke and sin. And he smelled the same now.
"How is this possible?" I whispered, voice breaking. My pulse thundered in my ears as panic clawed at my chest.
I clutched my wet hair in my fists, tugging hard as if the pain could bring clarity. My eyes widened at the trembling, haunted girl staring back at me.
"I'm going crazy," I muttered to my reflection. "I'm losing my mind."
It took me well over twenty minutes to calm my racing nerves. Once I finally stopped shaking and accepted the impossible truth that Julian Ashford was real, and that he was the same man from my dreams, I forced myself out of the washroom.
My things were still lying carelessly on the bench, just as I had expected. I gathered them quickly and stuffed them into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. Without looking back, I made a beeline for the parking lot. I wasn't going back to class today, not with him there. My heart was still hammering, my thoughts scattered, and I couldn't even bear the idea of meeting his eyes.
I knew he'd asked me to return. Judging by his usual sternness, I was sure he would be angry. Let him be mad. I didn't care. I needed space. With no other classes scheduled, I got into my car and drove straight home.
As usual, the house was empty. My parents were still at work, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I checked my phone to find a couple of messages from Peter flashing on the screen, asking where I was. I ignored them. I wasn't ready to explain what had just happened in the lecture hall... not to anyone.
Usually, when someone feels as wound up as I did, they take a nap. But sleep was the last thing I could allow myself. Even blinking felt dangerous. Closing my eyes meant surrendering to the very thing that terrified me most. Sleep had become an abandoned luxury.
After a long shower, I pulled on a pair of worn cotton shorts and an old t-shirt. My hair was still damp as I sank into the bed, head heavy against the pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling. My thoughts would not stop circling. Maybe I had overreacted. Maybe I was wrong. What if the man in my dreams only resembled Professor Ashford, and in my panic, I had convinced myself they were the same? Heat crept up my neck, a new wave of embarrassment flooding me. What if I skipped his class for nothing? What if I humiliated myself over a coincidence?
Still, the doubt refused to leave me. My dreams had never been vague or forgettable. They were vivid, painfully detailed, and the man I saw, his face, his eyes, even his voice, was Julian Ashford. I knew it. Yet… what if it was just a trick of my mind? A cruel imagination playing with me? I groaned, gripping my damp hair in both fists, my temples throbbing with the beginnings of a headache.
I needed a break. I needed answers. If the man in my dreams truly was Julian Ashford, then how could I have dreamed of him before I even met him? And if he was not him, then why was I suddenly plagued with these dreams at all? The only way to confirm if the man in my dreams is truly Mr. Ashford was to sleep again.
That thought alone sent an odd shiver of excitement through me. My chest tightened, my pulse quickened. Was I actually looking forward to dreaming of him? The realization made my stomach twist. When did I become this desperate? This hungry?
Disgusted with myself, I forced my gaze back to the ceiling, my body tense as I lay there. I didn't sleep that afternoon. The rest of the day slipped by in a blur. I stayed in my room, leaving only once to join my parents for dinner. As usual, the conversation circled around school and their work before I excused myself and returned to my solitude.
It wasn't until late that I finally picked up my phone. A few messages from Peter blinked on the screen, his concern evident in every word. Guilt pricked at me for leaving him hanging all day. I quickly typed out a reply, telling him I hadn't been feeling well and that I'd see him tomorrow, then set the phone aside.
Silence filled the room once again. My chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, a restless anticipation stirring inside me. And, just as it always did, somewhere in the middle of the night, the dream reached out and pulled me under.
I felt his touch before I saw him. My body sank into the bed, clad in nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties that clung to my skin like sin itself. A cool silk blindfold pressed against my eyes, plunging me into velvety darkness and sharpening every sensation.
The sheets beneath me were smooth, luxurious silk, cool against my heated skin. My arms were stretched above my head, wrists bound tightly to the headboard with rope, while my legs were spread and secured at the edges of the bed, leaving me helpless, open, completely at his mercy.
But this time, there was no fear. No hesitation. Instead, a wicked thrill hummed through me. My lips parted with shallow breaths, shamelessly admitting to myself how much I wanted this. How much I wanted him.
