Sleep With Me 1

I want this man more than anything. More than air. More than life.

And what makes it all the more phenomenal?

He wants me just the same.

Me. Amy Sullivan. The eighteen year old plain Jane nobody from a broken home in the middle of nowhere Ohio.

He has the face of a movie star, the sculpted body of an athlete, and the charm of a fairytale prince.

Me? I'm the girl who threw up all over the basketball court in gym class junior year. The girl who humiliated herself by falling flat on her face in the middle of graduation. The girl with the secondhand wardrobe and nonexistent mother.

But

he

wants

me

. More than anything. More than anyone. Or, so he says.

He says he wants to spend forever with me. To show me off to all of his family and friends as if I were a priceless treasure, the greatest prize in the history of time. He considers himself the luckiest man in the world for capturing the heart of the most beautiful creature he's ever laid his sapphire eyes upon. He wants everyone to know that he belongs to me. Only to me. Forever.

Of course, that's precisely how I feel about him.

I'm

the lucky one. I'm the one that doesn't deserve him, that could never in a billion years compare to him. But he doesn't agree. He claims that I chose him, when in fact, it was the other way around. Silly, sexy man.

We can never argue about this though. Whenever the subject arises, it always ends quickly, with his lips silencing mine.

He is my world. My life. My everything.

And he is so very faithful. He greets me every single night, waiting for me with open arms, warm lips and that sexy as hell smile of his.

I never have nightmares. At least, not during the night. Not when I'm with him.

My nightmares begin the second my alarm clock goes off, and I'm ripped out of his strong, protective, loving embrace and forced to spend the day in reality. Away from his scent. From his body. From him.

Maybe I'm delusional. Correction; I

am

delusional. Certifiably crazy even. But how else can I possibly explain that for the last twelve months I've spent the night with the exact same man? Held in his arms. Responding to his touch. Feeling the warmth of his body pressed against mine. Pressed into mine.

I remember with utmost clarity the morning after our first night together. The morning I awoke from the most amazing dream I'd ever had in my entire existence. The waves of ecstasy that consumed me as I felt the tremors of my very first orgasm rock my body in a state somewhere in the middle of sleep and awake.

I remember walking around on cloud nine that day with the most idiotic grin plastered on my face as I brought my dad lunch at the police station. My father actually had the audacity to give me a Breathalyzer test that day. Yes, I had been drunk in a way. High on the memory of him and the pleasure he'd given me right before my alarm clock had buzzed.

Twelve months with him. With perfection.

But I don't understand it at all. It's beyond my human comprehension. Maybe it's just a horrible joke that fate has decided to play on me. As if I wasn't enough of a lonely freak already.

How can it seem so real? How can

he

seem so real? The dreams I have with him are like no other. They are so very vivid. So real.

That first morning was positively euphoric. But after twelve months, mornings have become my own personal hell. I might as well be dead between the hours of six am and whatever hour I'm finally able to fall asleep–usually around ten, nine if I indulge in gratuitous cold medicine use. I'm only truly alive at night. When I'm with him. When we're together.

We spend our nights sharing stories about our respective childhoods or goings on at school. He listens to me ramble on about how my mom left us when I was only three. About the moronic boys at school who had the insane assumption I'd actually go to prom with them. I don't dance, and even if I did, it would only be with him.

Tom doesn't like those stories, by the way. He's so cute and possessive that way. He tells me anecdotes about his shopaholic sister and geeky brother. Of his adoring parents. Of his plans to become a doctor someday.

We were each other's first kiss. First girlfriend/boyfriend. First everything.

We know practically everything there is to know about one another. We tell each other secrets we've never told another soul. We laugh. We talk. We make love as if we'll never see each other again. Because, though I'll never admit it to him, I'm often so afraid I won't see him again. We have no guarantee how long our dreams together will continue.

These dreams defy understanding. I've had normal dreams throughout my life. Dreams that I had no control over. Dreams where I couldn't remember my locker combination. Dreams where I was late to class. Dreams where I was lost. Dreams that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Dreams where I was just a voyeur, watching as if it were a movie playing out before me.

