One Night With the College Girl From the Train novel · Chapter 2 of 12
Chapter 2: Dreaming While Awake
The top bunk creaked.
I heard him climbing down slowly, blanket over his shoulder, placing one bare foot on the edge of my bed and then on the floor.
My whole body was tense.
I was still lying on my back, eyes closed, hands folded over my chest like someone asleep in church.
Ivan stopped beside my bunk.
I felt his warmth before I felt his hand.
“Wara,” he whispered.
I didn't answer.
“Wara?”
I let out a long, sleepy sigh and turned my head to one side.
He swallowed.
I heard it.
The tips of his fingers brushed my cheek, barely, like someone checking whether a stove was on.
“You're burning up,” he murmured.
“Mm.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“Mm... no.”
“Then what's wrong?”
I parted my lips.
“Hot,” I said in a thick, sleepy voice. “So hot.”
“I see.”
His hand slid down my neck, over my collarbone, to the edge of the blanket.
He pushed it aside with two fingers.
The cold air raised goose bumps on my arms.
I was wearing flannel pajamas with mother-of-pearl buttons, chosen for the cold and not for anyone.
He looked at them.
I felt his gaze on every button.
“I'm going to help you,” he said. “While you dream.”
“Mm.”
“If you don't want me to, say no.”
“No.”
He went rigid.
“Don't... stop,” I finished in a tiny voice, smiling against the pillow.
I heard his low laugh, almost a moan.
He sat on the edge of my bunk, and the mattress dipped.
His hands went to my chest.
He undid the first button, the second, the third, unhurriedly, with the careful awkwardness of long fingers.
When he opened my flannel shirt, the cold hit my bare breasts.
My nipples hardened instantly.
“God,” he whispered.
He covered one with his palm.
It was warm, huge, and drew a moan from me that I didn't have to fake.
“You're still asleep,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Still asleep.”
“And what are you dreaming about?”
“You touching me.”
“Where?”
“Where you are.”
“What if I go lower?”
“Go lower.”
His hand slid down my stomach, past my navel, to the waistband of my pants.
He pushed it aside and slipped beneath my underwear, slowly.
He found me wet.
He let out a low, restrained growl that ran down my spine.
“Wara...”
“I'm asleep,” I repeated.
“You're soaked.”
“Dreams make you wet.”
“What a dream.”
His fingers slowly parted me, tracing my lips, then brushed my clit.
My whole body jolted.
A moan escaped me, louder than I'd meant it to be.
“Shh,” he said. “The conductor.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Bite something.”
He put the corner of the pillow between my teeth.
And began.
He caressed me in small, firm circles with the pad of his middle finger, while his other hand lifted my flannel shirt to uncover my breasts.
He leaned down and kissed my nipple.
His tongue circled it, hot and wet, then he sucked it into his whole mouth.
I arched against the bunk, biting the pillow.
The train swayed.
The clatter of the wheels mingled with the rhythm of his hand, and I couldn't tell what was the motion of the car and what was the movement of his fingers.
“Do you like it?” he whispered against my breast.
“Mm.”
“Say it.”
“I like it.”
“What do you like?”
“When you touch me... there.”
“Where?”
I opened my eyes.
His eyes were watching me in the dim light, dark and bright behind his glasses.
“You tell me,” I said. “I'm a sleepwalker. I don't know what things are called.”
A slow smile twisted his mouth.
“Here,” he said, pressing his thumb against my clit. “This is your clit. And this...” Two fingers slipped inside me, slowly, all the way. “...is what I want to touch most in the world.”
My knees trembled.
His honesty undid me.
“You say it so well.”
“I have a very good memory for anatomy.”
I laughed against the pillow.
He began moving his fingers inside me, curling them upward in a slow, deep rhythm.
His thumb kept caressing my clit.
Every time his fingers slid in, my body squeezed around them.
Pleasure rose like water in a pot.
“I'm going to... I'm going to...”
“Not yet.”
“Ivan.”
“You're asleep. Dreams don't get to make the rules.”
