I wake with a start, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair with a shaky sigh. My body feels sticky with sweat as I climb out of my bed, and that familiar ache lingers between my legs—the unmistakable aftermath of the dream that still has my heart racing.
I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror across my bedroom—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and a vulnerability I hate seeing in myself.
I had hoped sleep would be my sanctuary from thoughts of Vincent. Instead, it betrayed me completely. My dreams were filled with him—vivid, haunting, impossible to shake. His strong hands on my waist, his breath against my neck, his voice in my ear. Even now, my body hums with phantom sensations like he was really here, like his fingers actually traced paths across my skin, like he bra
