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When Sara wakes up, she isn’t immediately aware of what he’s doing. It comes little by little, weight and warmth on her hips. Where his hands are. His lips. The sloppy sound of hungry kisses on her shoulder might be what pulls her from sleep.

“Michael –” She tries, but from the way he moves, she can tell he’s sleeping. At least partially.

His hands move between her legs, draw her knees apart.

Night has a kind of spontaneity that daylight misses. Michael’s always so keen on doing things right. Generally, by the time they start having sex she’s already come multiple times.

This is different. Somehow more exciting. Maybe just because she was asleep ten seconds ago and there’s absolutely nothing on her mind, no nagging thought or sudden realization that she’s forgotten to do something important.

There’s only now and Michael’s lips down her collarbone and his fingers feeling her instinctively. A deep moan rises from her throat when he thrusts his index inside her, deft, not gentle. She’s still fresh out of sleep and the noises she makes are irrepressible. Most of the time she’s better at it. Most of the time.

Maybe a minute or ten elapse, Sara closes her eyes, sees all sorts of shades of darkness, reaches for Michael’s shaft, traces her fingers down his pubic hair. Suddenly he utters a groan of impatience that’s so very unlike him she thinks of laughing, but he’s inside her so fast it slides right out of her mind.

“God. Michael.”

He never says anything, just ragged bits of loud breathing. It’s different from what she’s used to. Not really better. She misses the sweet whispers in her ears – getting there, sweetheart, love watching you go, come for me now – but there’s an undeniable charm about this, tonight, the rugged simplicity of his plunging inside her, the total lack of finesse.

Orgasm wakes her up completely. For a few seconds she sees white, the room’s bright as day. Michael comes with a few final thrusts, sighs deep against her ear then crumbles on top of her. It puts him right to sleep.

After a few seconds of uncertain silence, Sara starts chuckling.

A couple of weeks later, when they’re having Lincoln and Sofia for dinner, she also chuckles when Michael teases that she talks in her sleep.

“I do not,” she protests, shakes her head determinedly.

“It’s okay,” Michael assures. “You say the sweetest things. I can’t always make them out, ‘course, but what I do get is lovely.”

“For real?” Linc arches a brow over his glass of red wine. Lincoln was always the sort of type she pictured drinking beer. “Any example?”

“Nothing I’d repeat to anyone,” Michael smiles charmingly.

Sara’s smile is far more playful. “That’s all right, dear. You just go right ahead and tease. I might talk in my sleep – but you do other things.”

Sofia starts laughing. Yes, she’s the only one to get it. Lincoln just stares, puzzled. Michael’s face is an earnest frown. “What things?”

“More on that later.”

“But –”

“Really, Michael,” she insists. Her grin is white, wicked and wide. “Before this becomes embarrassing.”