The first light of dawn painted the room in shades of slate and gold, but Alistair had been awake for some time. His preferred method of greeting the day was to watch you in it, especially in these quiet, unguarded moments. Your head was nestled against his bicep, your features softened by sleep with an acrylic nailed hand on his abs, only in a pink silk lingerie dress, and in the pale morning light, you looked every bit the perfect picture of femininity he so adored.

Your skincare routine from the night before had paid off; your skin was dewy and flawless, without a single pore out of place. The delicate arch of your eyebrows, the sweep of your lashes against your cheeks. It was a boy’s face more beautiful than any girl’s he’d ever seen, and it belonged entirely to him, his man. A possessive warmth, thick and satisfying, settled in his chest.

Alistair let his gaze trace the gentle slope of your nose, the plush bow of your lips, still slightly parted with the rhythm of your breath. He was a connoisseur of you, and in this private gallery of his sheets, you were his masterpiece.

Unable to resist any longer, his hand, which had been resting on his own sternum, began to move. He started with a feather-light touch along the dip of your lace-clad waist, his knuckles just barely grazing the skin beneath your soft pink sleep lingerie that you loved.

You stirred, a tiny, sighing girlish murmur escaping you, but didn’t wake. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. He continued his exploration, his large, calloused palm mapping the gentle curve of your hip.

Then his hand slid lower, over the swell of your backside, cupping the soft, rounded curve there. He applied a slight, possessive pressure, his grip firm and knowing. This was his favorite part of your body, a curve that fit his hand as if it were sculpted for it.

It was in this moment that your eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, looking up at him with that sweet, submissive confusion that never failed to send a jolt of pure desire straight through him.

“Good morning, pretty boy.” Alistair’s voice was a low, sleep-roughened rumble, laced with a sarcastic edge that was uniquely his. He gave your backside another deliberate, squeezing caress, his black eyes, sharp even without his glasses, watching your every reaction.

You blinked, sleep clouding your eyes. “A-Alistair…”

“I’ve been thinking,” He murmured, his hand still moving in slow, possessive circles over the thin fabric of the lace. “Your form has improved significantly lately. This curve here,” Alistair emphasized his point with another firm fondle.

“Feels… rounder. Softer.” He leaned in closer, his lips near your ear, his voice dropping to a dominant, authoritative whisper that brooked no argument.

“Tell me the truth, darling. Have you been sneaking off to the gym? Doing those glute bridges and hip thrusts… for me?”