He was an early riser—even on weekends, and Emma groaned as he threw back the covers, the cold draft destroying their warm haven.
"Apologies, love, there are no days of rest on the high seas."
"We aren't on the high seas," she murmured with a yank and a greedy leg thrown over his hip, trapping him there. A chuckle rumbled against her lips where she was worshipping the pulse point just below that infuriatingly attractive jawline of his. "In case you forgot…" She let her hands trail down father in her carnal pilgrimage.
His voice was rough, quiet, no longer laughing. "I'm acutely aware of how real you are, Emma." And he pulled the comforter back over them as they lost themselves in their burning reality.
Later, after a kiss on her indolent eyelids, a promise of breakfast, and the drone of the shower, she snuggled his pillow.
His whistling drifted out from behind the closed door.
And there, cocooned in flannel, warmth, down, and him, she smiled.