Chapter 2: Digital Confessions
The lavender-scented darkness of Isabella’s bedroom felt different now. It was no longer just a place for sleep or casual encounters; it held the phantom weight of him, the memory of his taste, the sound of his shattered groan.A week had passed. Seven days of teaching sun salutations with a distracted smile, of seeing the ghost of Robert’s tormented, desiring face in every quiet moment. The date with Mark the musician had been cancelled with a flimsy text excuse. She hadn’t been lying when she told Robert she couldn’t stop thinking about him.It was the truth, and it unnerved her.
Propped against a mountain of pillows, the glow of her phone screen was the only light. Her journal lay open but ignored beside her.The cursor on a draft email to Robert blinked, abandoned.Texting felt safer. More immediate.Less like a declaration.Isabella: You awake?
She hit send, a flutter in her stomach that felt absurdly teenage.The response came faster than she expected.
Robert: Yes.Couldn’t sleep.Grading mitosis quizzes is a poor substitute for counting sheep.
Isabella: Yeah?What would help you sleep?A pause. Three dots appeared, vanished, reappeared.Robert: I think you know.
The simple statement sent a thrill through her, warm and sharp. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers tracing the line of her jaw.Isabella: Maybe.Tell me anyway.Another pause, longer this time. She imagined him in his own bed, probably in a tidy, spartan room, wrestling with his conscience. The image of him—the tall, handsome, disciplined man undone by her—was a potent drug.Robert: Thinking about last week.How you looked on your knees.How you felt. The taste of you is still in my mouth.Isabella’s breath caught. He was never this direct, not even in the feverish moment itself. The guilt must be warring with a newfound hunger. She bit her lip, her own body responding instantly, a familiar ache blooming low in her belly.Isabella: I think about it too.All the time. I cancelled the date with Mark.She sent it, watching the dots cycle.Robert: Why?
Isabella: Because when I tried to picture him, I saw you. When I thought about his hands, I wanted yours.It felt wrong.The admission was more vulnerable than she’d intended. She was used to being the one in control, the tease, the fantasy.This was different. This was real, and it was frightening.
Robert: Isabella… you can’t say things like that to me.Isabella: Why not?It’s true.Your crush. You said it was huge.Well, guess what?I like you too, Robert.A lot. More than I should.There.It was out. The silence on the other end was absolute, no dots, nothing.She felt a spike of panic.Had she broken the delicate spell? Pushed him back behind his wall of doctrine? Then her phone buzzed, not with a text, but with an incoming call.His name flashed on the screen. Her thumb hovered for a second before she swiped to answer, bringing the phone to her ear.She didn’t speak.
“Say it again,” his voice came through, rough with sleep and something else—need. “Please.”
“I like you,” she whispered into the darkness, rolling onto her side, curling around the phone. “I’ve been lying here thinking about you. About how you sounded when you came.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “God, Isabella.”
“Are you in bed?” she asked, her voice dropping to a husky murmur.
“Yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
A low, strained laugh.“Boxers. That’s it.”
“Are you hard?” The question was blatant, filthy.It excited her, this power to elicit raw honesty from him.
“Christ, yes.Since your first text.”
She closed her eyes, picturing him. The broad chest, the flat stomach, the trail of dark hair leading down to where he’d be straining against thin cotton. Her own hand slipped under the waistband of her silk shorts, finding her panties already damp.“I am too,” she breathed.“I’m touching myself right now. Thinking about your cock.How big it felt in my mouth. How you pulsed when you came.”
“Fuck…” he groaned, the word a prayer of surrender.“Tell me. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m imagining it’s your tongue, not my fingers,” she said, slipping two fingers inside herself, a soft gasp escaping her lips.She made sure he heard it. “I’m thinking about you kneeling over me, kissing my neck, then moving down… taking my nipples in your mouth… sucking them hard…”
She could hear the rustle of sheets, the sound of his breathing growing heavier, shallower. “I would,” he murmured, his voice thick.“I’d kiss every inch of you. I’d learn what makes you gasp.”
“What would you do then?” she urged, circling her clit with slick fingertips, the pleasure building, coiling tight.
