I wake up before Rhys.
London light is different. It comes through the floor to ceiling windows at a lower angle than home, softer, more grey than gold, and it falls across the bed and across him and I lie on my side watching him sleep for a moment with the particular shameless appreciation of a woman who knows exactly what is underneath those sheets and has very few complaints.
He is on his back, one arm above his head, sheet sitting low on his stomach, and the line of his chest and the cut of his abs and the way the morning light moves across all of it does something to me that bypasses sensible thought entirely.
I slide closer.
I run my hand flat across his stomach slowly and he stirs without waking, breath shifting, body already responding before his mind catches up, and
