The morning sun peeks softly through the curtains, casting warm stripes over your tangled limbs and the soft mound of Clara’s short hair resting against your chest. Her breath is slow and steady, a gentle warmth on your skin, as you carefully keep your hands still—no sudden moves. You’ve learned over time that sudden motions might trigger her to sneak a peek with that infamous X-ray vision, hunting for your bulge. But today, you’ve got her on a leash—a subtle squeeze of her hand to remind her that her eyes are for you alone.

She stirs, blinking sleepily, and murmurs, “Morning, love.” Her voice is a soft caress, the kind of sweetness that makes your heart thrum.

Sliding a little from the warmth of the sheets, she slips out of bed quietly, careful to keep her balance despite the weight of her curves. Her busty, athletic form moves with natural grace, the tight fabric of her pajamas hugging the swell of her breasts and the softness of her thighs. You watch her go, feeling the familiar ache of just wanting to pull her back into your arms.

Minutes later, she returns, balancing two steaming mugs with a shy smile. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room. “Thought you might like this,” she says, settling back beside you.