Axl, his heat spooning me in his bed, slid his mouth from my shoulder to my ear.

“Mornin’, baby,” he murmured there.

I stretched again, more languorously.

He was here.

With me.

He’d slept here.

With me.

“Morning,” I whispered.

His hand hit my hip.

“Wanna go down on you,” he said.

Oh yes.

We hadn’t done that yet.

I twisted my neck and caught his eyes.

So beautiful.

“’Kay,” I agreed.

Those icy-blues shone with humor and something even better before he took my mouth in a slow, Sunday morning kiss.

Then, with that hand at my hip, he pressed me to my back, and he wasn’t kidding.

He wanted to go down on me.

I was sleepily surprised that, without preamble, he slid my panties off, opened me to him, and dipped right in.

I didn’t need any preamble when he got down to business.

Holy heck.

Axl purred when he ate a woman out.

It was sublime.

*  *  *

Croissants, butter, jam, coffee, me in my nightie, Axl in his sleep pants (these black with a black elastic band), post-orgasm (me, two, Axl, one) and his bed.

I’d never had one, but I recognized it immediately.

My perfect morning.

“What do you wanna do today?” he asked, twisting to put his coffee mug to a nightstand after taking a sip.

Go down on you, fuck, you go down on me again, fuck more, move on to making love and sometime in there eat and snooze before we pass out for the night, I did not say.

“I don’t know, what do you wanna do?” I asked instead.

“Finish breakfast, fuck, nap, fuck, eat lunch, maybe a quick tourney of Pac-Man, fuck again, eat dinner, watch a movie, fuck then sleep,” he said mostly what I thought, with some welcome alterations.

I bit off a hunk of croissant and jam and smiled at him with my mouth closed.

He watched my mouth as he queried, “Is that indication you’re down with my plan?”

I nodded exuberantly while chewing.

He chuckled and grabbed the knife that was in the jam jar. A jar that sat on a dinner plate which was acting as a tray on his bed.

He thus commenced in loading up his croissant.

He liked a lot of jam.

So did I.

Mm.

“You were beautiful last night, baby,” he murmured before he took his own bite.

Yes.

He’d told me that last night.

Not that a repeat sucked.

“Thanks,” I said shyly.

“Particularly liked ‘Do You Wanna Touch Me.’”

He would.

“I got that when you touched me there a lot after we got back from Smithie’s,” I joked.

“Punk in pointe shoes,” he muttered, going for some butter to prepare his next bite. “Fuckin’ genius.”

I felt something skate over my skin.

And the sensation was like someone was trailing a soft cashmere blanket over my body.

That said…