Unadulturated Mush
Sally Carrera woke slowly, comfortably, stretching an arm out to land on her still-sleeping bedmate. The sun was starting to shine through the window over the bed, illuminating the interior of the "teepee" she shared now with Lightning. Her movement elicited a half-waking response from Lightning; he rolled over to face her, half opening his ocean-blue eyes to gaze at her sunlit features. In answer, she rolled onto her side and scootched backward, coming to rest cozily nested against his muscular form. He draped an arm over her, expelling a sigh.
"Sorry, can't help being a morning person," she apologized. Lightning pulled her a little closer, raising his head to nibble, then kiss the top of her shoulder. She smothered a giggle. "Does Lightning strike in the morning?"
"Lightning strikes without warning," he replied, blowing a stream of breath into her hair, making her squirm.
She twisted lithely around, wrapping herself around the racer's frame, gazing at his honey-brown curls, and coming to rest in his sleep-heavy, captivating eyes. He was smiling at her—not a smirk, not a grin, just a wholly content little up-turn of the lips that she answered in kind before burying her face in his shoulder. She breathed in the smell that attracted her like a magnet: warm male body, musky cologne, and a faint breath of gasoline underneath.
Lightning McQueen, racecar driver. He had an ego. He was often impatient, and surprisingly naïve. She could deal with that. "Mmm, Stickers, I'm so glad you learned to slow it down."
Lightning snorted. "You taught me well, Pretty Lady," he returned, goosing her rear gently. She squeaked, pulling back and boffing him playfully on the head.
Sally Carrera was never letting this man go.
After a few moments of silent savoring, curled back up against Lightning's chest, she heard him ask, "Uh, have I lost you?"
"Hmm-mm," she murmured into his skin. "Never will."
A/N: Fact--The Cozy Cone is based on a couple of real-life Route 66 motels, which feature individual, teepee-shaped cabins.