It was hard to discern where she was.  The last thing she remembered was turning off the light and falling asleep.  But here he was, dark eyes looming and lips hovering  over hers.  She couldn’t get away from him, even in sleep.

It was bad enough that thoughts of him tormented her during the day.  At the oddest moments, she was consumed by them, suddenly finding herself suspended in mental pictures so real that they seemed more tangible than the task at hand.  How was it possible that she could feel him stroke her skin when he lived so many miles away?  Nobody’s reach is that long.

She was wrong.  He managed to infiltrate both her waking and nighttime reverie, pressing his cause in absentia.  It was like being quarried by an invisible predator, one who could strike without warning and leave her aching with desire.  It was so ruthless, she had to ask herself if his forays were a violent presumption, or if she actually welcomed them.

She knew the answer.  It reverberated the moment he opened her legs and pressed into her.  She could not withhold what was already his.   There was no point arguing or analyzing a connection that had no logical explanation.  It was a conundrum carefully devised to baffle her mind.   It forced her to rely upon her feeling nature, an aspect she had carefully hidden years ago.   

Those initial steps were wobbly, crammed full of awkward mistakes.  It was like learning to ride without training wheels again.   There was no way to fake her way through this time, no opportunity to finesse herself out of tight spots.   She was a gangly teenager again, every nerve raw and exposed.

But at night, in the hothouse of her dreams, he was a different creature altogether.  He did not plague her for pasteurized answers to stock questions, nor evade the avalanche of feeling that threatened to derail him.  Instead he made love to her with a slow deliberateness that challenged her sense of location.  Where was she after all?  In the never-ending expansion of the future or the desert of the real? 




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