But these dreams... These dreams are so much

more.

I'm not a spectator here. I'm an active participant. And he is always there.

The scenery might change depending on the night. One night we'll be at my place. I'll cook him fettuccine alfredo, and he'll say it's the best he's ever tasted. He's sweet like that. Another night he'll spend hours strumming on his guitar and singing his latest song that was inspired by me. More often than not, we'll spend our time in the throes of passion in his queen size bed, surrounded by striped cotton sheets. We are still teenagers after all.

Yes, the scenery might change, but the man never does. My Tom is always there. Always waiting for me.

Crazy, yes?

Is it truly possible to have dreams such as mine? To dream about the exact same man every single night for twelve months straight? In normal dreams, the people in there don't have backgrounds. They don't have families. They don't have jokes to tell, stories to share. They don't have goals and aspirations. And they most certainly don't know how to give mind blowing orgasms over and over and over again.

So, how is it possible for my Tom to even exist? He shouldn't exist; I know that.

But I can't admit it. I can't ever admit that. I cannot possibly admit that he doesn't exist. He has to be real. He just has to.

Because I'm in love with him.

I'm in love with Tom Mason. I'm in love with him so much that it hurts. I've been in love with him since that very first night. And he loves me back.

And if he's not real... if my dreams with him were to ever cease to exist... then so would I. I can't live without him, as insane as that sounds.

He's all I think about. He's the only one that truly matters to me.

And I'm terrified.

Terrified because we're both finally heading off to college at UCLA. The only reason I ever applied there was because he told me in a dream months ago that it was his number one choice.

I'm terrified because I'm now on a plane bound for a destination over twenty-five hundred miles away. Terrified because last night might have possibly been our last night together. I'll be in a new bed. A new city. A new state. What if he's not there waiting for me when I go to sleep tonight?

I'm terrified I've lost him, and I know I never truly had him to begin with.

I'm also terrified because he might actually be there. In the flesh. That shouldn't frighten me, but it does. It scares the living daylights out of me.

He's tried to get me to tell him my address and phone number on so many occasions, to see if we can actually contact each other outside of our dreams. To find out that, hopefully, we're not stuck in some freaked out

Lake House

time warp, separated by a chasm of years or alternate dimensions.

But I've never been able to bring myself to reveal that kind of information to him.

I know what he looks like. I know all about his perfect family. I know how perfect he is.

And I know who I am. I am Amy Sullivan. The boring, dirt-poor, average looking girl with no life outside of her abnormal sleep realm.

This is probably the only thing we ever truly fight about. He calls me ridiculous. I cry. He wipes my tears away and tells me that I'm beautiful. The only good thing about these fights is the makeup sex, and let me tell you... it is spectacular.

I practically tie my stomach into knots during my entire flight to California, as I deplane, arrive on campus and find my dorm room.

He doesn't know I'm here. I didn't tell him I'd be going to UCLA, too, that I got a scholarship. I didn't want him to try and find me.

I have his address, of course. He made me memorize it a few nights ago before I woke up. He practically begged me to visit, to call, or at the very least write. Just to see. To see if the other really does exist.

It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry. I almost caved and told him, but I just couldn't. I guess I'm not just crazy; I'm stupid.

My heart feels like it's going to pound right out of my chest as I'm in the taxi, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, driving away from the campus.

Dear God, what am I doing?

This is probably the biggest mistake I'll ever make. I almost tell the driver to turn around. I debate the entire way there, but all I can see is the sadness in Tom's eyes when I told him we could never meet. It's been eating away at me for days. I keep my mouth shut and let the cab continue its journey.

My heart actually stops beating for five seconds when I spot a shiny, blue Mustang in the driveway. It's his. We've spent several dream nights in that very same car. The backseat is, surprisingly, bigger than it looks.

I have the driver drop me off at the end of the street and watch as my escape vehicle speeds away.

I have second thoughts. Again.

I pace the sidewalk for at least a good half hour, maybe longer. I flip my cell phone open and dial the cab company every five minutes so they can come back and rescue me, before slamming it shut and shoving it back into my pocket as soon as they say hello. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I pull out my phone for the last time and start to cry.

