She dreams.
It's a strange sensation, dreaming, to see yourself in your mind's eye, but to still feel a semblance of what is happening, even in a diluted way. That's what this is; it's as if even her subconscious can't allow her just a few moments of unfettered happiness, false though they may be.
She feels the scratch of his stubble against her skin. The pricking tickle as it brushes across her lips, trading lazily back and forth with her own as if they have all the time in the world. She soaks it in. Memorizes every pinpoint of contact, every ridge and contour of his face, every press and give of his lips against hers, the taste of him on her tongue, warm and heady and slick. The beat of his pulse below her fingers, the softness of the hair at the base of his neck, the way his groan rumbles and vibrates through his mouth and into her own, buzzing and tingly and hers.
She savors it, slows the kiss, languid and passionate, eking out every tantalizing second because she knows soon she will wake. Soon her eyes will open and she will no longer see them together; this moment, even in its diluted form, will be over and she will never have it again. This intimacy, this contact, is something that no longer belongs to her. She no longer has the right to it, but in her dreams he is still hers and she is his.
She breathes deeply, pulls in the air around her that is mingled with his own, turning her head to change the angle of the kiss, to deepen it and press herself as close to him as she can, and she prays that she won't be forced to wake anytime soon.