There was no answer, all I found was an empty coffee cup, and the newspaper left on the kitchen table. Just like every morning before, smiling I walk into the living room hoping that she would be there. Instead I find Casablanca on the coffee table, fuck she remembered. Of course she did, she remembered the cake she would remember this. Her hand sliding across my stomach, her lips leaving those fiery kisses on my neck, her breath on my ear.

“Your not suppose to be up yet,” those fingers on my stomach and her lips on my neck are all that I know.

“Why not…were you going to leave me here?” those eyes searching my face, her hands resting on my hips.

“No, I was going to make you breakfast.” she won’t stop kissing me, her lips on my skin, making my blood boil.

The feel of her hair around my hands, her lips on my neck and all I can do is laugh.

“Shane, I don’t think pouring milk and cereal counts as making breakfast.” her hands moves along my sides, pausing before she lifts me up. Her hands squeezing my thighs slightly, brushing over my ass.

“Hey, I can cook…I’m a fucking wiz in the kitchen.” her lips moving over my ear, along my neck and I really don’t give a fuck about breakfast.

Her waist making it all worse, her hands so strong god how I missed the way she smell’s. The cold hard feel of the wall through the shirt, her tongue on my neck, oh how the fuck does she do it? That smile, that look in her eyes, god she is the sexiest woman in the fucking world. That annoying little chime of the doorbell, causing her to pause for just a second before she kisses me. I know that we should stop…we should answer the door. Fuck them, her tongue is way more important…we should answer the door.

“We should get that?” she ignores me and starts to kiss along my shoulder, down the exposed part of my chest. “Who is it?”

“No…ignore it…it’s just someone dropping off breakfast.” oh god why does that not surprise me? She was never really good at lying.