When Adam woke he threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the sun coming in from the office window.
Don’t be over yet, don’t be over yet, don’t be over yet.
The dream was over, of course. It slipped itself out of his bed and back where it came from. Justine was gone. The place where her hair had tumbled across Adam’s chest still tingled, and when he ran his tongue over his lower lip he thought he could still taste her. The dream had left him with a fierce, desperate erection; a cruel reminder of what could never happen except for in dreams. Only when he fell deep into clouds of sleep could he feel her legs wrapped around his waist; only in that passionate, subconscious plane could they move within one another. Together they could expand, then contract.
When Adam saw Justine in the daytime she was always friendly, calm, politely detached. Her lips were so red, and her hair so black that he wondered if she was real at all or if her real home was actually deep inside his skull. In the illogical part of his brain he wondered if she had dreamed the same dream. Shamefully, he started fantasizing about her in his waking hours, too. He could close his eyes, shutting out the numbers in the ledgers in front of him.
If he stayed still and quiet he could almost see her leaving her cabin for his office once Blake had entered the mines for the day. Her cheeks would be pink with cold and with embarrassed excitement. She might nudge his shoulder with hers playfully and say, “Adam! You won’t believe it. Last night I had the strangest dream. You and I were-“
And if he was bold, if he was man enough he would place his hand on the small of her back and guide her to his bed. There they could find out if they made the same heat and the same rhythm they did in their dreams.