When she looked at him over the table that morning, her eyes were the same blue. Eyes like the perfect summer's day. And yet, in the bright sunshine they said nothing like that he'd dreamt of. Such a vivid, odd dream that didn't disappear as most do but clung onto his senses like a luscious liquid. Those eyes, framed by pale eyelashes, had been so close to him. He'd seen, understood, recognised and matched the lust in them as he'd approached her, their full blown glitter in the moment before he'd kissed her, their heat as she let him take her and their love afterwards. He knew those eyes he watched now, those quick shy glances the same he had seen always. He wondered how her eyes could hide such depth and such hunger before he remembered after a moment that it was not something he had seen in truth. It didn't stop the dream's ghosts haunting each look, pulling him back with inevitable but gentle force to the desire that lingered newly and fragilely within him. It was impossible to see her, look into those eyes and not remember the way she had watched him with fiery concentration. Those eyes were jealous partners; he couldn't remember being allowed to look away. He realised he was staring, but he was unsure on how to steady himself since the ground had shifted so dramatically under the moon's pale watch. He felt a rush of blood to his cheeks as she cocked her head in inquiry, her sudden directness too reminiscent for him to curtail his reaction.
The touch of skin on skin lingered in his bones. The drink was warm in his hand, but her warmth was different; alive and sensitive in the briefest of moments their fingers touched as she handed over the cup. His mind convinced him that he'd felt those fingers, those palms, those grazes and nicks and undulations on his skin that night. Her brief touch now echoed in his insistent memory. Those strong capable hands with their long beautiful fingers had touched him, held and directed him with incomparable confidence. His skin remembered. Remembered: how she'd run her fingers through his hair as their mouths found each other and couldn't bear to part; how her strong hands had clutched his shoulders when he pushed her up against the wall; how she'd nimbly helped rid their selves of clothing; how her palms and pads of exploring fingers found his scars and his stump; and how she had used her hands over his own and the missing other to help him find the places that made her hands tighten round him in a long trembling moment and then to pull him closer still. But the fingers that fiddled anxiously with the wax from the candles held no such memory. It took a great effort not to reach over and still them. He had done it often enough with brusque impatience and annoyance at her fidgeting. He could remember that too. And if he could have trusted himself to remove his hand afterwards, he would have done it again, with her deliberately riled, just to feed and sustain his already fading sensations.
The pressure of her lips on his had the utmost clarity, away from the shadows and confusing twists of his dream. He had learned by heart overnight the faint dampness, the tiny twitching muscles, the way her tongue moved in perfect harmony with the shapes her mouth made. He saw it now too; with each bite and sip and word spoken. Her bottom lip was redder and plumper than the top, it was bruised with blood from her teeth worrying it. He had felt the same when he had held it between his teeth, mouths open after the gentle knock of teeth as he'd reached for her urgently. He saw the way her lips pursed to blow a gentle stream of cooling air over her drink and remembered her hot mouth under his ear, down his neck and back to his lips with reassuring regularity. When he tried to take a bite of bland bread, he tasted the spicy, musky taste of her mouth and then woefully remembered it was only the taste of the wine he had had before bed last night. He saw her gaping mouth as she yawned and stretched when she rose from the table and recalled the groans that escaped her mouth as kissed her breasts, as his fingers stroked through her hot wet place, the gasps growing shorter and sharper as he entered her; the yelp as he pulled a thigh over his hip and the fervid moans as they both pushed each other into the other's ultimate gratification. Only a rough hand across his own mouth and an affected cough stopped him from groaning himself.
He wondered what tonight would bring; if the gods would be cruel and give him a dark and black sleep, or if the gods would be kind and allow him another such dream or whether the gods would listen to him and see to it that he wouldn't have to rely on dreams at all.