Nolan
The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across Annabelle's bare shoulder. I trace them with my fingertip, still marveling that I'm allowed to touch her like this, that she's here in my bed, in my life, in ways I've only dreamed about.
Her breathing changes, and she stirs, turning to face me with sleep-soft eyes. "Morning," she murmurs, voice husky.
"Morning, beautiful." I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "Sleep well?"
The smile that curves her lips is answer enough, but she stretches languidly against me anyway. "Better than I have in years."
It's been three days since our cookout, and I'm enjoying discovering her body, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her laugh. It still doesn't feel quite real.
"What time is it?" she asks, glancing toward the window.