Summary: A dream remembered.
Rated: MA (adult situation)
Word Count: 763
It’s the dead of night and I’ve just woken from a dream. Not the senseless kind, with images that desert you on waking…how I wish it were! No, this was the kind that leaves you breathless and your bed a cold and barren wilderness.
In this dream, lovers writhed between sheets of white cotton; desire had burned and raged out of control.
Sated, they had clung to each other, limbs entwined and skin glistening with moisture.
A name…her name escapes my lips, almost as if she were here and demanding recognition. A fire ignites in my loins and I curse her aloud, damning the effect she still has on me!
I haven’t dreamt about her in a long time, so why now and why like that? I don’t want to remember such passion or the resulting ecstasy.
I breathe out a shaky breath, trying desperately to gain control of my emotions and of my rebellious body. I don’t want to…want her.
But how I’d wanted her back then and in every sense of the word — body and soul, heart and mind — but even though she had lain with me, she had never been mine.
I was young, naive, and desperate for such affection. I didn’t understand there was a difference between lust and love until it was too late.
I was smitten the very first time I saw her.
Her gown had been blood red, its bodice teasingly tight, sweeping low to reveal the alluring swell of womanhood.
I had tried so not to stare, to keep my eyes on hers, but at eighteen, I lacked such control and my gaze kept returning to the dusky mounds that rose and fell with her every breath.
The fiesta had been in full swing and I had been swept up in all the fervor. Tequila had given me the courage to ask her to dance, and beneath a star-filled sky, we had moved to the music, her warmth filling my arms, her smile warming my soul.
The celebrations had carried on into the early hours, dawn not far off breaking when she had taken my hand and led me to her bed.
I’d only ever been with saloon whores before, and one was much the same as the next and easily forgettable.
Forgettable she was not.
She was stunningly beautiful, her perfect features framed by a mass of ebony curls. Her lips, rose red and sugar sweet, were eager to please, and from them had tumbled words of desire. Her exquisite form had convulsed beneath me; we had both given and taken, sharing all.
Suddenly I was wanted, I was needed, and I foolishly believed I was loved.
But the dream was to be shattered, and within weeks, my heart broken: another lesson learned the hard way.
Someone older, wiser had caught her attention; he had money in his pocket, the right kind of gleam in his eye.
He could keep her happy in ways I could not.
Suddenly I was nothing, a no one in her eyes, and the warmth I’d seen in their charcoal depths turned swiftly to soul-numbing ice.
I had found them together, and hurt and humiliation caused my fists to fly, but I was no match for the much bigger man.
Bruised and bloody, the Colt appeared in my hand. I saw fear in his eyes and then the world stood still.
How I wanted them to know pain, to feel the searing sting of rejection.
But “You’re better than that,” an inner voice cried, and a war began to rage inside.
Hadn’t I always tried to be?
The rage ebbed and reason returned. I backed away, out of the room, out of her life and went on with mine.
A lonely existence but one free of betrayal and the thing I feared the most.
Maybe the dream is an omen!
Maybe this estancia isn’t what it seems. Maybe the people here aren’t what they seem. Maybe they will betray me…reject me!
Maybe I again see love where there is none!
My heart sinks, doubt weighing it down.
So is the dream a timely reminder, one I should pay heed to?
Or am I right to trust them, to let myself feel something for them and for this place?
“Yes,” the inner voice cries. There’s no internal battle this time; the answer resounds swift and true.
The dream fades into the night, its images and emotions laid to rest.
Another demon exorcised.