¬ Fashire
I jerked awake.
My spare chamber swam into focus, familiar, solid and blessedly real. My chest heaved. Sweat slicked my skin, and the sheets were tangled around my legs, twisted as if I had been thrashing.
My fangs were fully extended. Aching. The phantom taste of her blood still coated my tongue, so vivid I could almost believe I had actually tasted it.
Glancing down led me to another horrifying discovery. My cock strained against the sheets, hard and throbbing with a need that the dream had done nothing to sate.
I was hard. Painfully, shamefully hard.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes and let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.
A dream.
A nasty sickening thing.
Who was she to look at me that way. And for me to have even been thrilled at that look of hers was utter madness and depravity.
In my own dream, she had been the one in control. And my body had responded.
