She came undone under a mouth that had no face, in a room stitched together from moon-drip and sweat, the slick slide of a stranger's tongue spelling filthy promises against her clit while her hips rolled like she could fuck the dark itself.
There was no ceiling, only low-slung vapor that clung to her nipples and pebbled them into ache. No walls—just the heat of his palms branding the backs of her thighs, spreading her wider so the wet sounds echoed, obscene and perfect. He worked her slow, like he had centuries to kill and nothing better to do than lap and tease, flutter-soft then firm, tracing the alphabet of ruin around her swollen bud until her fingers tangled in hair she couldn't see.
She tried to say something—his name, any name—but her throat produced only a broken whimper that felt silver-gray in color, the exact shade her eyes flashed when she hunted. The stranger answered with a growl that vibrated through her ass, up her spine, settling behind her teeth. He owned her reactions piece by piece: the jerk of her knee, the arch of her back, the way her breath stuttered every time he sealed his lips over her clit and sucked like he meant to draw the orgasm out through her navel.
Pressure built, a hot fist twisting low in her belly. She felt her own pulse inside her pussy, begging to be filled. He understood—of course he did—and slid two thick fingers into her, curling up hard, stroking that spot that turned her moans into snarls. Outside the dream's open ribcage, thunder cracked. Inside, her inner walls clamped greedily, milking the intrusion, begging for more, for cum, for anything he'd give.
She hovered on the cliff, every muscle drawn bow-tight. Her heels dug into nothing, shoulders grinding into the floor that wasn't a floor. Just a little more, a little—
The mouth vanished. Fingers gone. Cold air slapped her dripping skin.
Raven jerked awake with a guttural curse's echo shot straight from cunt to throat. The cabin's ceiling glared down, dull boards nailed by sober daylight. Her own hand was wedged between her thighs, two fingers slippery to the knuckle. The sheet had twisted into a rope across her stomach, trapping her other arm beneath so she couldn't even finish herself off before the dream finished with her.
"Fuck," she rasped, voice shredded. Sweat glued curls to her temples; her tank top bunched under her breasts like an afterthought. Between her legs, the throb felt cheated, mean, a bruise blooming outward. She dragged her fingers free, watched them shine in the single shaft of predawn sneaking through warped shutters.
She should've felt ashamed, maybe, but shame was a luxury for people who still pretended tomorrow would be kind. Instead she felt hunger, raw and stupid, pulsing in her clit like a second heartbeat. She wiped her hand on the sheet and rolled to her side, knees knocking together to trap the ache.
The birthmark tingled—her own crescent moon riding the hollow where collarbone met throat. In the dream, the exact replica had glowed on the stranger's skin, silver slicing black shadow. She touched it now, felt the skin fever-warm, and hated that her first thought was his mouth on her mark, biting softly while he fucked her slow.
A wolf howled somewhere beyond the lake, long and mournful, the note sliding up her vertebrae one notch at a time. Not a real animal—she knew real wolves, and they didn't sing in chords that vibrated through her pelvic bones. She swallowed the resonance, told her body to stand down. Her pussy didn't listen; it fluttered again, empty, greedy.
"Zero fucks," she muttered, kicking the sheet to the floor like it had offended her. She swung her legs off the cot, toes digging into cold pine. The air smelled of cedar and last night's rain, clean enough to scour the dream scent of sex, but her skin held onto it, salt and female musk, stubborn.
She padded to the window, shoved the shutter aside. Mist drifted above black water; trees stood in silhouette like jury members. Another howl—closer now—answered by a lower one that seemed to crawl out of the dirt beneath the cabin. Her nipples firmed against the thin cotton, traitorous.
She imagined him out there: face still blank, mouth glistening with her. The thought alone nearly dropped her back to her knees. Instead she pressed her forehead to the glass, breath fogging the pane.
"Ugh, if i ever find you, i'll kill you," she whispered, though her thighs shifted, sticky together. The threat felt decorative, like lingerie nobody would see.
Behind her, the bed creaked as if in disagreement. She ignored it, focused on breathing—four in, four out—until the throb between her legs dulled to a manageable drum. Dawn wouldn't wait; she had perimeter runes to refresh, salt lines to mend, and a trio of teenagers to escort to the border before the blood moon rose selfish and round.
But for one suspended minute she remained at the window, palms braced, listening to the wolves converse in languages older than English, feeling the dream's afterburn snake through her blood like slow poison she never wanted antidote for.
When she finally stepped away, the floorboard gave a sympathetic groan. She snatched yesterday's jeans off the chair, refused the reflection waiting in the cracked mirror. Whatever that dream wanted from her, it could stand in line..