And maybe it was better that I could not see his face right now, because the blindfold forced me to focus only on his hands, on the way they traced over my skin with slow, deliberate purpose, setting me ablaze with every touch.
His touch was maddeningly soft, like a whisper of silk against my skin, yet it burned hotter than fire. A cold fingertip slid beneath my lower lip, tugging at it gently before trailing downward, slow and deliberate. I parted my lips, gasping, my breath shaky as his finger traced the curve of my neck. My head tilted back instinctively, baring myself to him, surrendering without a thought.
I arched my back, pushing my body up for him, desperate for more contact. His touch lingered over my collarbone before gliding down, circling the swell of my breasts. My nipples strained against the thin lace of my bra, aching to be touched, and when he hooked the cup down, the cool air licked at my bare skin. My gasp came out broken, needy.
A low hiss escaped him, and the sound made my entire body clench with desire. In my mind, I saw Mr. Ashford's hazel eyes staring down at me, filled with hunger so raw it made my insides twist.
His fingertip circled my hardened nipple, slow and teasing, before flicking it just enough to draw a moan from my throat. My body trembled, my thighs pulling against the restraints as if begging for friction. He cupped my breast in his hand, squeezing firmly, his cold palm against my overheated flesh, making me shudder violently. I couldn't stop the sounds spilling out of me... little moans, whimpers... each one louder than the last.
When his hand left my breasts, I whimpered in protest, only for his touch to trail down my stomach. His fingers skimmed across my sensitive skin, every stroke deliberate, making my muscles twitch and tighten in anticipation. My breathing turned ragged as he hovered lower, brushing the edge of my panties.
I was soaked, my arousal seeping through the thin lace. When his fingers hooked the band of my panties, tugging lightly as if about to pull them aside, a desperate whimper broke from me. My body strained upward, shamelessly begging for more.
And then... the alarm.
The sound shattered everything.
"No!" I cried out, jerking awake, my body arching off the bed in frustration. My chest heaved, sweat clung to my skin, and between my thighs, I was drenched, the dampness of my panties undeniable.
I dropped back against the mattress, clutching the sheets as a hot, aching pulse throbbed between my legs. My body was desperate, unsatisfied, and the cruel way the dream had cut off left me burning with need.
Groaning, I dragged a pillow over my face and muttered against it, "Dammit…" My voice came out shaky, broken, almost a sob.
That morning, I had no idea how I managed to drag myself to campus. I was cranky, irritable, and not even my third cup of coffee could pull me out of the foul mood I was in. Maybe it was because of the way my dream had ended, cut short right when I needed it most. Even after hours of being awake, there was still a restless ache pulsing between my thighs. It was unbearable, distracting, and entirely new to me. I didn't know how to deal with it. Maybe it was time to finally do some research, figure out how to scratch this itch that wouldn't go away.
My class was scheduled for ten o'clock, and I arrived fifteen minutes early. The campus was buzzing with students, but my head felt foggy, trapped in its own world. Peter wasn't in my class today, yet he still sought me out when he saw me.
"Damn, you still look pale," he muttered as soon as he walked up, his eyes scanning me with concern. "How do you feel now?"
Guilt twisted in my stomach. I hated making him worry. "I am feeling better now," I forced a small smile. "I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly yesterday… and for not replying until so late."
"That's okay." He waved his hand as if brushing it off. "I'm sure you were just resting."
I lowered my gaze, unable to meet his eyes. Resting. If only he knew. But I wasn't about to tell him the truth, so I simply nodded.
"Well, I've got a class in a few minutes," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'll see you after, okay?"
I nodded again, returning his smile, though mine felt thin and forced. He started to walk away, but then paused, turning back as if remembering something.
"Oh, and Mr. Ashford was asking about you," Peter said casually, though the words landed like a slap. "He didn't look too happy that you never came back. He gave us this quick 'critical reading response' assignment. Nothing major, just a short write-up… but he did say it was mandatory. He made it clear that anyone who wants to stay in his class has to submit it. We all turned ours in right then, but since you weren't feeling well, I'm sure he'll accept a late one. I'll text you the details so you can submit the assignment to him before the next lecture, okay?"
Well, damn.