I poke my tongue out at him.
I don’t know why; he’s just sitting on the sofa opposite and reading his newspaper, silently, minding his own business. He’s frowning, his brow creased as he catches up on the latest horrors taking place in Westminster. The current shit-show that is UK politics makes him grouchy. And when he’s grouchy, I find him even sexier than usual. Needless to say, then, that in recent weeks I’ve been in a near-constant lather of sweat and arousal as his transformation into Grumpy Bear has continued apace.
His salt-and-peppery hair is all messy and sticking up at funny angles, that early morning dishevellment that makes me want to laugh at first, and then makes me want to run my fingers through it and grip it in trembling hands while he buries his face between my thighs and devours me frantically.
He hasn’t shaved, and he probably won’t today. It’s the weekend, and he’s “switched off” for a couple of days. I always find his facial scruff sexy, and enjoy the scratch and burn of the sharp bristle against my skin.
His eyelids are still a bit puffy from sleep. Neither of us are morning people, and although it’s nearly midday it may as well be 6am as far as we’re concerned. But I’ve just finished an entire cafetiere of Colombian roast on my own – (he’s still nursing the same cup of English Breakfast Tea I made for him earlier)- and now I’m waking up with a vengeance.
I’m feeling cheeky. Naughty. I want his attention. So I stick my tongue out and wait for his response.
Read the rest at The Secret Boneyard…