He crawls beneath the bed sheets. “So you think you’re God, is that it?”
Same quiet voice. Same soft words. Damnhim.
“No,” I admit.
“Remember that.”
I open my eyes and sigh. Sure, okay, I’m not God. I get it. But when I start to crawl onto my side of the bed, he says, “Not tonight.”
I didn’t even get a chance to apologize. On my way out, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
Does he hear me or not? Does it even matter?
* * * *
Morning finds me asleep on the couch downstairs, lying on my stomach using one of the cushions as a pillow. I wake to warm hands caressing my stomach and damp kisses on the back of my neck. “Wake up, baby,” he purrs in my ear.
I lift my head to find him leaning above me, his eyes as light as the morning sun filtering into the room through the half-closed blinds. With a smile, he kisses the tip of my nose. “What are you doing down here all by yourself?”