Breakfast in Bed

She was winding her forelock in her fingers, absently staring out of the window; content as far as I could tell.

She was not aware that I was watching, her reverie deep enough that my feet on the stairs and the gentle clanking of cutlery on crockery had not roused her consciousness.

I stopped for long enough to really look at her; her deep blue eyes, the sweet gold of her blonde hair, the soft ivory of her skin. She was perfect in my mind, even if for another her neck might be too long, her breasts too small or too big, her hips too wide or too narrow; one can never tell the taste of others. I was captivated by the places where her body disappeared under the sheet that was laid across her in a rather careless manner, not to cover her it seemed, but just because it was there and the cotton felt good against her skin. I considered putting the tray down and going hunting under the sheet for the delights that its borders seemed to promise.

She stirred.

“Breakfast in bed? Oh baby, thank you.”

Oh that smile.

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