i am a creature of habit, of routine. the newest addition to my regular scheduled activities: morning sex.

five-fifteen greets us both in the dark, cozy warmth. i am usually naked beside him, tucked in his arms or up against his back. i very reluctantly crawl out of our nest and take vesper out to pee. often i can see the stars, and i sleepily offer a prayer on our way back into the quiet apartment. i switch on the hood light over the stove and feed vesper his kibble, then strip back down to bare skin.

he’s half asleep and greets me with a slow, deep kiss as i ease my weight onto the mattress. his skin is impossibly soft and warm, and i’m keen to chase away the morning chill in his arms. he’s rigid and throbbing against my thigh, and mounts me easily in the dark. i yield, happily.

without my contacts, the room is a comfortable blur and i can only see the outline of his form between my legs. he strokes my wet heat with a low grunt, and sinks down onto one elbow as he aligns our hips. i clutch at his forearms and shudder, toes curled against the mismatched bedding.

the next half hour is spent in fervent copulation, slow and deep and intimate. sometimes i kiss him as he peaks inside me — bare, as always — wound tight and shaking with pleasure. we lay side by side as we come down from the bleary-eyed orgasms, content to cuddle and kiss while dawn approaches on all fours.

by six o’clock, i summon the strength to stand and secretly relish in the cooling drip of semen down my inner thighs as i conjure up a pot of coffee for us both to share.