“I’d keep going down… push your thighs apart… and I’d taste you.I’d use my tongue on you, Isabella. I’d lick you until you screamed.”
His words, so detailed, so hungry, broke something open in her. This wasn’t just reciprocation; this was his own fantasy, vividly imagined and voiced.The devout, careful Robert was describing cunnilingus with a desperate, wanton clarity.
“Yes,” she moaned, arching into her own hand. “Oh God, Robert, yes.My fingers aren’t enough.I need your mouth.I need your cock. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me.”
The line went silent for a beat, save for his ragged breathing. “I want that too,” he confessed, the sound torn from him.“More than anything.But…”
“But what?It’s just us. Just talking. Just wanting.” She was close, teetering on the edge, fueled by his voice and her own brazen words.“It’s not just talking. It’s… it’s coveting.It’s adultery of the heart. I’m lying here, aching for you, imagining fucking you senseless, and it’s a sin. A beautiful, terrifying sin.”
His anguish was palpable, and perversely, it pushed her over. His conflict, his desire clashing with his faith, was the most erotic thing she’d ever encountered. The tension snapped.
“I’m coming,” she cried out, muffling the sound against her pillow as the orgasm swept through her, sharp and deep, her body trembling. “Thinking of you… wishing it was you…”
A strangled sound came from the phone, followed by a low, prolonged groan. She heard it, the soft, rhythmic friction, the hitched breaths, and then his release—a raw, guttural “Isabella!” that sounded like both worship and damnation.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths, synchronized over the digital connection.The aftermath was thick, humid with shared vulnerability.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally, the guilt rushing back into his voice now that the physical urgency had passed.
“Don’t be,” she said, feeling spent, wonderfully hollow. “That was… intense.”
“It was wrong.”
“It was real.” She shifted, pulling the covers up. “You said you had a crush on me.I said I like you.We’re adults.We expressed it. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”
“But it is more,” he said, frustration edging his tone.“You’re not just some woman, Isabella. You’re my friend.And now… this. This complicates everything.”
“I know.” She stared at the faint pattern of moonlight on her ceiling. “So what do we do?”
Silence stretched between them, a continent of unsaid things in the quiet.She could almost hear him thinking, wrestling with it.
“I need to see you,” he said at last, the decision firm. “Not for… this.Not just for this.To talk. In person.”
The request was so simple, yet it felt monumental.It was a step out of the digital fantasy and into the messy, tangible world.
“Okay,” she said softly.“When?”
“Tomorrow.After your last class.My place. I’ll cook.” He paused.“It’s a date. A real one.”
The word ‘date’ coming from him, after what they’d just shared, sounded both quaint and profoundly significant.It was an attempt to graft this new, chaotic thing onto a normal, respectable framework. She knew he needed that.“I’d like that,” she said, and she meant it. The craving she felt wasn’t just physical anymore. It was for the man himself—his mind, his impossible struggle, his quiet intensity.“Good,” he said, his voice softening. “Now try to get some sleep.”
“You too, Robert.”
She ended the call, placing the phone face-down on her nightstand.The room felt larger, the silence more profound. The scent of lavender seemed cloying now, too sweet. She got up, padding barefoot to the window, and drew back the curtain.The moon was a sharp sliver in the black sky.
A real date.He was going to cook for her. They would sit across a table, not a phone line, and they would have to navigate the charged space between them—the memory of his cock in her mouth, the sound of her pleasure in his ear, the stark reality of their differences. He would try to be a gentleman.She would try not to tease him. Both attempts would likely fail.A slow smile spread across her face, reflected faintly in the dark glass. For the first time in a long time, the attention of a man didn’t feel like a fleeting prize. It felt like the beginning of a precipice, and she was leaning forward, eager to see the view from the edge.
The following evening, Isabella stood outside Robert’s apartment building, a neat brownstone in a quieter part of town. She’d changed three times, eventually settling on dark jeans and a simple emerald green sweater that brought out the flecks in her brown eyes. Pretty, but not trying too hard. The phrase “amazing in bed” from a week ago felt like it belonged to another lifetime.She pressed the buzzer.“Come on up. Third floor,” his voice crackled through the intercom, tense.
