She
walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to scowl
at him. Lowering the newspaper, he regarded
her over the top of his glasses, admiring how perfectly his shirt draped on her
body, how transparent it became in the early morning sunlight streaming through
the windows as she approached the table.
“You
weren’t there when I woke up,” she accused.
“It’s Sunday.”
“The
newspaper guy woke me up.” He shook his
head. “I’m going to have to cancel the
paper or be forced to buy a muffler for his crap car.”
“But
why didn’t you come back to bed?”
“It
was too early, believe me, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“We
were going to read the paper, have coffee and breakfast in bed. Stay there all morning if we wanted. Because it’s Sunday.”
He stood
and carefully took the mug out of her hand before lifting her in his arms. He began to nuzzle her neck as he walked out
of the kitchen.
She
sighed contentedly. “How long has it
been since we stayed in bed on a Sunday?”
“Last
week,” he grinned.
“An
eternity then,” she murmured against his lips.
