Riza doesn't remember when the dreams began knocking at her door, or when she decided to let them in.
They start off slow – and almost shy. Something at the back of her mind – she supposes it must be reason – tells her that this is wrong. She has no right to be touching him this way. Her heart, however, preaches something different.
So she runs her fingers through soft black hair, trails them across the sharp line of his jaw, lets them linger on his shoulders, on his chest. She lets him kiss her once, and then once more.
Her lips are at the pulse beating against his neck, and kisses wander down over his chest. His hands run over her sides, her bare back – she likes it when he touches her there, it makes her feel safe.
His open palms glide to her hips, and his mouth is at her ear, whispering things she knows she'll never really hear.
Typically Riza likes to stop them here, if they manage to get this far. But tonight she's willing to let the dreams steer her through the night.
They finish with more passion than she expected – and honest confidence.
When she sinks into the mattress under his gentle weight, both their hands begin to wander, tracing, exploring, memorizing. The brush of his skin against her own is like a murmur, urging her to hold him even closer than they already are.
And then her hands are around his neck and down his back, and their breaths are coming fast.
He pushes his face from the crook of her neck to press his lips against her own. His eyes are dark and soft and she doesn't even think of turning hers away.
By the time the dream is fading, her head is rising and falling against his chest in time with his even breathing, and his fingers are playing, threading through her hair.
But when the sun greets her through the window, Riza is quick to forget, at least until the next dream comes.