Page 5 of Lustling

I shift beneath the covers, and a soft whimper escapes me. My thighs ache. My hips. My throat. Every part of me feels bruised, tender, sore in ways that can’t be explained by a dream.

I shouldn’t feel like this.

But I do.

Like I’ve been touched.

Used.

And worst of all… emptied.

I roll out of bed, my legs trembling as I cross to the mirror. Something prickles at the back of my mind, a warning I can’t decipher. I flick on the light and stare at my reflection.

And freeze.

Horns.

Black. Elegant. Curling from my temples like a twisted crown.

I blink hard and they vanish. Gone. Just a trick of the light.

My pulse still pounds as I reach for the edges of the dresser, gripping hard enough to turn my knuckles white. I look again—just a girl. Pale. Sleep-tangled. Eyes wide with fear and shame.

I shake my head. I don’t have time for this.

Not with classes. Not with expectations. Not with everything riding on me beingnormal.

But still—I can’t shake the feeling.

Something’s wrong. And it’s getting closer.

By the time I’m showered and dressed for class, I feel like I’m unraveling from the inside out. Every inch of me is wound tight—too tight—like my skin doesn’t quite fit right. Like I’ve been stretched over someone else’s bones.

The morning air is sharp when I step outside, too bright for how heavy I feel. Shawn is already waiting, his car idling at the edge of the parking lot. The moment I slide into the passenger seat, he grabs me by the jaw and crashes his mouth against mine.

It’s not sweet. Not even close. It’s hungry. Possessive. A claiming kiss that leaves me breathless.

His tongue tangles with mine, and I barely have time to register the heat of him before his hand is sliding up the inside of my thigh, disappearing beneath the hem of my dress. I gasp into his mouth, my back arching instinctively as his fingers press against the thin fabric of my panties—already damp, already aching. A desperate sound escapes me, and I hate how needy it sounds. Howtrueit is.

Shawn chuckles, pulling back just enough to flash me that cocky, crooked smirk. “Morning, darling,” he says, and it’s the kind of voice that thinks it’s already won. The kind that’s used to getting what it wants.

I shudder as his fingers slip past the barrier, two of them plunging deep inside me with no hesitation, the heel of his palm grazing my clit with every stroke. Heat blooms low in my belly, molten and dangerous. My head falls back against the seat as my hips chase his rhythm.

“I had a dream about you,” I manage to whisper, breathless.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, his fingers curl deeper. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs against my throat, lips brushing skin. “What were we doing?”

I moan, eyes fluttering shut. “You had me bent over a desk. You were fucking me. In front of the whole class.”

He hisses between his teeth—and then, without warning, rips his hand away.

The loss is immediate. Physical. It punches the air from my lungs.

“What—” I choke on the question, a whine scraping my throat. “What are you doing?”

His expression has changed. The teasing is gone. What’s left is irritation, sharp and simmering.

“You’ll dream about us fucking,” he says, voice clipped, “but you still won’tactuallyfuck me?”