Woken by the gradual dawn seeping through the curtains, Lucien turned towards the light. Still asleep, Jean shuffled backwards into him, spooning against him so her back touched his belly.
His arm went over her and he grasped her hand gently, holding both their hands over her breast. This was the part of their day he treasured most, a few minutes of quiet intimacy before life intruded. He dropped a kiss on her shoulder softly.
Jean sighed contentedly and stretched her legs out, pushing herself gently back against him. " 'S it time to get up yet?" she murmured sleepily.
"Soon," he whispered. "Not just yet." Forty seven mornings of sleepy pleasure, slow awakening, gratitude. When would he stop counting? Would he ever take this for granted? He hoped not.