There's something so sultry in the kiss she gives him. Kisses like that ought to never end -- that's his assessment on it -- so he makes it last as long as he can, and when their mouths finally part so they can breathe again, he drags it out, his lips moving from hers to the side of her face to her jaw to the soft pale skin beneath her chin, all the way to the other side, down her neck to the little vee where collarbone meets sternum. It's a good spot and there's no hurry, so he dallies there where he can drink in the sweet perfume of her skin for as long as it takes. And then he does the whole thing in reverse, noting the flush on her cheeks with no small satisfaction as he works his way back to her mouth.

This is something he knows how to do, something he's good at. But beyond those considerations, it's something he's been longing for.

Aching for.

Again, he lingers against her, savors her, feels as if he could simply melt into her and when at last he pulls away, he gives her a heavy-lidded and very appreciative smile.

"Good morning." His top arm moves to caress her, bringing a blanket of long black hair with it like its own protective shroud. He wants to mold his body against hers, drape over her, wrap around her, wear her.

Good thing nothing's stopping that from happening, and he realizes with a surge of gratitude that this is what mornings are for. This is what they used to be like, only the present company is the best he's ever shared. He's played with letting luxury satiate him before, but those other times and other people and other sensations were nothing compared to this.