He pulled his fingers out.
I almost screamed with frustration.
He yanked off my pants and underwear and tossed them on the floor.
I was naked from the waist down, legs spread, cold air on my wet skin.
He looked at me.
He stared for a long time without touching me.
“You're so beautiful,” he said at last.
“Don't look at me. Do it.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever you want.”
He knelt on the floor of the sleeper compartment between my thighs and lifted my hips with his hands.
I felt his hot breath against my sex.
I closed my eyes.
His tongue moved slowly over me, flat and broad, from bottom to top.
A jolt shot up my back.
I bit down on the pillow with all my strength.
He licked me again and again, then closed his mouth over my clit and sucked gently, in a slow, precise rhythm.
My hands searched for his hair.
I grabbed it in my fingers, and he growled against my skin.
He was so good at it.
I wondered where he'd learned, then decided I didn't want to know.
He did it like someone who'd studied every inch, every reaction, every tremor.
He brought me to the edge with his tongue, then let me go, and started again.
I was sweating despite the cold.
The window fogged up, and the frost along its edge melted.
Outside, there was nothing but darkness and a cold moon over the old snow.
I panted against the fabric.
The bunk’s springs creaked with every spasm.
Two fingers slipped inside me again while his mouth never stopped.
He curled them and pressed right there, and I saw points of light behind my eyelids.
"Ivan, please."
"Please what?"
"Let me come."
"Asleep?"
"Asleep. Awake. Whatever."
"Tell me what you call what you’re doing," I gasped.
"I’m learning," he replied against my skin. "And you’re a very good teacher."
He sucked my clit harder, and his fingers moved faster.
The orgasm tore through me.
It was a long, white explosion that arched my back and made me dig my nails into his shoulder.
A scream caught in my throat, turning into a hoarse moan against the pillow.
My sex clenched around his fingers again and again, and he didn’t stop until I stopped trembling.
When he finally pulled away, his chin was glistening and he was breathing hard.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I was still trembling, my hair stuck to my forehead and my thighs spread apart.
"That," I said, my voice broken, "was a very nice dream."
He climbed onto my bunk beside me, pulled the blanket over us both, and kissed me.
It was a slow, wet kiss, my own taste on his tongue.
He held me, and I pressed myself against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat.
"Four hours ago, I didn’t even know you," I whispered.
"Four hours ago, I already knew this was going to happen."
"Liar."
"I saw you come in with that little bell and thought, I’m going to get into trouble."
I laughed against his neck.
He bit my ear, and I slipped my hands under his shirt, tracing his hard back and defined ribs.
I pulled off his shirt and let it fall.
His skin was warm, with a faint scent of soap and wool.
I kissed his chest, his flat stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.
He was breathing with his mouth open.
"We’re not done yet," he said, his voice thick.
He stood up.
I saw his silhouette against the window, bare-chested, with the tense bulge in his pajama pants.
I reached out and touched him through the fabric.
He was hard as a rock, hot and throbbing.
He moaned.
"Wara."
"I’m sleepwalking," I reminded him. "I do things without realizing it."
I pulled his pajama pants down to his thighs, and his cock sprang free, taut, its dark head glistening in the light.
I took him in my hand.
He threw his head back with a hiss.
His cock was long and thick, with a smooth tip, and it filled my palm completely.
I stroked him slowly, from base to tip, my thumb sliding over the drop that beaded there.
"Stop," he gasped. "If you keep going, I’m going to come in your hand."
"Your voice is shaking."
"You’re the reason."
"What a lovely reason."
"I don’t care."
"I do."
He took my wrist and gently moved my hand away.
Then a long whistle tore through the night.
The train screeched to a stop, metal grinding against metal.
We froze, staring at each other.
Through the window and the curtain, yellow and white light spilled in, bathing the entire sleeper compartment.
A station.
Our bodies were lit up like we were onstage, me naked on the bunk, him standing there, half-dressed, his mouth glistening.
And outside, on the platform, someone was striking the wheels with a hammer.
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