Short Stories: A dream that evokes a certain mood [Rebecca Version]

Rebecca is angry.

You can feel it even before she steps into your office—an undercurrent of tension so intense that it seems to charge the air with her heavy presence the moment she crosses the threshold.

Why she's angry is one question...

What she's doing in your office so late at night, alone and without her team, is an entirely different one.

You try to speak, but for some reason, the words catch in your throat, refusing to form.

Rebecca watches your attempt silently, her eyes clear, crystal gray now gleaming with an unsettling brightness that makes your blood run cold yet draws you in—deep, raw, and all-consuming.

You watch her back, involuntarily touching your throat as you lean back against the desk behind you. Your hand clutches the edge tightly, but you remain still, unable to tear your eyes away from her.

"No one gave you permission to speak," she finally says, her voice deliberate and chillingly slow. Each word echoes with the heavy rhythm of your heartbeat as she begins to close the distance between you.

She stops just inches away, her expression is unreadable as her eyes remain locked on yours, studying you in silence.

The longer you hold her gaze, refusing to turn away under the heaviness of her stare, the more you feel it—a suffocating authority emanating from her, pressing down on you with one single purpose.

But you resist it—resist her. She sees it in your eyes, and your defiance is enough to compel her to act.

With surprising speed and force that leave you no chance to react, she grabs you by the throat, pinning you against the desk.

You stifle a gasp, the clatter of falling objects barely perceptible over the thunderous pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. Her firm grip forces a shaky exhale from you,

and you freeze as she presses her body against yours with urgent intensity.

"What should I do, I wonder..." Rebecca murmurs gently against your lips as your palms push against her torso, but her breasts pressed against your body leave no room for distance.

You try to answer her, but the words refuse to come out—another attempt that causes the corner of her lips to twitch upward. Her grip relaxes just enough for her thumb to trace the contour of your jaw with unexpected tenderness, her gaze lingering on your lips.

"Go on..." Her eyes slowly lift to meet yours as she leans even closer. "Ask me. To stop, or..."

She doesn't finish her sentence, not with her words.

Her other hand travels down the contour of your body, forcing you to let out another shaky breath.

Everything inside you burns and shakes, but you stubbornly hold her gaze; both of you know you can't ask her anything.

After all, Rebecca hasn't given you permission to speak.

But you can push her away. You could, if you wanted to, and both of you know it.

What Rebecca does is wait for you to acknowledge it—the effect she has on you—torturing you, filling you with her presence, and showing you who's in charge. And more than that… doing everything to make you demonstrate it.

As if to confirm your thoughts, her hips press against yours with a renewed force, and you bite your lower lip, tasting the sharp sting of blood as you stifle a moan.

For a fleeting moment, her irises glow with a dark, unsettling intensity that your resistance seems to provoke. It's a glimpse of the raw, hidden depth within her, igniting a searing fire of desire through your veins.

Your racing heartbeat reveals your tension just enough for her to release her hold on your neck, only to close the remaining distance between you. Her body presses against yours with such insistence that it's obvious she doesn't intend to let you go or allow any escape.

Not that you would want to. What you want is—

You shudder as she finally loses patience, her firm hands roaming your body with a purpose that is both unnerving and electrifying. Her touch is insistent, almost rough, more of a claim than a caress, forcing you to remember this moment and who's in control—now and ever after.

But the invincible trails her touches leave aren't enough for her.

She leans in, and just when you think she's about to kiss you, her jaw brushes against yours, trailing lower agonizingly slowly.

When you can finally feel her breath on the side of your neck, your throat is burning with the urge to call her name and beg her to stop torturing you and claim what you both know is already hers.

But begging... No, that's not what Rebecca needs—not what she wants from you. She wants you to let her have it—to let her have you.

You sense it in the unexpected gentleness of her lips brushing against your skin—Rebecca—in the sweep of her tongue—R-Rebecca—in the light graze of her teeth, just before they can sink deeper.

You close your eyes and finally give in, whispering her name aloud as you brace for the pain that never comes.

.

.

.

You open your eyes, still feeling the lingering taste of her name on your lips, a flicker of heat fluttering in your chest while your breath remains heavy with anticipated desire.

The stark, demanding brightness of her cold eyes still haunts you, even though you're surrounded by nothing but the darkness of your room.

What you saw was just a dream.

All the pleasant feelings left by her image become mixed with bitterness, and you slowly rise, desperately trying to shake the aching desire to feel her body pressed against yours, knowing there's no way to make it real.

.

.

.

Rebecca is angry.

You can feel it even before she steps into your office—an undercurrent of tension so intense that it seems to charge the air with her heavy presence the moment she crosses the threshold.

Why she's angry is one question…

How to handle the bitter realization that her gaze—the only thing real from that dream—will now evoke the heaviness of a touch that never actually happened and probably never will…

That's an entirely different one.