Chapter 23: Sunday Light

The first Sunday in my own apartment, the sun came through the south window at six and lay across the mattress on the floor.

There was no bed frame yet.

There were stacks of boxes, one lamp, a kettle and Mitch.

He lay behind me with his arm over my waist and his face in my hair, and I woke slowly, knowing exactly where I was.

I had picked this room.

I had picked this man.

The morning had no appointments in it.

"You're awake," he murmured.

"How do you know?"

"You stopped breathing like you were asleep."

I pushed my back against his chest, and I felt him wake up fully against me.

I smiled into the pillow.

"Marin."

"Mm."

"It's Sunday."

"I know."

His hand moved down my stomach, slowly, and I caught my breath.

He had learned me in a few weeks.

He knew where I wanted pressure and where I wanted patience, and today he gave me patience.

His fingers drew circles on my hip, then lower, then in the place that made me arch.

"Tell me when you want more," he said against my shoulder.

"More."

"Not yet."

I groaned, and he laughed softly, and kept going.

When I couldn't bear it he lifted my leg back over his thigh.

He slid into me from behind, easily, and we both sighed.

He didn't thrust.

He rocked, slow and deep, and I felt every inch of him with the sun on my closed eyelids.

One of his hands held my breast.

The other stayed between my legs.

"I love this," I whispered. "I love how you don't hurry."

"I've waited long enough to take my time."

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