We were supposed to go out yesterday morning...to be there by nine. But when, from under one leaden eyelid, I glimpsed the bedside clock, it was clear. We'd be sleeping in. The laws of physics don't allow for two-minute lead-times, especially with kids in tow.
Sleepy sex has always been a predilection of mine. I'd slept soundly from one in the morning when I finished the Grisham paperback. Not his usual legal thriller, but a wistful, romantic, escapist jaunt through the naΓ―ve world of Italy's American football league. My lids still heavy with that serene slumber that usually precedes a squawking alarm, I was relishing the prospect of another hour or two in bed when her fingertips first caressed my flank. She spooned me from behind and started running her petite fingers through my chest hair, tickling my stomach and caressing that indeterminate no-man's land of skin that isn't thigh and isn't torso either.
Fingernails
I love the sensation of her fingernails on my body -- anywhere on my body -- so I had little choice but to respond when they traced their spiderwebs so suggestively around my loins. I could feel her warm, pretty legs pressing into the back of my thighs and her toes tickling my soles and gently massaging the arches of my feet. I was suddenly, and very definitely, awake.
I only frowned very briefly when she leapt from the sheets to lock the door discreetly in deference to our status as parents. My proto-frown was replaced by a shut-eyed grin as I heard the doorlock click into place, and sensed her rummaging around among her shoes...I love a little dress-up. So does she, and we've built up a nice little collection of strappy sandals and knee-high spiked boots.