by Theda Black








I have a recurring dream that's driving me fucking crazy. In it, we’re up at my uncle’s cabin. Will’s sprawled over the same bunk he slept in last time. He's wearing that black undershirt of his, half-buttoned so that it shows quick flashes of skin when he moves.

It's night. Moonlight splashes in across the windowsill to spill over him like a statue, over the individual hairs of his legs and crotch, tracing them in gleaming detail like a fine pattern set in silver.

Oh, I don't think I mentioned that the black shirt is the only thing he's wearing.

Anyway, his back is curved against the headboard, legs thrown apart, eyes closed against the cold light. The shadows gather in the dark corners of the room, watching his palm come down to cup the crown of his cock. He rotates his hand against the head slowly and makes a low, soft sound. Long fingers stretch, move down, then slide upward.

I want to taste him, wrap my mouth around the hard length of him, feel the big vein throbbing beneath with my tongue. I know what he'd feel like in my mouth, imagined it enough. Want it enough.

His eyes open up and the light makes them look like deep green glass. His hand strokes, squeezes the head of his cock in his fist.

My hand drops down, rubbing, slow push against the growing bulge in my jeans. I imagine it's Will's hand and unzip myself, thrust out my hips, do it again.

His eyes widen. He sees me.

I know it's a dream, it's impossible, but he’s looking at me. At my hand, still now, frozen. At my hard-on. I feel my face flush warm and I lean against the doorframe, legs gone to rubber. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes. What the hell would I say?

He leans his head against the headboard, gaze gone down to lazy moon glints. His hand stills. He watches me, face expressionless.

"Will?" I finally whisper, my heart pounding drumbeats just beneath my skin.

He smiles a little, a statue come back to life. His hand slides down his cock. It strains against his fingers and his hips push into them, his eyes hot on me. He groans and my name is in it. Suddenly I can move again. I stumble forward and fall to my knees on the floor by the bunk. He looks at me, in me. He leans over, slow mouth lowering, covering mine, moving over me, heat, wet, longing. He pushes me with the weight of his body. His hands move to my face and I close my eyes as he kisses me into the wall with his tongue, his teeth, his wordless voice, his harsh breaths. And it's just like I imagined, how I knew he'd feel, how I knew I'd feel. Like everything I ever wanted.

But when I open my eyes, he'll be gone. It's not real, never is.

Some day, though. Tomorrow or next week or next year—though that year thing makes something hurt deep in my chest—I'll look and he'll still be here.

One day. One time. Just once.

I open my eyes.












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