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Why do we have to touch while we sleep? It’s a weird concept.

I lean in and inhale her hair, soft and sweet. The warmth from her body is comforting, and I kiss her shoulder from behind.

Getting into bed with Juliet Drinkwater is easy. Getting out of her bed . . . not so much.

I run my hand up her thigh and cup her full breast.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

My lips drop to her neck, and I slowly trail them up to her jaw, my cock rising to the occasion.

I can’t get enough of her. Even this close isn’t close enough.

And I should be sated, damn it. I spent most of yesterday inside of her. But the one thing I’m beginning to realize with Juliet is the more that I have of her, the more I need.

There is no quenching this thirst. In fact the opposite is happening.

My hunger for her is building at a rapid pace.

She moans softly as she stirs, and I know I have to let her sleep; with one last kiss to her cheek I drag myself out of her bed and dress in the dark. I watch her as she sleeps. Her honey hair is splayed across the pillow; her dark lashes fan across her face. Even in the semidarkness, her beauty emanates around the room. I’ve never known anyone quite like her.

I’ve been with gorgeous women before, sure. But none that affect me the way she does.

She’s working tonight, damn it. I won’t get to see her.

With one last look over the sleeping angel, I sneak downstairs and see Barry snoring in his bed. “Dumb dog.” I walk out the back door and see that the sun is just rising, the birds are chirping, and it’s a glorious day. Juliet’s words from last night come back to me, and I smile as I make my way across her backyard.

“I’m yours.”

“Good morning, Bernard.” I smile to my father as I walk into his hospital room.

“Is it?” he grumbles.

“It is.” I pass him the morning paper and open the blind. I pick up the remote and turn his television on to the morning news. “How did you sleep?”

“Not good,” he replies flatly.

I smile at his grumpy reply. Always the pessimist. “Would you like some coffee?”

He looks at me blankly.

“You like coffee,” I remind him.

“Do I?”

“Uh-huh.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“I’ll make our coffee, and then we’ll eat breakfast and get you showered. How does that sound?”

“I don’t want a shower,” he says as his eyes stay glued to the television.

“You love a shower and shave. Makes you feel fresh.”

His eyes meet mine, and I can see the confusion rolling around in his head. “Do I?”

“Yep.” I smile. I make my way down to the kitchen and brew us both a cup of coffee. I’ve done this so many times I’m almost on autopilot now. Every morning it’s the same routine: I have to talk him into showering, remind him that he likes coffee, and put up with his griping. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. This two hours with him is my favorite part of the day.

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