The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE; part two

     As I expected, the night's sleep is a total bust. Some of the most unsleep-like sleep of my life. A kind of sleep where I spend more time trying to find a comfortable position, one without a foot or an elbow lodged in my stomach or spine, than I do in an actual REM state. And if I do find myself comfortable, with my head flat against the mattress because the toddlers have commandeered all the pillows, then I'm being shaken awake by a sleepy Sofia asking me to take her to the bathroom.

     The only bright side is that the kids get up at the crack of dawn and slide out of bed, stalking out of the room to bother their parents. Once they leave, I take that small window before everyone else wakes to catch up on as much sleep as I can. Which isn't much.

     I'm in some sort of hazy state, not a full sleep, but the closest I'm going to get to it. I can fully hear everyone outside my bedroom, can even smell breakfast cooking, but I choose to ignore it, forcing my eyes to remain closed and my mind to stay put in my dream.

     I like this kind of sleep, where I'm just conscious enough to control what's happening. Naturally, I'm with Dres. We're at some lake my mind has imagined. There's a fire crackling at our feet and I'm leaning against him and this mossy log. I'm warm all over, heat radiating down my back from the fire and from Dres, too.

     He leans down some and noses at my jaw, lingering long enough to leave a soft kiss below my earlobe. I make a quiet humming noise, tipping my head so he'll continue. He smiles and kisses me again, leaves a splay of them along my jawline and neck. My mouth parts around a soft sound, and I grapple for him, trying to turn my body towards his, but his shoulder is planted against mine, keeping me in place.

     Okay, seriously, my dream, my rules.

     I try again, but my body remains planted like I'm glued in place.

     I give up, going slack against him. Dream me is a decidedly way more compliant me. Anyway, I'm not going to complain about Dres kissing me, in dreams or reality. I let him trail his tongue down the line of my neck till he stops at the top of my shirt. Okay, seriously, why am I wearing a shirt? Is dream me trying to protect my virtue? Dres laughs like he hears my complaint and agrees with it, the sound vibrating through my jugular.

      I want to reach out towards him but my arms are lead. He turns my chin towards him, kisses me soft and careful on the lips like I'm sleeping beauty and he's trying to wake me. I've definitely lost all control of this dream to my subconscious, who clearly wants to keep this shit PG. Dres brushes his lips against my cheek, moving to my ear.

     He whispers, strangely close and distinct for a dream, "This is lasting a lot longer than I thought it would." When he bites down on my neck, on that weird line of muscle below my ear, I am nearly certain that I am actually being bitten, outside of my dream, in reality.

     I gasp, a breath that starts in my sleep and ends with me awake and springing in some lateral direction, trying to distance myself from what I think may be a rabid animal or kinky murderer.

     I am something horrified when I orient myself and find Dres beside me, grinning rather victoriously.

     I sputter, "But that — I thought — I thought I was dreaming. I was dreaming. Am I still dreaming?" I raise my hand to my neck. It's slick with Dres's spit. So. Not a dream. Honestly, my subconscious would never put Dres in my bed with his clothes still on. Unless my subconscious is a masochist (probably it is.)

     Dres says, still grinning, "You were dreaming about me?" I flop back in my bed, turn my head into my pillow, and groan. Dres looms above me. "You know you're much more responsive in your sleep." He raises an eyebrow like this is actually a question and not an observation.