Vacation Interlude: Ian Dreaming
This is Rated R for sexual situations, so if you are going to be offended by the content, save us all the trouble of your ire by just skipping this one. Especially if you are under 18 and/or not mature enough to be reading this stuff. This is an interlude to the story A Much-Needed Vacation, after Chapter 6, but also stands very much on it's own. Point of view is from Ian.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Always and forever, I dream of you.
Darkness is softened by starshine, and the gentle night breezes stir the light curtains on the windows. You sleep. The soft buzz of the night insects provides counterpoint to your breathing. Your dark hair spreads across the linen pillowcase, one arm flung up over your head. I stand watching, always watching, waiting for the moment when your eyes will open and gaze into mine with the full knowledge of who and what I am to you, down through the ages, lifetime after lifetime.
I dream.
Your eyes open, dark in the darkness, but filled with a fire all their own. I am trapped, helpless in that gaze, afraid to move forward, unable to move away. You look at me as a woman looks at a man, and I dare to hope. so many things. You rise to a sitting position, leaning on one arm. The thin white satin strap of your nightgown slides off your shoulder and part way down your arm, tantalizing in what it almost reveals. My breath catches in my throat as you raise one graceful hand out to me.
I dream.
My own hand, rough and scarred, rises of its own will, or perhaps your will, to rest lightly in your grasp. You draw me to you, close enough that I can feel the heat of your body, the stirring of your breath against my skin. I can hear my heartbeat grow loud and fast in my ears, but still I can hear you breathe. My skin feels hot and icy all at once, and I shiver as you reach up to trace the line of my jaw with your finger. You grant me a rare and beautiful smile as you hear the sound I make deep in my throat.
I dream.
Shifting sinuously on the bed, you make room beside you and draw me down to sit, thigh to thigh, flesh to flesh. My body seems not to be my own, drawn tighter than a bowstring and responding on its own to your will, your gestures, your desires. It becomes a conscious effort to remember to breathe as you lightly drag your fingernails across my bare chest. Your eyes still hold mine, watching my every emotion pass through the windows to my soul, enjoying the feelings you evoke in me.
I dream.
Gently but insistently, you push me back until I lie flat on the sheets. Leaning half over me, you trace the lines of my body from the top of my head slowly, maddeningly, down to the waistband of my sleeping pants. Again and again you explore the texture of my skin, tracing the lines of my numerous scars, up and down my arms, my chest, my sides, my neck, my face, until I am quivering with the effort to remain still for your exploration.
I dream.
You flash me a wicked and sensuous grin and slide your hand beneath the waistband of my pants, to discover that those pants are all I wear to bed, or perhaps you already knew. I cry out as the heat of your hand envelopes my shaft. You squeeze firmly, then run your nails up and down it's length. I cannot control my body as I thrash about, the passion you ignite in me too much for my mortal flesh to contain. I roll and find myself falling, forever falling into the heat and passion of your touch.
I wake.
Panting, aching, and out of breath. I just wish I would quit falling out of bed when I dream of you.
This is Rated R for sexual situations, so if you are going to be offended by the content, save us all the trouble of your ire by just skipping this one. Especially if you are under 18 and/or not mature enough to be reading this stuff. This is an interlude to the story A Much-Needed Vacation, after Chapter 6, but also stands very much on it's own. Point of view is from Ian.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Always and forever, I dream of you.
Darkness is softened by starshine, and the gentle night breezes stir the light curtains on the windows. You sleep. The soft buzz of the night insects provides counterpoint to your breathing. Your dark hair spreads across the linen pillowcase, one arm flung up over your head. I stand watching, always watching, waiting for the moment when your eyes will open and gaze into mine with the full knowledge of who and what I am to you, down through the ages, lifetime after lifetime.
I dream.
Your eyes open, dark in the darkness, but filled with a fire all their own. I am trapped, helpless in that gaze, afraid to move forward, unable to move away. You look at me as a woman looks at a man, and I dare to hope. so many things. You rise to a sitting position, leaning on one arm. The thin white satin strap of your nightgown slides off your shoulder and part way down your arm, tantalizing in what it almost reveals. My breath catches in my throat as you raise one graceful hand out to me.
I dream.
My own hand, rough and scarred, rises of its own will, or perhaps your will, to rest lightly in your grasp. You draw me to you, close enough that I can feel the heat of your body, the stirring of your breath against my skin. I can hear my heartbeat grow loud and fast in my ears, but still I can hear you breathe. My skin feels hot and icy all at once, and I shiver as you reach up to trace the line of my jaw with your finger. You grant me a rare and beautiful smile as you hear the sound I make deep in my throat.
I dream.
Shifting sinuously on the bed, you make room beside you and draw me down to sit, thigh to thigh, flesh to flesh. My body seems not to be my own, drawn tighter than a bowstring and responding on its own to your will, your gestures, your desires. It becomes a conscious effort to remember to breathe as you lightly drag your fingernails across my bare chest. Your eyes still hold mine, watching my every emotion pass through the windows to my soul, enjoying the feelings you evoke in me.
I dream.
Gently but insistently, you push me back until I lie flat on the sheets. Leaning half over me, you trace the lines of my body from the top of my head slowly, maddeningly, down to the waistband of my sleeping pants. Again and again you explore the texture of my skin, tracing the lines of my numerous scars, up and down my arms, my chest, my sides, my neck, my face, until I am quivering with the effort to remain still for your exploration.
I dream.
You flash me a wicked and sensuous grin and slide your hand beneath the waistband of my pants, to discover that those pants are all I wear to bed, or perhaps you already knew. I cry out as the heat of your hand envelopes my shaft. You squeeze firmly, then run your nails up and down it's length. I cannot control my body as I thrash about, the passion you ignite in me too much for my mortal flesh to contain. I roll and find myself falling, forever falling into the heat and passion of your touch.
I wake.
Panting, aching, and out of breath. I just wish I would quit falling out of bed when I dream of you.
