Harpers writing room was hot and sticky today, not much of a surprise considering it was the bonus attic room at the top of her newly acquired Charleston apartment and it was the height of August. Her realtor had gushed over the "Charleston Single House" style of the building, but had neglected to mention that also meant that the apartment would be oppressively stuffy when the weather turned hot, which had happened about a month after Harper moved in.
Thankfully the rest of the apartment was blessed with large windows overlooking what the same enthusiastic realtor had called her "piazza" and "shared courtyard", but were known as "porch" and "driveway" up north where Harper had moved from. Supposedly the house was also full of stories of past glory, another thing the realtor had gushed about. In a show of southern hospitality and pride, the man had gifted Harper with a book all about her new neighborhood's history at her lease signing. After briefly leafing through it, she had set it on one of the growing book piles in the writing room, promptly forgetting about its existence. Harper's solution to the heat was sitting out on the porch (she couldn't bring herself to use "piazza", it just sounded silly since she clearly was not in Italy) and have a nice drink while listening to her new city quiet down for the night.
I could write anywhere else in the house,
Harper thought to herself, gathering up her chestnut brown hair from her in one hand, but she didn't move to leave.
She still couldn't pinpoint why she still insisted on writing in the attic room, being brutally hot no matter what combination of doors and windows and fans Harper tried. No one had let her in on the secret of centralized air being a state of survival in the south, but that was what she got for moving on impulse with only cursory research.
The humidity had given her hair a slight curl that she wasn't used to containing, resulting in a few of the shorter strands around her face escaping the high bun she forced the bulk of her hair into. She stood and surveyed her domain with her stormy grey eyes, pursing her full lips slightly. She had pushed the battered loveseat (left by a past tenant) into the corner and draped it with a garish purple sheet. When she bought it the cashier had given her a wink before saying "Go Tigers!", some code that had been lost on Harper. The piles of books surrounded it, piles that would randomly topple over in the middle of the night no matter how carefully she stacked them. A cheap folding table currently served as her desk; a printer, laptop, desk lamp, and paper piles of notes (which thankfully never fell over) crowding it's surface. She had "splurged" on a comfy secondhand armchair to sit in and write, covered with a matching sheet to make it look like she had tried to decorate.
Yes, she could write anywhere in the apartment, but something about the attic room still called to her. It made her feel less lonely in a city where she had yet to make deeper connections than "Oh, you're back for another coffee, ma'am?" at the local coffee shop. It almost felt like a friendly presence itself, welcoming and calm.
Although a breeze couldn't hurt,
she thought to herself as she watched the standing fan she'd set by the small window struggle to alleviate the room's mugginess. Picking up her laptop, Harper draped her bare legs over one loveseat arm and set her back against the other, her flimsy tank top clinging to her damp tanned skin (the warm weather had at least given her an excuse to go to the beach more often than she had back home, even if the locals questioned her sanity). Propping the laptop against her knees, she reviewed her latest chapter. It was a horror story, set in a run down New England Victorian mansion full of creepy hallways and creaking stairs, and characters whose curiosity always overrode their common sense. It was fun and spooky and Harper thought her agent was going to be pleased with the draft, as long as she could get it finished in time. The calendar tacked to the wall had a comically large red circle highlighting her due date, only a week away. Harper was usually pretty good about her deadlines, but this weather had been killing her productivity, with afternoon naps seeming to be the only way to escape heat. Not that the naps had been very restful, considering the dreams she'd been having.
They always followed the same pattern; Harper would watch herself being joined in whatever room she'd happened to fall asleep in by a tall blond haired man, very handsome with his well trimmed beard and face full of hard planes. He was always dressed in what Harper thought of as Southern aristocrat but probably had some other convoluted name. The man would set his walking stick aside and remove his coat to sit down next to her sleeping body, a hungry smile on his face. He'd wake her up then, either with soft caresses along her body or kisses along her neck and collar. She would recognize the green eyes staring down at her, and things would get much more graphic from there. Clothes would be flung across rooms, bodies contorted into positions Harper had never thought to try in her waking life, and she would wake up feeling deliciously satisfied. At least until she remembered she was, in fact, actually alone and hadn't been touched by anyone but herself since moving. She'd end up just feeling more sweaty and gross than she had before she'd gone to sleep, blaming her loneliness for the lusty visions plaguing her sleep.
Harper found herself staying up as long as she could to put off the dreams. She thought that maybe if she was exhausted enough she wouldn't dream at all, but she'd been mistaken. It was happening to her now while she reviewed her chapter, the heat of the room and drone of the cicada's outside causing her eyelids to droop. After Harper's chin sank to her chest for a second time, she closed her laptop and set it on the book pile closest to her, flung her arms above her head and gave herself up to a midafternoon nap, hoping it would be serenely devoid of dreams.
Her hopes dwindled almost as soon as she finished sinking into sleep with the sensation of a cool finger traced its way down the inside of her outstretched arm. She smelled bergamot and cloves faintly as a weight caused the loveseat cushion to dip near her hip, like someone had sat down next to her. More fingers brushed down her other arm and rested teasingly at the base of her throat, as if waiting for permission to explore more.
Harper opened her eye's to see the manifestation of her loneliness gazing down at her, her heartbeat quickening as his lips quirked into a rakish smile through his well trimmed beard. This wasn't how the dream usually went, usually she was a voyeur to the scene, not directly involved.
Her heart beat faster as the man used his other hand to cup the back of her head, the hand that had been at her throat grazing her breast through her tank top before resting on her waist. His lips, cold and refreshing, found hers and hungrily he kissed her, teasing open her mouth and darting his tongue inside. Harper greedily returned his kisses, making small noises of protest when she thought he was going to pull away; her hands moving from above her head to rake through his soft hair. She felt his lips smiling against hers before he pulled away from her mouth slightly, chuckling at the protest in her eyes.
"Not to worry sweetness, I won't leave you...unsatisfied" his deep voice drawled, watching as she nipped at the thumb he had moved to caress her lips. Harper couldn't help herself, just like in every dream before, there was something deeply alluring about this man. After all, if she couldn't have fun in her dreams, where could she?
