Rachel's POV
"Touch yourself." He commands.
His voice is rough, deep, and dark with authority. The sound alone makes me whimper, my nipples hardening instantly under my thin tank top, arching for attention.
My chest rises hard, my breaths catching in my throat. I shouldn't listen, except I always listen to him.
"Didn't you hear me, sweetheart?"
God, that voice... My thighs clamp together, but it's useless my body is already trembling with anticipation.
"Yes…" My voice breaks, in a needy, pathetic way.
"Then do it. Now. I want to watch you."
Heat flares through me, making me ache. Slowly my hand slips between my thighs, and my fingers find me embarrassingly wet. I spread it around, slick and hot, while his stare pins me down.
"Good girl," he growls, stepping closer. "Rub that little pussy for me. Let me hear you."
My back arches off the mattress. My fingers circle harder, and faster. I bite down on my lip, trying to stay quiet, but he doesn't let me.
"Don't you dare hold back. I want to hear every sound."
"Yes, Mr. MacLean," I whimper, breathless.
His name tastes dirty in my mouth, but it only makes me wetter. My fingers slide inside, two at once, pumping as his shadow towers over me.
"Spread wider." He growls. "Show me how messy you are for me."
I obey. My thighs fall open, and I'm soaked, my fingers slipping in and out, the bed slowly getting more and more damp beneath me.
"Faster. Come on. You're so fucking close."
I'm panting now, moaning, grinding against my own hand, chasing the edge like my life depends on it. My clit throbs under my thumb, swollen and screaming, and I can't stop.
"Yes… oh, fuck, yes..."
"Come for me, sweetheart. Right now."
The command rips through me like fire. My vision goes white, my body convulses, and I explode, crying out his name as the orgasm rips me apart. It's hot and thick, my toes curling, my whole body shaking.
"RACHEL!!! You're gonna be late!"
I jerk upright, gasping. My room. My ceiling. No tall, brooding fantasy man standing at the edge of my bed. Just my mum's voice booming through the door.
Holy. Shit.
I throw the blanket off me and groan. My panties are ruined, my skin slick, my thighs sticky. I glance at my alarm clock. 7:45 a.m. My first class starts at eight-thirty.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
I smack the snooze button, realizing it's not even ringing. I missed two alarms. Perfect. First day of college, and I'm already the world's biggest dumbass.
I drag myself out of bed, legs wobbly, still trembling from the dream. Great. My first official orgasm of the school year, courtesy of my imaginary boyfriend-slash-tyrant-slash-sex god.
And of course, the bastard doesn't even exist.
Okay... Context. My name's Rachel Miller. I'm twenty, freshly legal, and a psychology major with the maturity of a horny fifteen-year-old. My friends have normal crushes, like actors, pop stars, internet idiots. Me? No, I had to go and invent a man in my head. A tall, dark, brutal man with a filthy mouth and the kind of authority that makes me wet in two seconds flat. I call him Mr. MacLean.
Yeah, like… I gave my imaginary man a full surname. Don't judge me.
And the thing is, he feels real. Too real. Sometimes I swear I can hear his voice in my ear even when I'm awake. Sometimes I can still feel his hand on my throat when I roll over in bed. Creepy? Maybe. Hot? Definitely.
I stumble into the bathroom and splash water on my face, staring at my reflection. My hair looks like a raccoon crawled into it during the night, my eyeliner from yesterday smudged across my cheek like war paint. Fabulous. Just the look I want when I make my grand debut at college.
Mum yells again from the kitchen. "Rachel, don't make me come in there!"
"Five minutes!" I shout back, trying to sound casual and not like I was just finger-fucking myself into oblivion over an imaginary man.
I peel my ruined panties off, toss them in the laundry basket, and sigh. First day of college, and I'm already showing up late, sleep-deprived, and sex-wrecked. This is not how the adult version of Rachel Miller was supposed to start her life.
Still, I can't shake the grin off my face. Because dream or not, Mr. MacLean gave me one hell of a send-off.
I yank on the first pair of jeans I find on the floor, then grab a wrinkled t-shirt from the chair.
Perfume. Deodorant. Toothbrush jammed into my mouth while I'm half putting on mascara and half tripping over my backpack.
As you can tell, I'm a complete disaster.
I try to brush my hair, but the brush gets stuck halfway down. "Seriously?" I mutter, yanking it out with a wince. Whatever. Messy bun it is.
My shoes aren't by the door. Of course they're not. They're under the bed. One of them, anyway. I crawl under, find one sneaker, and have to use a coat hanger to fish out the other. By the time I've got both on my feet, I'm already sweating like I just ran a marathon.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, sprint out of my room, and practically tumble down the stairs. I catch myself on the banister at the last second, heart hammering.
At the bottom, Mum stands with her arms crossed, holding a plate with eggs and toast. She looks at me like I'm some tragic sitcom character who can't keep her life together.
"Seriously, Rachel…"
"I know, Mum, I know—I'm sorry!" I snatch a single piece of toast from the plate, shove half of it in my mouth, and bolt for the door before she can lecture me.
The bus stop is just two streets away. I can still make it in time. When the bus finally rattles up, I jump inside and collapse onto a seat, still chewing dry toast. My watch ticks like it's mocking me. Eight twenty-two.
"Plenty of time," I whisper to myself. Except my palms are sweating.
When the bus slows in front of campus, I don't even wait for it to fully stop before hopping off. I start running, dodging students left and right, mumbling "sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry" like a broken record.
By the time I find the psychology building, I'm convinced my lungs are going to quit. I slam through the doors, race down the hall, and nearly faceplant into the lecture room. I stumble into a seat just as the clock on the wall clicks to 8:30 on the dot. Four seconds to spare.
I grin to myself, triumphant. First day of college and I beat the clock. Look at me, already thriving!
And then—
"Good morning everyone. I'm Mr MacLean. I'll be your professor this semester."
My stomach drops. My brain short-circuits.
I slowly look up, and my blood turns ice.
Standing at the front of the room is him. Him!!
The exact same man from my dreams.
Only now… he isn't a dream.
He's real.
And his eyes are already on me.