The stairwell was clean, smelling of lemony polish and old wood.His door was at the end of the hall, slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
“Hey.”
He stood in the doorway to his small kitchen, wearing a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, a dish towel over his shoulder.He looked devastatingly handsome, and utterly terrified. The air between them crackled, a live wire of everything unsaid and everything done.
“Hey,” she echoed, stepping inside. The apartment was as she’d imagined: orderly, bookshelves lining the living room, a comfortable-looking couch, a large window overlooking the street. It smelled of garlic, oregano, and him—a clean, soapy scent.
“Can I get you a drink?Wine?I have red,” he said, moving stiffly back into the kitchen.
“Wine would be great.”
She followed him, leaning against the doorframe, watching him navigate his own space with a nervous energy. He poured a glass of merlot, his hands steady but his jaw tight.“Dinner’s almost ready.Just pasta. Nothing fancy.”
“It smells amazing.” She took the glass, their fingers brushing.A jolt, simple and electric. His blue eyes flickered to hers, then away.
“So,” he said, turning to stir a saucepan of tomato sauce.“How was your day?”
The mundanity of the question was almost funny. They had shared the most intimate, explicit conversation of her life the night before, and now he was asking about her day.“It was good.Taught a hot yoga class that wiped everyone out. How were the mitosis quizzes?”
“Tragic. A shocking number of seniors seem to think mitosis is how plants reproduce.”
They fell into the easy rhythm of friendship, talking about work, a funny student story, a difficult parent. It was a lifeline, a way to paddle safely on the surface while the deep, dark water of their attraction swirled beneath. They ate at his small table, the pasta delicious, the conversation flowing. But every lull, every shared glance, held the weight of the previous night.Finally, over a second glass of wine, the pretense frayed. Isabella put her fork down.“Last night…” she began.He looked up, his eyes guarded. “Yes.”
“It meant something to me. It wasn’t just… getting off.”
He put his own utensils down carefully, aligning them on the plate.“I know. That’s the problem.For me, it… it has to mean something. And yet, everything in my belief system tells me it’s a corrupted meaning if it exists outside of marriage.”
And yet, everything in my belief system tells me it’s a corrupted meaning if it exists outside of marriage.”
The words hung in the warm, garlic-scented air. Isabella watched the conflict etch itself into the lines around his mouth. She saw not a prude, but a man split in two. The teacher who believed in rules, order, divine plan, and the human who had tasted her and was starving for more.
She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. He didn’t pull away. His skin was warm, his knuckles tense under her palm.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words soft and genuine. “I’m sorry I started all this in my bedroom. I was being selfish. I saw your reaction and I just… took. I didn’t think about what it would do to you.”
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. The gesture was shockingly intimate. “Don’t apologize. I’m a grown man. I could have walked out. I wanted to stay. I wanted every second of it.”
“But it’s killing you now.”
“It’s clarifying me now,” he corrected, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “The confusion is gone. I know exactly what I want. I just don’t know if I can live with the cost of taking it.”
She stood then, pulling her hand gently from his. She picked up her wine glass and walked to the living room, sinking into the corner of his sofa. She needed space to breathe, to think. He followed, standing awkwardly by the bookshelf, a silhouette against the lamplight.
“What is the cost, Robert?” she asked, looking up at him. “Tell me. Not in scripture. In you.”
He ran a hand through his black hair. “It feels like… dismantling a core piece of who I am. That man, the one who waited, who believed the wait had a sacred purpose… he dies if I choose this. And I’m afraid of what’s left behind. Maybe just a guy who got horny and broke. Maybe nothing with any substance at all.”
“You think your substance, your goodness, is tied to your virginity?” The concept was foreign to her, almost painful.
“I think my discipline was. My commitment. My word to myself and to God. Yes.”
“And if that word was made in ignorance?” She took a slow sip of wine. “You’d never even seen a naked woman before me, had you? In person.”
He shook his head, a faint, embarrassed flush on his neck. “No. Not in person. Pictures, sure. Movies. But not… real. Not breathing.”
