Wet Dream
721 Words
I didn’t mean to fall asleep.
Honestly, I didn’t even remember crawling into bed. One second I was yanking off my boots with trembling hands, the next, I was under the covers, half-swallowed by the scent of cedarwood, sweat, and something dangerously familiar.
Devon’s scent. On my sheets.
I should’ve changed them. Should’ve washed everything twice over. But exhaustion made me stupid—and it didn’t help that his smug face had been haunting my every waking hour since this morning.
“Sit. We need to talk about that heat of yours.”
Bastard.
I closed my eyes.
Big mistake.
Because…
In the dream, everything was too warm.
The air. My skin. His breath.
I was backed against a wall, my legs tangled with Devon’s, his hand pressed flat against the door beside my head. He loomed—taller, broader, sweat-slick and golden, lips parted like he was mid-snarl or mid-seduction. I couldn’t tell which.
His body caged me in. His knee pushed between my thighs.
My breathing hitched.
“I told you not to look at me like that,” he growled, voice deep, raw—real. “Unless you’re ready to take responsibility for my hard-on.”
I tried to speak, but my voice broke. He noticed.
He always noticed.
“You twitch every time I step close,” he said, dragging his nose along my jaw. “You breathe faster when I speak. Your legs shift like you’re trying not to rub against me. You think I don’t see that?”
I gasped when he touched my waist—just the tip of his finger tracing the hem of my shirt.
“Your body reacts before your mouth lies,” he murmured.
“Back off,” I managed.
He smirked. A wolf’s smirk. Sin incarnate.
“Make me.”
And then he kissed me.
Not soft. Not slow.
He took—biting, claiming, tasting. His lips crushed mine, his hand fisting the front of my shirt as if he’d been waiting for permission that never came.
My knees gave out.
He caught me.
Lifted me.
Pushed me onto the bed—his bed.
Pinned my wrists above my head.
He straddled me, breathing harsh, eyes dark.
“I know you’re not a boy,” he whispered, voice shaking with restraint. “And I don’t give a damn.”
I couldn’t respond.
My body betrayed me—arching, aching, silently begging.
“You smell like mine,” he growled. “You feel like mine.”
His mouth dragged down my throat, over my collarbone, stopping at the edge of the binder.
“Take it off,” he whispered.
I shook my head.
He kissed the space above my heart.
“Then I will.”
But then…
I woke up choking on my own breath.
Sweat drenched my body. My legs were tangled in the sheets. My core pulsed like I’d just run for my life—or begged for someone else’s.
I covered my face with both hands.
“Holy s**t…”
It was just a dream.
Just a dream.
But everything had felt too real—too detailed—like he’d been there.
Had he?
I sat up slowly, eyes flicking to the other side of the dorm.
Empty.
His bed untouched.
Where the hell was he?
I dragged myself to the bathroom. Washed my face three times. Looked in the mirror.
My cheeks were flushed.
My lips were swollen.
My scent—moon above, my scent was changing.
No.
No. No. No.
I grabbed the vial of herbs from my drawer and rubbed the oil on my neck, wrists, inner elbows. The burn made me gag. It was working.
Block it. Block him. Block this.
When I stepped back into the room, the window was open.
Breeze rolling in. Devon’s bed… wasn’t empty anymore.
He lay there shirtless, forearm over his face, chest rising and falling slowly. Like he’d just come back from a run. Or… something else.
His lips curled without looking at me.
“Nice dream?”
I froze.
He turned his head lazily toward me, eyes slitted but shining.
“You moaned,” he added. “My name.”
“I didn’t,” I snapped.
He smirked.
“Then why,” he said slowly, “did I wake up hard… and smelling you?”
- Writer
