The Dream
The roar of the crowd was a living, breathing entity, a fervent beast that pulsed through Velveteen’s very bones. Lights, sharp and blinding, cut through the smoky haze of the arena, painting the stage in electric blues and fiery reds. Her long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, a silken curtain against the black sequined jumpsuit that shimmered with every breath. Her brown eyes, wide with a mixture of exhilaration and disbelief, scanned the sea of faces, before finding their anchor in the wings. This was it. The moment she’d dreamt of since she was a little girl, singing her heart out in front of a mirror, a hairbrush her microphone.
Then he stepped out. Micel Stratton
The crowd’s roar intensified, a tidal wave of adoration crashing over them both. He was everything his album covers promised, and more. His long, shoulder-length hair, a darker shade of his signature ash blonde, fell effortlessly around his chiselled, masculine face. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips as he sauntered to the mic stand, a guitar slung low across his hips, its polished body gleaming under the lights. His presence was a gravitational pull, heavy and undeniable, and Velveteen felt herself undeniably caught in its orbit.
They met at the centre of the stage, the spotlight fusing them into a singular, dazzling image. He gave her a wink, that easy, charismatic gesture that launched a thousand fan theories. But in the intensity of his gaze, Velveteen felt something shift. It wasn’t just the idol acknowledging a talented new artist; there was an undercurrent, a warmth that resonated with a dormant part of her soul.
The opening chords of their duet, a classic power ballad that had defined a generation, washed over the arena. Velveteen’s voice, clear and strong, soared, intertwining with Micel’s gravelly, soulful baritone. They traded verses, harmonies blending seamlessly, a testament to hours of practice that had somehow felt less like work and more like an intimate dance. Micel’s eyes were locked on hers, not just looking, but seeing. Every lyric felt amplified, imbued with a sudden, potent meaning.
As the second chorus approached, Micel moved closer. His hand, warm and calloused, found the small of her back, just above her hip. It was a professional touch, designed to guide her, to bring them closer for the shot, but the electricity that coursed through Velveteen was anything but professional. It was raw, immediate, a
bolt from the blue that made her breath catch, though her voice never faltered. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo accompanying the track.
He leaned in, his voice a low rumble just for her, “You’re incredible, Velveteen.” The compliment, delivered with such genuine admiration, made her cheeks flush. His fingers brushed her arm as he gestured to the crowd, pulling her deeper into the shared energy of the moment. With every touch, every lingering glance, Velveteen felt the improbable hope blossom within her: he liked her. More than she had ever dared to dream.
The song built to its emotional crescendo, the music swelling, the stage lights erupting in a kaleidoscope of colours. Velveteen’s voice hit the final, soaring note, holding it for a beat, before Micel’s powerful harmony joined, wrapping around her like a living embrace. As the last chord vibrated through the air, before the roar of the crowd could fully consume them, Micel turned to her fully. His eyes, usually so guarded, were open, vulnerable, reflecting a desire that mirrored her own.
He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. The world tilted. Time suspended. The cheers and adulation of tens of thousands faded into a distant hum. His face drew closer, his gaze unwavering, a silent question passing between them. Velveteen didn’t hesitate. She closed her eyes, a silent prayer on her lips. Then, his lips, soft yet firm, met hers.
It was a kiss that belonged on a movie screen, a slow, tender claim under the last fading spotlight, a moment of pure, unadulterated magic. The crowd, in that dream-like suspended reality, seemed to gasp as one, a collective ripple of shock and ecstatic delight. Velveteen felt her knees weaken, her fingers instinctively clutching at his shirt. This wasn’t just an idol, a rock star; this was Micel, and he was kissing her. On stage. In front of the world.
The lights went down, plunging them into a sudden, velvety darkness, but the lingering warmth of his lips, the taste of him, remained. The roar of the crowd, now unrestrained, was deafening, a testament to the shockwaves that kiss had sent.