“So you promised to deny yourself something you didn’t even understand. That’s like promising to hate a food you’ve never tasted. It’s not a commitment, it’s a guess.” She knew she was arguing, pushing, but she couldn’t stop. His pain was a knot she needed to untangle.
“It was a principle,” he insisted, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.
“Principles shouldn’t make you miserable. They should guide you toward a better life. Does this one?” She put her glass down on the coffee table with a soft click. “Look at me, Robert.”
He did. His blue eyes were dark pools in the lamplight, full of a yearning so profound it stole her breath.
“Come here,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
He crossed the room slowly, as if walking through deep water. He sat beside her, not touching, the cushion dipping under his weight. The space between them hummed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and this time she leaned in. She didn’t ask. She simply closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.
It was different from the desperate, hungry kiss in her bedroom. This was slow. An exploration. A question. His lips were soft, hesitant for a fraction of a second before they yielded, moving against hers with a tender urgency that made her chest ache. She brought a hand up to his cheek, feeling the slight scratch of stubble. He tasted of red wine and tomato sauce and Robert.
A low sound, almost a whimper, escaped him. He cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her brown hair, deepening the kiss. His tongue touched her lower lip, a shy request. She opened for him, and the kiss transformed. It became deep, wet, a slow dance of tongues that spoke of a week of pent-up fantasy and longing.
She moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between them. She shifted, turning uher body into his, one leg curling over his thigh. He pulled her closer, his other arm wrapping around her waist, crushing her against him. She could feel the hard plane of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart. And between them, the insistent, rigid proof of his arousal pressed against her hip.
They broke for air, foreheads resting together, breathing ragged.
“Isabella,” he breathed, her name a sacred word on his swollen lips.
“Shhh,” she murmured, and kissed him again. She moved her mouth to his jaw, his stubble scratching deliciously against her lips, then down the strong column of his throat. He tipped his head back with a groan, his hand tightening in her hair. She nipped at the base of his throat, then soothed it with her tongue.
“You have no idea,” she whispered, her lips moving against his skin, “how fucking sexy you are. This conflict. This control. It makes me want to ruin you.”
“You are ruining me,” he gasped as her hand slid down his chest, over the crisp cotton of his shirt, to the buckle of his belt.
She stopped there, not undoing it, just resting her palm over the hard heat beneath. “Good.”
She kissed him again, deep and consuming, her body arching into his. His hands began to move, skimming up her sides under the soft green sweater. His touch was tentative, reverent. His thumbs brushed the lower curves of her breasts through the lace of her bra, and he shuddered.
“Can I…” he murmured against her mouth.
“Yes.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching hers for any hesitation. Finding none, he slowly, painstakingly, gathered the hem of her sweater. She raised her arms, allowing him to pull it up and over her head. It joined his dish towel on the floor. She sat before him in just her dark jeans and a simple black lace bra. The lamplight gilded her skin, the subtle muscles of her abdomen, the swell of her breasts above the lace.
Robert’s breath hitched. He simply stared, his gaze a physical caress. It wasn’t leering. It was awe. “My God,” he whispered, the words raw. “You’re… you’re perfect.”
A genuine blush warmed her cheeks. Under the gaze of other men, she’d felt appraised. Under his, she felt seen. Worshipped.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice husky.
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. She watched, a smile playing on her lips, as he revealed himself inch by inch: the strong collarbones, the defined pectorals dusted with dark hair, the flat stomach. He shrugged the shirt off. His shoulders were broad, his arms corded with the lean muscle of a man who stayed active but didn’t live in a gym. He was beautiful.
She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the heat, the steady thunder of his heart. She leaned in and licked one of his nipples, then sucked it gently into her mouth. He cried out, his back bowing off the couch.
“Fuck, Isabella…”
She smiled against his skin, then began to trace a path lower with her lips and tongue. She kissed his sternum, the ridge of his abdomen, the line of hair that disappeared into his trousers. Her fingers found his belt buckle again, and this time she popped it open. The sound of his zipper lowering was obscenely loud.
