The bra is sheer enough that you can see the dusky points of her nipples through it, already hard. The panties are a whisper of lace sitting low on her hips, and when she turns to let the door swing shut, you can see the thin strip of fabric disappearing between the firm, perfect rounds of her ass.
“This isn’t the gym!” she says, walking into the library. “But it’s a good enough place for a show.”
Her voice carries through the empty stacks. She smiles at the echo, then at you. She knows you’re there. In this dream, she always knows.
“Nobody’s coming,” she says, strolling between the tables, slow, hips rolling with every step. “They’re all off partying. Which means I can do whatever I want.” She stops and looks at you over her shoulder. “And you can watch.”
She does a slow turn right there in the aisle, arms raised, letting you take her in from every angle. The lace cutting high over her hips. The soft swell of her tits straining the sheer cups. The muscles of her stomach shifting under smooth skin as she moves. She runs her hands down her own body as she turns, over the lace, over her ribs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of the panties and tugging them a half inch lower. Teasing. She is very, very good at teasing.
At the long reading table beneath the windows she stops, places both palms flat on the wood, and bends forward at the waist. Slowly. Her back arches deep, her ass rises, the lace pulling tight across it, and she looks back at you through the fall of her hair.
“Well?” she says. “Come closer. I didn’t get dressed like this for the books.”
You move closer, because in dreams you can, and she watches you come with heavy-lidded eyes, swaying her hips in small, lazy circles. Up close the lace is nearly transparent stretched tight like that. You can see the cleft of her ass, the shadow of pink beneath black lace, everything almost, almost revealed.
“You keep staring at my tits,” she says, straightening up and turning to face you. It’s true. The bra barely holds them, and her nipples are stiff against the sheer fabric. “Want me to take it off?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She reaches behind her back, unhooks the clasp with two fingers, and lets the straps slide down her arms. The bra drops onto the return cart like it’s being checked in. And there they are. Full and high and perfect, rising and falling with her breathing, nipples tight and pink and pointing at you like they’re asking for your mouth.
“God, that’s better,” she sighs, and she cups them herself, lifting them, letting them spill and settle, thumbs circling her nipples in slow strokes. Her eyes flutter half shut. “They’re so sensitive today. Look how hard I am. That’s your fault. You keep looking at me like that.”
She hops up onto the edge of the table and leans back on her hands, and then, watching your face the whole time, she opens her legs. Unhurried. Knees drifting apart wider and wider until the thin lace between her thighs is pulled taut and you can see everything it barely hides. The fabric is darker there. Wet.
“See what you do to me?” she says softly. “I haven’t even touched myself. I just like being looked at. I like being the only book you want to open.”
She hooks her fingers into the panties, lifts her hips, and peels them down. Slowly. Over the toned thighs, past her knees, off one pointed foot, and she holds them up on one finger for a moment, lacy and tiny and damp, before dropping them beside her.
Then she spreads her legs again, and now there is nothing between you and her at all.
Her pussy is smooth and pink and glistening, lips swollen and parted just slightly, wetness catching the afternoon light. She leans back farther and arches, letting you look your fill. Her hand slides down her stomach and comes to rest on her inner thigh, so close to where you want it that a sound escapes you that you didn’t plan.
“Uh-uh,” she murmurs, smiling. “This is a show. Shows are for watching.”
But she shifts forward to the very edge of the table, so close you can feel the heat off her skin, and she draws one finger up through her wetness, slow, just once, just to show you how slick she is, and holds the shining finger up in the light between you.
“That’s for you,” she says. “That’s all for you. Look how wet you make me.”
She turns and climbs onto her hands and knees on the table and crawls two slow paces along it, back dipped low, ass high, everything open and gleaming and on display. She looks back over her shoulder, hair spilling, lips parted.
“You know what my favorite part is?” she says. “Knowing you’re going to wake up aching for me. Knowing you’ll be hard all day in your real, boring life, and there’s nothing you can do about it, because I only exist here. Bent over a table. Waiting for you.”
She rolls onto her back, knees up and open, one hand drifting down her stomach again, resting just above where you’re silently begging her to touch. She doesn’t. She traces idle circles on her skin, so close, and smiles up at the ceiling like your eyes on her body feel as good as hands.
“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you want me. In your dream you only have to say it.”
You say it. Of course you say it.
“Good,” she breathes, stretching like a cat, all long limbs and arched back and bare flushed skin. “Tomorrow. Same time. Same table. Maybe I’ll let you do more than watch.”
The light through the windows goes honey-thick and slow. Her shape softens at the edges, dream-slick, and the last thing you see is her mouth shaping two words you carry up with you.
Don’t be late.
You wake up hard and aching, sheets twisted, her name already on your lips, the whole long day ahead of you nothing but the distance between now and the next time you close your eyes.
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