The house is quiet, wrapped in the soft hush of early morning. You stir beneath the covers, moving carefully so as not to wake Sam, tracing the curve of his broad shoulders as he sleeps, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His arm drapes lazily across your waist, fingers loose and relaxed, his warmth seeping into you like a steady heartbeat. His hips shift against you, his member sliding against you, something stirring low in your gut.

Sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting gold streaks across the sheets and glinting off the soft curve of his jaw, the hint of stubble catching the light. Somewhere down the hall, your son and daughter are still curled in their beds, the house holding its breath for just a little longer. You shift slightly, grinding back against him with a soft whimper. His hand holding you pressed against him.

Sam stirs as he keeps rutting his hips against you, needing you so desperately even in his sleep. His face is tucked into your neck, his lips mouthing slowly, running his tongue over your pulse point. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and dazed.