“Wait,” he gasped, his hands catching hers. “Just… wait.”
She looked up, her chin resting just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. She could see the thick outline of his erection straining against the grey cotton, a dark spot of moisture already present. “Why?”
“Because if you do that, I’ll come in about ten seconds. And I want… I want to look at you. Just for a minute.”
She sat back on her heels, kneeling on the floor between his knees. A mischievous spark lit her eyes. “You want a show?”
He swallowed hard, nodding, utterly captivated.
She stood up, slowly, letting his eyes drink her in. She swayed her hips, just a little, to a silent rhythm. Her hands went to the button of her jeans. She popped it, held his gaze, and slowly drew down the zipper. The sound was a slow tear. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed the denim down over her hips, her thighs, letting them pool at her ankles before stepping out of them. She stood before him now in only the black lace bra and matching panties.
Robert’s mouth was slightly open, his chest heaving. He was transfixed.
Isabella began to move, a slow, undulating dance. She ran her hands over her own body, from her thighs up her sides, skimming the curves of her waist. She turned, giving him a view of her back, the lace of her thong a stark black line against her skin, disappearing between the rounds of her ass. She glanced over her shoulder, biting her lip. She saw his hands gripping his own thighs, knuckles white.
She turned back, her hands moving to the clasp of her bra at the front. She paused, her fingers on the hinge. “Have you ever wanted to just… flick one of these open?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
“Christ, yes,” he groaned.
She didn’t open it. She teased the clasp, then let her hands fall, tracing the lace over her breasts, circling her nipples until they were hard peaks visible through the fabric. She let one hand slide down her stomach, past the waistband of her panties, to cup herself through the lace. A soft sigh escaped her. She was wet, aching. She pressed her palm against herself, her eyes fluttering closed for a second before locking back on his.
“This is what you do to me, Robert. Just by looking at me like that.”
He was visibly shaking with the effort to stay seated. A sheen of sweat coated his chest. “Isabella, please…”
“Please what?” She took a step closer, now standing directly in front of him. She put one knee on the couch beside his hip, leaning over him, her lips brushing his ear. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop?” She nipped his earlobe, then soothed it with her tongue. “Tell me what you want me to do. Use your words, teacher.”
He turned his head, capturing her mouth in a searing, desperate kiss. His hands came up to grasp her hips, his fingers digging into the lace. “I want to touch you,” he growled against her lips. “Everywhere. I want to learn you.”
“So learn,” she whispered, guiding one of his hands from her hip to the center of her body.
His touch through the lace was clumsy, unsure, but electrifying. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, and she moaned, rocking into the pressure. Encouraged, his fingers traced the shape of her, the damp heat, the swelling flesh beneath the thin barrier. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves and rubbed a slow circle. She gasped, her head falling back.
“Oh, right there… yes…”
He watched her face, fascinated by every flicker of pleasure. He was a quick study. His touch grew more confident, applying perfect pressure, varying his rhythm. She braced her hands on his shoulders, riding the waves of sensation his fingers created through the soaked lace.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “For me.”
“All for you,” she panted. “God, your hands… I dreamed about your hands.”
He kissed her again, swallowing her moans. His other hand went to the back of her bra, fumbling. He couldn’t find the clasp. With a frustrated sound, she reached back and expertly undid it herself. The bra loosened. She shrugged it off, letting it fall away.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He just looked. Her breasts were small, high, with pink nipples tightened into hard buds. The candlelight from her bedroom was not here, but the lamplight was just as kind, softening her edges, making her skin glow.
“You can touch them,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering, then finally, gently, he cupped one. His thumb stroked her nipple. The touch shot straight to her core. He bent his head and took the other into his mouth, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking the peak.
“Fuck!” she cried out, her fingers clenching in his hair. The dual sensation—his mouth on her breast, his clever fingers working her through her panties—was too much. The coil inside her snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, ripped through her. She came with a sharp cry, her body convulsing against his hand, her hips jerking uncontrollably.
He held her through it, his mouth gentle now, kissing the sensitive flesh of her breast as she shuddered. When the last tremor passed, she slumped against him, boneless, her forehead on his shoulder. She was panting, utterly spent.
