Page 84 of Don't Let Me Go
“Like what?”
“You know, like in the movieOliver!‘Please, sir, can I ’ave some more?’?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” I sigh. “Just tell me about your sex dream.”
Jackson shrugs. “It was actually pretty weird. We were in the 1940s, you know, during World War Two. And the Germans were bombing London. That’s how we died.”
“We died?” I ask, pulling back in surprise.
“Yeah. In the dream. We were standing on this bridge and a bomb fell right on top of us.”
“I thought you said this was asexdream?”
Jackson laughs. “It was. We had sex right before the Germans blew us up.”
“On a bridge?”
“In a bathtub.”
My entire body tingles at the thought of Jackson and me in a tub together. That’s definitely something we’ll have to try in the near future. Though for the moment, I want to hear more about Jackson’s dream. It’s interesting that he’s been dreaming about us in England at the same time that I’ve been having those nightmares about Italy.
“Why do you think you dreamed about London?” I ask. “Have you been there?”
“No. But my father and I used to watch a lot of war movies. You know,Dunkirk, The Darkest Hour, Saving Private Ryan. It was our thing.”
“Have you watched any recently?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.” I shrug. “It’s just odd that we both had these elaborate sex dreams set in foreign countries. And that we died in them.”
“I guess,” Jackson says, not sounding particularly concerned. “Maybe we were both just stressed out, you know? And that was our brains’ way of dealing with it.”
“Maybe,” I concede. Though I’m not sure I believe that. Two sex dreams that turned into death dreamsandthey both took place in another time and country? That feels like way too much of a coincidence.
Before I can give the question any more thought, though, Jackson pulls me to him and chuckles mischievously into my ear. “So tell me about some of these filthy, unspeakable things that we did in your dream.”
“You tell me about yours,” I counter.
“I’d rather show you,” he purrs, slowly sliding his hands down my stomach.
“Haven’t you had enough?” I ask, pretending to be scandalized at his voracious appetite. “You really need to learn some self-control.”
“But it’s my birthday.”
“Tomorrowis your birthday. Today is—wait. What time is it?”
I sit up and grab my phone off the nightstand. Jackson peeks over my shoulder.
“Well, well, well. Look at that,” he gloats. “It’s after midnight. I’m officially eighteen.”
“In that case,” I say as I lie back against my pillow, “I suppose the birthday boy is entitled to a small treat.”
“Not so small.” He smirks.
“Put on some music.”
