Alan’s name blinked on my screen.
Hi darling.
Miss me?
My lips curved before my brain could interfere.
Yes dzaddy, missed me? I sent it without overthinking, the little typing bubble in my head already imagining the smirk that would spread across his face.
He didn’t reply.
Good. Let him wonder.
I drained the last of my wine, slipped into bed, and let the sheets swallow me whole. The night was warm, still ,the kind that clung to your skin. My mind wandered without permission, replaying the angle of his shoulders, the slow, deliberate way his hips moved. But in my mind, it wasn’t Tasha in front of him. It was me.
The dream came quickly.
I was in my room, satin robe sliding off my shoulders, my hand between my thighs. The curtains were open , moonlight spilling over my body. And he was there, leaning against the balcony rail outside, watching. Not touching. Just watching.
His eyes burned hotter than the air, following every glide of my fingers, every arch of my back. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, the clench of his jaw when my breathing picked up.
“Go on,” he murmured in the dream, voice low and commanding. “Let me see you.”
And I did. God, I did. My legs spread wider, my hips rolling into my own hand, chasing the friction until my whole body shuddered apart. His mouth curved into that infuriating, knowing smirk as I came.
I moaned. Louder than I meant to.
“Lord, that must be a steamy ass dream. Look at you, moaning.”
My eyes flew open. Morning light poured into the room, harsh and uninvited. Tasha stood at the window, pulling the curtains wide, eyebrows arched in smug amusement.
The dream clung to me like sweat. My cheeks burned, my thighs pressed together under the sheets.
“Coffee?” she asked, like she hadn’t just ripped me from the most sinful moment of my subconscious.
I nodded mutely, forcing a small laugh. I was on leave for the next two weeks , a much-needed break , and had sworn to spend this time recharging, resting, and catching up with myself. But today, apparently, would start with Tasha’s smug grin seared into my memory.
By midday, we were out for lunch at my favorite restaurant, a quiet little spot with high glass windows, leafy plants, and the kind of pasta that could make you forget your own name. We slid into our usual booth by the window, sunlight pooling across the table.
I was halfway through asking her about her move from South Africa when movement at the bar caught my eye.
Alan.
He was leaning casually against the counter, one hand resting on a tumbler of amber liquid, the other scrolling lazily through his phone. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, forearms flexing with every small movement, and there was an ease to the way he stood , like he owned the space, like the air itself bent around him.
My stomach tightened.
He hadn’t seen me yet, but my body reacted as if he’d already walked over. The heat from my dream came rushing back, thick and unapologetic, curling low in my belly. I forced myself to look away, pretending to read the menu, but the awareness of him pressed against my skin like a palm at my back.
“Earth to you,” Tasha teased, sipping her wine. “What’s got you so distracted?”
“Nothing,” I lied, eyes flicking back to the bar. This time, he was looking.
Straight at me.
The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and deliberate, and I swear my pulse skipped. He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Just kept looking ,that same look from last night. The one that said I know exactly what you were dreaming about.