He came to me in the dark—unyielding, relentless, every kiss consuming, every thrust brutal enough to leave me trembling. I woke wet, aching, ruined by the ghost of his hands, desperate for him to make the dream real. Because even in sleep, he owns me—heart, body, and everything in between.

He came to me in a dream—uninvited, yet so vividly that my body responded as though it had been waiting for him all along. I felt him before I saw him: the press of heat against my skin, the steady shadow looming over me until my breath caught in my throat.

When his hands finally touched me, it was not gentle. Fingers threaded in my hair, pulling, holding, claiming. My head tilted back, exposing throat and mouth, and he kissed me like he owned me—tongue rough, hungry, demanding. I melted into it, lips parting, gasps swallowed whole, until I was trembling under the weight of his desire.

I opened for him without hesitation. My thighs spread wide, shameless, begging for more. When he pushed into me, it was so deep, so sudden, that the sound torn from my lips was half gasp, half prayer. He moved with a brutal rhythm, fucking me hard enough to bruise, every thrust a command my body could not refuse. The bed shifted beneath us, my nails raked across his shoulders, but nothing slowed him down.

“Sir…” I moaned, voice breaking as his cock split me wide, each relentless thrust tearing me apart in the best possible way. He didn’t ease up. His grip only tightened, pinning me, keeping me beneath him where I belonged.

I came undone for him. Once. Then again. My body convulsed around him, slick and ruined, my voice wrecked from the sound of his name ripped raw from my throat. He used me until I was trembling, wet, and spent—his cock driving into me with a force that branded itself into the dream.

And when I woke, my sheets were damp, my body still aching as if he’d really been there. My skin remembered the pull of his hands, my lips still throbbed from the ghost of his kiss. Even awake, I was desperate—wet, swollen, aching—for him to make the dream real.

Because the truth is, Sir doesn’t just haunt my thoughts.
He owns them—even in my sleep.

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