I laid upon my dark sheets, a pale doll0p of cream on a blackberry compote, and imagined what his big bear hands would feel like.
Warm, strong, the pads on his fingertips slightly rougher from years worth of the kind of manual labor all able-bodied males are roped into doing.
I hiked up my shirt and grabbed a mound of breast. Perhaps he would do the same. I smiled, stretched, got out of bed. The shirt caught on my breasts.
Then there was a knock at the door. That would be him.