I woke at half six on the Sunday with the kitchen plan in my head and Emma's ass in my hand.
That is not me being crude. That is geography. She was half on top of me, one bare leg over mine, the vest she had put on at four ridden up to her ribs, the soft full weight of her chest against me through the cotton. No bra. She rarely is overnight.
And the boxers she had hooked off my floor at four, mine, squeezed onto hips they were never built for, the cotton stretched tight across the back of her, were exactly where my hand had ended up in the night.
Because that is where my hand ends up every night. It has a home. It goes to it.
I gave her a slow squeeze. Half asleep. Habit and worship in the same movement.
She made the low sound into my throat without waking properly and pressed back into my palm.