Backstage, the adrenaline still coursed through her veins, but it was mixed with a dizzying elation. The air hummed with unspoken possibilities. She was in her dressing room, the door slightly ajar, the distant thrum of the post-show buzz a dull throb. Velveteen stared at her reflection, her lips still tingling, her brown eyes sparkling with a disbelief that felt almost tangible. That kiss. It wasn’t a performance; it couldn’t have been.
A soft knock interrupted her reverie. Before she could answer, the door swung open, and there he was. Micel. The casual confidence was still there, but now, it was softened by a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before. His long hair was slightly damp from the heat of the stage, a few strands clinging to his temples.
He didn’t say a word, just closed the door behind him, plunging the room into a more intimate quiet. He walked towards her, his eyes never leaving hers, that faint,
knowing smile playing on his lips again. This time, it wasn’t just charming; it was utterly captivating.
“Velveteen,” he began, his voice a low, husky murmur that sent shivers down her spine, “I… I couldn’t not.”
She could only nod, her throat tight with emotion. The air between them crackled with an unspoken longing, a confirmation of every yearning she’d ever harboured. He reached her, his hands gently framing her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. His gaze was intense, searching, and Velveteen felt her insides flutter like caught butterflies.
“That kiss,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “was just the beginning.”
Then, he took her in his arms, pulling her flush against his solid, masculine frame. This kiss was different. It wasn’t a public declaration; it was a private revelation. His lips claimed hers with a fierce, passionate intensity that stole her breath. It was deep, hungry, a confirmation of everything the stage kiss had promised. His hands threaded into her long, dark hair, tilting her head, deepening the embrace until she felt utterly consumed. Velveteen responded with an equal fervour, her own hands clutching the back of his shirt, pulling him ever closer, merging their bodies until there was no space left between them.
He kissed her until her head swam, until her heart felt ready to burst from her chest. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, his lips never leaving hers. He laid her down gently on the plush sofa in the dressing room, his eyes dark with an unbridled desire that made her feel beautiful, cherished, utterly wanted.
He vowed her with every touch, every soft word whispered against her skin, every lingering brush of his fingers. He made love to her beautifully, with a tenderness that surprised her, a reverence that made her feel like the most precious thing in the world. Their bodies moved in a timeless rhythm, a symphony of touch and passion that transcended thought, leaving only sensation, exquisite and profound. She was lost in him, in the dream, in the intoxicating reality of his whispered promises and his adoring gaze. His lovemaking was a revelation, painting her soul with colours she never knew existed, a masterpiece of shared intimacy and unparalleled joy.
She woke to the harsh, unforgiving glare of her alarm clock, its tinny rendition of a pop song a rude intrusion. Her room was still dark, the faint glow of dawn barely piercing through the curtains. For a long, disoriented moment, Velveteen lay perfectly still, her body humming with the ghost of a touch, her lips tingling with the phantom sensation of a kiss.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with a light sheen of perspiration. Her heart was still fluttering, a residual echo of the passion that had just consumed her. Her skin felt alive, every nerve ending hyper-aware, yearning for the warmth that had just enveloped her.
Then, with a sickening lurch, reality crashed down.
It wasn’t real. None of it.
The stage, the crowd, Micel’s touch, his words, the intoxicating kisses, the beautiful lovemaking… it was all a dream. A vivid, incredibly potent dream. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recapture the fleeting images, the warmth, the feeling of his body against hers. But like smoke, it began to dissipate, leaving behind only the stark, cold truth of her empty bed.
A single tear traced a path down her temple, a testament to the profound disappointment that washed over her. It had felt so real. More real than most of her waking life. The depth of emotion she’d experienced, the sheer intensity of the connection, it all lingered like a physical ache in her chest.
Velveteen lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the silence of her room now deafening. The dream had revealed a raw, undeniable longing within her, a desire for a connection she hadn’t known she craved so deeply. She touched her lips, still feeling a phantom warmth, a ghost of his kiss. It was only a dream, yes, but it had etched itself onto her heart, a beautiful, painful reminder of what she yearned for, and perhaps, what was truly possible, even if only in the realm of sleep. The memory, though heartbreakingly unreal, ignited a quiet, tender hope within her, a new understanding of her own heart’s romantic depths.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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