Page 39 of Dreaming of Dawson

“I want you too. But I also wanna last more than five minutes.”

I laugh…

The sound is still ringing in my ears as I sit up. I heard a noise then; I know I did, and it had nothing to do with laughter, or anything else in that most perfect of dreams. It was a thud, like someone, or something falling over, and while I’d much rather be back in my fantasy, I listen for a little longer, even holding my breath for a while, until I hear it again. There’s a definite scuffling, and then I hear the words, “Fuck it,” followed by another thud.

It’s Dawson, and from the sounds of things, he’s in trouble.

The moonlight coming in through the window gives enough light for me to see the door and as I leap out of bed, I run straight for it, pulling it open and checking along the hall. Dawson’s door is closed, and while the bathroom is open, there’s no light, although I poke my head around just to make sure he’s not lying on the floor.

“Shit.”

I hear another curse, which definitely came from the stairs, and I turn around, making my way down the short corridor and into the main room. There’s light at the other end, courtesy of the doors that lead onto the balcony, but here it’s darker and I tread carefully around the dining table, wary of stubbing my toes, before I reach the top of the stairs. It’s dark below me, and I can’t see well enough to do anything, so I feel for the light switch, turning it on.

The room behind me is flooded with light, although the stairwell remains in relative darkness. Even so, I can see Dawson, half-way up the stairs, struggling to get to his feet. He must have fallen, and from the looks of things, he’s incapable of doing anything about it.

I’m tempted to ask if he needs help, but I think the answer to that is obvious, so rather than waste time, I make my way down the stairs, treading over his outstretched arm until I’m at a level where I can do something useful.

“Let me help you,” I say and he startles, unaware of my presence it seems, and then he turns and looks up at me. He frowns, tipping his head, and lets his eyes wander, looking me up and down, and taking his time about it… and it’s only now that I realize I’m wearing a white lace bra with matching panties, and nothing else.

Why on earth didn’t I stop to at least pull on my blouse, or my jeans… or, better still, both?

I contemplate trying to cover myself, although I’m not sure what with, but then I realize he’s no longer looking at me. He’s resting his head on his arm, groaning.

“I’m such a fucking fool,” he says.

“No, you’re not.” I lean over, putting my hand under his arm. “Come on… let’s get you up.”

He doesn’t move an inch… although I don’t know why I thought he would. He’s twice my size and made of solid muscle. How did I ever think I could move him?

“You can’t lift me,” he says, stating the obvious.

“I know. I just worked that out for myself.”

He takes a breath, shifting his body, and with a great deal of effort, he kneels up.

“How does that feel?” I ask, moving aside so he’s got more room.

“Honestly? It feels fucking awful.” I giggle, unable to help myself, and he turns his head, staring at me. “What was that noise?”

“What noise?”

“It sounded like bells ringing.”

“There are no bells, Dawson.” I shake my head at him and he lets out a sigh.

“I’m sure I heard bells.”

“Only the ones in your head,” I mutter. “Can you stand?”

“Probably not.”

I wonder about suggesting he crawls up the stairs on his hands and knees, but before I get the chance to say anything, he tips himself back, and somehow stands up.

“You did it.”

“Fuck knows how.” I giggle again, and he sways, so I grab him before he can fall. “That wasn’t me that time,” he says. “It was the bells. They’re distracting.”

“There are no bells,” I repeat. “Try climbing up the stairs. I’ll hold on to you.”

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