Breathtaking
breathtaking, adj. – Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.
She's beautiful in the morning.
Really, she's beautiful at all times of the day.
In the afternoon after the sun has warmed the city and the heat reflects on her skin, turning her pale skin a slight tan. That is, when they make it outside of the precinct for any period of time longer than the walk to her car or to a suspect's apartment or to talk to a witness inside a restaurant.
In the evening, after the sun has set and that heat has disappeared into the streets and the air, her skin holds onto it. A glow from under her clothing that sets everything aflame around her. His own personal sun, sitting at the dining room table or at the breakfast bar as he cooks dinner, pouring wine into her glass before she can finish one until she's babbling without knowing it.
But in the morning, she's something else.
Like now.
She's barely awake, eyes blinking into the dim room, face still buried into the pillows that she always hugs to her body as she sleeps. Her hair is tangled, resting on her bare shoulders, a dark curtain down over the soft curves of her back.
He loves her in this unbalanced state, not quite awake but not sleeping anymore. He can tell she's close to alertness: her breathing changes from slow and steady and her eyelashes start to flicker against her cheeks.
So he shifts, letting the mattress dip under his elbow and feeling her body roll toward him until her ribs hit his arm, and carefully drops kisses onto her skin, slightly cool from the linens.
And when she smiles a moment before she opens her eyes, tilting her head up to let their mouths meet in a slow, heated kiss, he feels his head spin, words clog in his throat.
Time passes and not a single word is spoken.
They never really needed them in the first place.