She scoots closer to the warm body just behind her so that they're spooning. A strong arm wraps around her middle. She smiles, relieved. "I didn't think you'd come back for me. Guess I was wrong."

"I haven't left."

Wait, that wasn't-

Bulma twists around. "Vegeta?"

"I've seen the way you look at me. At my body," he says in a low voice, his featherlight touch making her break out in goosebumps.

He kisses her shoulder, silently appraising her with his dark eyes. Her breath hitches as his hand skims the elastic of her panties, sliding underneath.

"I can't," she murmurs, contradicting her statement by squeezing her thighs around his wandering hand.

He circles her clit lightly, nudging at her lips. "Oh? Punishing yourself for driving away the earthling again?"

Her nails dig into the forearm wrapped around her middle. "I broke his heart."

"So what?" He chuckles, easing two thick fingers inside her effortlessly. "I know you."

She sucks in a breath at the sensation, growing slicker with his goading mouth pressed at her ear. This was oh so wrong in so many ways.

"He was going to confine you to a tedious existence, one in which you're not free to be yourself." He skims her collarbone with his lips, watching her closely. "Always playing the role of naggy, envious girlfriend. Always left out. Cast aside. Misunderstood. That's far worse than a broken heart. And all for what? Do you even like the worm?"

"We have history."

"But does he make you feel powerful?" He gently squeezes a breast over her shirt, trailing kisses up her neck. His fingers curl steadily inside her and he brushes the pad of his thumb against her clit, applying more pressure. "Desired? Uninhibited?"

She keens into his hand, biting back a moan.

"Answer me," he commands hotly, grinding his hips into her from behind with more urgency. She can feel the hard press of his length and it's all she can do to stay lucid, her body thrumming with need.

"No," she confesses in shame. "I don't need those things."

He retracts his wet fingers, propping her up on her knees. He runs both his hands down her back and ass ever so softly before tugging down her underwear, gliding the head of his cock up and down between her exposed pussy lips.

"Is that so?" he purrs, poised behind her like a panther about to lunge. Deadly. Glorious.

She meets the inky depths of his eyes in the mirror of her vanity, thighs clenching in anticipation.

"Then why do you want me?" he counters in a husk. Fastening his hands around her hips, he drives into her roughly, effectively ending her train of thought and making her groan in toe-curling ecstasy.

Panting, he grasps her by the neck and pins her onto the duvet, ass up. Her cheek pressed to the bed, hands fisting around the sheets, she clings for dear life as he sets a grueling pace.

It's all so intuitive. So effortless. So right.

She cries out his name in the darkness as he fills her up, fucking her the way she deserves.

Bulma gasps, sitting up in her bed.

Alone. Again.

Her sheets cling to her legs uncomfortably, the humid July air suffocating and hot. Sleeping naked has not mitigated the effect of the sweltering heat.

More troubling is the undeniable slickness between her thighs and the dreams that caused it. She glances at her nightstand, cursing when she notices it's two in the morning. Her phone flashes, revealing a text from Yamcha.

sorry I couldn't make it tonight.

She eyes the shimmery red gown she slipped out of after the gala, splayed out over her office chair, tamping down the ire it evoked.

With a shaky breath, she comes to stand in front of her mirror, illuminated solely by the moonlight filtering through her window.

Her form is cast in shadows, barely recognizable even to herself. Eyes darkened. Pink lips parted wantonly. Cheeks ruddy. Her loose curls spring in every direction.

How could a dream feel so real?

Did she want it to be?

Her hand roves from her damp neck, down to her chest. She circles an areola, her palm descending to her belly, and finally settling between her clammy thighs. Guided by memories both real and imaginary of his daring voice, her fingers brush over the neatly trimmed thatch of hair there, cupping her wet slit and pulsing clitoris with a moan.

What would he look like—sound like—when he was inside her?

Would he be brash the way he was with everything else, having his way with her with an impertinent, knowing smirk? Bashful and overcome? Or would he be a passionate lover—insatiable and unbearably hot?

The thought alone is enough to spur her on and she's suddenly slipping two fingers inside her pounding cunt, fingering herself ravenously, bucking wildly into her hand.

She doesn't dwell on her desire or what it says about her as a person—doesn't question it like she does when the sun rises. Daytime Bulma is content with just banter and talking shop. At least, that's the safe explanation.

In truth, she's being reckless with her heart. Their time together has an expiration date, their days numbered. Yet, like a masochist she keeps feeding her addiction, sharing reheated meals, nursing his wounds and finding clever new ways to bring out the dimples in his cheeks.

The analytical side of her brain knows their unlikely bond can never be consummated for many reasons. One of them being that he is too guarded—too hurt, vengeful, and lost to even entertain such a thing. And she is too set on the future, numbing herself to her own feelings and throwing herself into work so she doesn't have to think about what's at stake if they fail.

She can ignore the fact that her friends have essentially abandoned her again.

She won't have to dwell on the possibility of the death of her loved ones.

"What do you see in that freak anyways?" Yamcha asked her once.

"I just think he needs a friend. He's all alone."

Like her.

The future is decay and chaos. Adrenaline, caffeine, and endorphins are her only fuel to push her through.

But none of that matters right now. Not when she's riding her hand, manifesting the most impractical of things.

At night, when her lust is bountiful and unwavering like the ocean, her oppressive thoughts are soothed by her imagination and the effortless writhing of bodies. She can skirt the intimacy she's always craved and feared, foregoing the more complicated aspects of life in favor of simplicity and pleasure. In the dark, she unveils the truth that lurks beneath.

What would he do if he found her like this? Sweaty and sticky with the evidence of her shame? Doubled over her vanity finger fucking herself merely twenty feet away from his room? All he has to do is open the door she hasn't bothered to lock and she would be unmasked for the fraud she was.

But he already knows that, doesn't he?

He's only touched her once of his own volition, when by pure coincidence, she stumbled into him tonight in the poorly lit hallway while wearing her little red number. He caught her, grasping her arms instinctually. Eyes the deepest shade of ebony gave her a cursory glance.

His lips, far too supple for someone capable of ultra violence, parted as if about to speak—before he thought better of it. His jaw snapped shut and he released her like she had burned him.

"You should stay out of the dark," he breathed in that gravelly voice, still impossibly close. Then he stepped aside, walking past her as if she were the dangerous one.

She likes the dark—likes him.

She clamps a hand over her mouth, coming hard at the thought, her body limp with satisfied exhaustion.