I can't do this.

I never should have come.

He may be inside the house. Really in there. And he may not be. Regardless, he won't want me. I'm nobody.

It would be one thing to go to sleep and not have him there for the first time in twelve months. But it would be another thing entirely to be awake, know he's there, and know that he doesn't want me.

I can't bear this thought. My eyes are practically drowning in my tears.

Why would he ever want someone like me outside of his dreams?

I hear a noise and look up.

I can't breathe.

I see blond first. Dirty blond hair that's always messy, always seems to have a mind of its own. It's hanging down slightly in front of a pair of the most beautiful, piercing blue eyes there ever was. Eyes that have haunted me for the past twelve months. They're wide and staring right at me.

Is the expression in them horrified?

Disappointed?

Terrified?

Disgusted?

His eyes are wet now like mine. He starts to say something, but is overcome by sobs.

I can't take this anymore. My knees are so weak. They tremble, and I brace myself, knowing I'm about to crumble to the ground. My worst nightmare. Rejected in front of my one true love, and then humiliated moments later as I lay sprawled across the pavement.

But I never hit the ground.

Instead, I find myself wrapped securely in his arms. He clutches me to himself so tight it almost hurts. But it doesn't.

And he's crying. Crying harder than the other night. Almost harder than me right now. Almost.

He's mumbling, murmuring. I can't understand what he's saying, but he's saying it over and over and over again.

And then I hear it, and my heart swells. And though I didn't think it was possible, I cry even harder.

He's saying my name. And he's telling me he loves me. And I want to die right there because I know that life can't possibly get any better than this.

I say his name and tell him just how much I love him between my horribly loud sobs. And I can only hope he hears me and understands what I'm saying.

He must, because as soon as I finish telling him, he crushes his lips to mine and sweeps me up in his arms bridal style and heads back inside his house. His lips never leave mine as he practically sprints up the stairs to his bedroom and kicks the door shut with his foot. Thank God he's a lot more coordinated and graceful than I am, otherwise we would've face planted right into the carpet.

He sets me down on his bed, whispering his love for me between kisses. I break free from his lips, much to his chagrin, and glance around. The room is different, of course, than his bedroom back in New York. But the same massive DVD collection lines the walls. And the bed is the same. Queen size with striped cotton sheets.

It feels like a dream, but I know it's not. This is real.

He looks at me apprehensively, and I wonder if he's changed his mind about me. The fears and doubts start to race back in. Why would he want me?

He reaches out a hand to stroke my cheek. It slides down to my chin, and he forces me to look up at him as he tells me that I'm even more beautiful than his dreams.

No matter my insecurities, I can't deny the love I see in his eyes. I can't help but smile... and blush, of course.

Then his lips pull back into that sexy crooked grin of his, and I come undone.

I practically launch myself at him, pressing my lips firmly against his. He cups my face with his hands, then sweeps his tongue across my lips. I part them immediately, and he plunges his tongue inside my mouth. Our tongues slide against each other, and he lets me swirl mine inside his mouth. He tastes better than I could've ever imagined possible.

My hands twist in his hair. It's so soft; my dreams never did it justice. His hands slide down my face to my neck, down my arms, my sides.

He lowers me down on the bed and hovers over me before settling himself between my legs. The weight of his body pressing up against mine sends a shockwave somewhere deep inside.

I move my hands to his waist and slide them beneath the hem of his shirt. He pulls away from my mouth long enough to help me slide his t-shirt over his head. His smooth chest, the lines of sculpted abs... exactly as I'd remembered them. No. They're even better.

His lips move to my neck, his hands now at the hem of my shirt. He pulls away slightly to remove it before tossing it somewhere on the floor. I don't care where it went. I'll gladly go naked for the rest of my life as long as I'm with him.

He's real. He's here. He's really here. And I start to cry all over again because I can't believe that he's here. And he's real. And we're both awake. And he wants me.

He kisses my tears away and whispers again how much he loves me. How he's waited for me for so long. How he's going to love me forever. He kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, my nose, my lips. Our mouths move together for a few moments as we kick off our shoes, hearing them drop to the floor with a thud.