“Wow,” she breathed, laughing weakly. “You’re a natural.”
He held her close, his arms strong around her. She could feel his erection, a persistent, hard ridge against her thigh. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, painfully constrained. The ultimate tease.
After a moment, she lifted her head. His eyes were dark with desire, but also with a soft, triumphant wonder. He’d made her come. The virgin had made the experienced yoga instructor scream.
She kissed him softly. “Your turn.”
She slid off his lap, kneeling again on the floor. This time, she didn’t stop. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled them down, freeing him.
His cock sprang up, thick and veined, the head flushed a deep purple. It was magnificent. She leaned forward and, without preamble, took him into her mouth. She used every trick she knew, swirling her tongue, sucking hard, taking him deep until he hit the back of her throat. She used her hand in tandem, twisting on the upstroke, her other hand cupping his balls.
Robert shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound. His hips bucked off the couch. “Isabella… I can’t… it’s too much…”
She pulled off with a wet pop. “Then let go. Come for me. I want to taste you.”
That was all the permission he needed. With a guttural roar, he erupted. Hot, salty pulses shot into her mouth, across her tongue. She swallowed, taking it all, milking him with her hand until he was spent, twitching, utterly drained.
She rested her cheek on his thigh, listening to his ragged breaths slowly even out. The room smelled of sex and wine and their sweat. She felt powerful, and tender, and profoundly connected.
After a long while, he gently pulled her up onto the couch, arranging her so she lay against his chest. He found a soft throw blanket and draped it over them both. He kissed the top of her head.
“We didn’t…” he started.
“I know,” she finished. They hadn’t had sex. Not the act his faith defined as the line. They had done everything but.
“I wanted to,” he confessed, his voice rumbling in his chest under her ear. “God, I wanted to push you back on this couch and fuck you until neither of us could think. I wanted to be inside you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
The crude, desperate words from his mouth were more arousing than any smooth line from another man. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you were right. It’s a line. And if I cross it… there’s no going back. I need to know what that means. Not in the heat of the moment, but now. Here. With you in my arms.” He paused. “And because I want our first time… if it happens… to be more than me breaking on your couch. I want it to be a choice, not a collapse.”
She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. His face was serene now, the conflict momentarily quieted by satiation and her presence. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” she said, but she was smiling.
He smiled back, a real, easy smile that transformed his face. “So I’ve been told.”
They talked then, for hours. The conversation meandered through childhood memories, fears, dreams. He told her about the strict, loving home that shaped him, the quiet loneliness of his convictions. She told him about her series of disappointing boyfriends, her father’s absence, how teaching yoga gave her a sense of peace she couldn’t find elsewhere. They talked about sex, too—not as a tease, but as a subject. She asked what he was curious about. He asked, with blushing honesty, what women really liked. She told him, in graphic, educational detail, and he listened like a star pupil.
He made her laugh with a story about a frog dissection gone horribly wrong in his classroom. She made him blush by describing, in a whisper, exactly how she would ride him if given the chance.
The night deepened. The wine was gone. The city sounds outside faded to a distant hum.
“I should go,” she murmured, though her body was heavy and content against his.
“Or you could stay,” he said, his fingers tracing circles on her bare back under the blanket. “Just sleep. I have a T-shirt you can wear. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” He said the last part with a self-deprecating grin.
“I believe you,” she said, and she did. The war within him was settled for the night. The truce was held in the warm, sleepy space between their bodies.
She slept in his old college shirt, the cotton soft and smelling of his detergent. He wore a pair of sweatpants. They slept curled together in his bed, her back to his front, his arm around her waist. It was the most chaste, and yet the most intimate, night of her adult life.
In the grey light of dawn, she woke to find him already awake, propped on an elbow, just watching her sleep.
“Creep,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.
She smiled, snuggling closer. “So are you.” She reached back, her hand finding the waistband of his sweats. She slipped her hand inside, finding him already half-hard. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly. “Morning, Robert.”
He groaned, burying his face in her hair. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Maybe,” she whispered, twisting to kiss him. “But what a way to go.”