My chest was tight, my skin tingling in ways I didn't understand. His kisses burned over my skin, leaving marks that made me shiver. Every movement of his—how he lifted me, how our bodies merged again and again—sent me higher, carried me on a cloud of pleasure I hadn't known was possible. My back arched, my mouth open in moans I couldn't stop, each one raw and urgent. He was overwhelming me, his touch too much, too deep, and I couldn't get enough. I was wet, alive, and I loved every second of it.
"Moan," he murmured, and then suddenly his hands were at my waist, pulling me closer, pressing me into him. His breath ghosted over my ear, voice low, rough, trembling with need.
"Darla…"
My stomach twisted. My chest froze. My name wasn't Darla. It shouldn't have felt like this. But I couldn't move, couldn't pull away. I was pinned beneath him, caught in the heat and urgency of his body. The euphoria from moments ago melted into something else entirely—something raw, sharp, and consuming.
His hands roamed, memorizing, demanding. Every touch made me shiver. Every glance, every whisper pressed into me like fire, and though I knew it was a dream, part of me—Darla, whoever she was—throbbed with need.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, voice breaking in a way that made the air itself tremble. My chest ached with the pull of longing and fear, and I felt alive in a way that made every nerve in my body hum.
And then it shattered.
"Mae! Hey, Mae—wake up!"
My eyes snapped open. Cheek pressed to the notebook, ink smeared across my skin. The harsh white light of the classroom stabbed at me, pens scraping, laughter buzzing faintly around the room. My heart hammered, my body still caught between the remnants of the dream and the sharp, cold reality.
And then I saw him.
Professor Ashen. Standing by the board, arms crossed, gaze sharp, the same face yet the exact opposite of the man in my dream. Cold. Judging. Annoyed. Every eye in the room seemed to have found me.
"Miss Lain," he said, voice clipped, cutting through my shame. " Please enlighten us, was that you attempting some form of performance art for the class?"
My tongue froze. "I—I… I'm sorry, Professor—" i was confused as to what he meant until i heard the girls whisper beside me.
"She must have no shame, she moans in class like that."
"Sorry doesn't undo the fact that you've been daydreaming in… whatever world you've created for yourself while the rest of us are attempting to learn." He leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing. "Perhaps you should consider whether you're here to participate in class or merely to indulge in fantasies while wasting everyone else's time."
'Gosh i had moaned out loud?' I could feel my cheeks murn up, I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I could hear the quiet murmurs from a few of the girls in the back. They were watching me, whispering—probably judging me. Trying too hard. Showing too much. A slut, probably, they thought. I clenched my notebook, praying for invisibility.
"I'm not—" I tried, voice trembling.
"Clearly you are," he cut me off, voice sharp as broken glass. "If your only purpose here is to sleep, daydream, or distract the rest of the class with your behavior, you may leave."
I scrambled to gather my things, cheeks burning, mind a whirlwind of shame and confusion. I mumbled my apologies, heart still racing from the dream and the wake-up, from the sharp sting of his words.
And just like that, I was out in the hall, alone, chest heaving, mind caught between the remnants of a dream that had made me feel alive and the cold reality of Professor Ashen's disdain.