I tilt my head to the side as his lips abandon mine to run a trail of feather light kisses across my jaw and down my neck before his blond-topped head slowly dips lower. Despite the chill in the air, my body feels like it's about to erupt into flames as his tongue reaches out to caress the swell of my breast. I can feel tingles all the way from the top of my head all the way down to the very soles of my feet.

He doesn't even hesitate as he reaches around to my back and unclasps my bra. He pulls back long enough to take his first glimpse of me in the flesh. His lopsided smile reappears, and I moan softly as he takes one of my breasts into his mouth.

He groans against my skin as his hand kneads the other, rolling the sensitive flesh of my nipple between his fingers. He switches positions, filling his mouth with the other one, flicking the nipple with his tongue as I arch my back, pressing myself into him.

I reach my hands up to his waist and pull him down against me, grinding his hips into mine. We both moan at the pressure, the pleasure.

I can feel his arousal pressing against me, and it's almost more than I can take. He must feel the same urgency because his hands are suddenly clawing at the front of my jeans, and he's yanking them off my body as if they were on fire. Of course, the fire's not in the jeans; it's inside of me.

He slides off my undies and pauses, letting his eyes rake over my bare form. I suck my lower lip in between my teeth, and he groans and tells me again that I'm beautiful. And I know that I am to him. And that's all that matters.

I sit up and rip at his jeans, getting frustrated because I can't seem to get the button undone. I let out an exasperated sigh, and he chuckles softly, then kicks off his jeans and boxers and starts to descend back over me. But I push him away with my hands on his chest.

He looks into my eyes, confused. I stare at him fearfully, glancing between his eyes and his manhood. In our dreams, I had no worries about his size. But now, in the flesh–in the actual, rock hard, larger than life flesh–will he fit? I chew on my lip, and he flashes me my favorite smile before leaning down and sucking my lip out of my teeth and into his mouth.

He settles his hips between my thighs, and I can feel his length pressing against my skin. And I want him inside of me, but the tease starts to slide lower, letting his mouth trail a path from my lips down my neck, my chest, my belly button, my hips. He presses a kiss firmly against my center, and I gasp in surprise.

I feel his mouth smile against my skin before he plunges his tongue wickedly inside. I moan at the sensation and thread my fingers into his hair. He groans and mumbles something about how good I taste, but I can't really understand him because the coil deep inside me is getting wound tighter and tighter with every single flick of his expert tongue.

I writhe beneath him, and his hands grip my hips to try and keep me still. But then he slides one down and starts rubbing my bundle of nerves between his fingers. It's more than I can take, and I cry out, floating high.

Before I know it, he's back up, hovering over me, pressing his mouth against mine, our tongues dancing together. I can feel his tip against my center, and he's ready. He's more than ready. He's eighteen years of ready. But there's fear in his eyes. Though we've done this countless times before, physically I'm still in one piece. He doesn't want to hurt me.

We're both trembling as he presses his cheek against mine and thrusts his hips gently, breaking through my barrier. I whimper and bury my face in his chest. He whispers that he's sorry. He's so sorry. But that he loves me. More than anything. And soon the pain is gone.

We stare into each other's eyes as we begin to move slowly together. The feeling inside is nothing compared to my dreams. It's phenomenal. It's beyond words.

Our movements start to become stronger. Quicker. Harder. His gaze never leaves mine. We whisper our love for one another in between ragged breaths. My legs wrap around his waist, and my hips rise to meet every thrust of his. I throw my head back. This sensation is like no other. It's better than all of our dreams combined. It's the best feeling in the world.

I shut my eyes tight, unable to keep them open any longer as the pleasure reaches new heights. I moan loudly and cry out his name as I fall over the edge. And it's the best orgasm I've ever had because it's really him in me this time. In the flesh. It's not a dream.

I whimper as he thrusts one, two, three more times before climaxing, my name falling from his lips in a passionate chant.

He collapses on top of me, completely spent. The weight isn't crushing, but comforting. I relish in it because it's just another reminder that this is real.