Perfect. Beyond perfect. Was there a word beyond perfect? A word for every cell in her body singing? It might be easier to compose something on the harp than try to explain this feeling in words.
Where to start…
It was difficult even to begin; she was still more than half asleep. A trail of weight and warmth on her back and side- that was his arm. And raking across her scalp oh, so gently, his claws parted yellow curls and sent waves and ripples of what she could only call love through her skin. Sometimes his large hand lifted up, and came down again to pat her hair gently, as if she were a little cat. She was almost purring. Was that noise coming out of her? Or was that her sleepy imagination? Not that it mattered. Her pillow was soft, and warm, and his shirt was hiked up over it. She could feel him breathing. During fleeting moments of almost-consciousness, she would snuggle into it. Kiss kiss kiss. The arm beneath her glanced over his lap and curled around a burgeoning lovehandle. The other arm came up onto his upper belly. Palm flat, fingers splayed- with this one hand she could feel the beautiful contour of it. Sometimes she caressed it, slowly, softly. Her legs were laid out along the empty half of the sofa, hanging off the edge at the ankle.
If her eyes fluttered open, for a few fractions of a second at a time, she had the most marvelous view. Simply breathtaking.
Honestly, it was all just as good with her eyes closed.
Who cared if there was a word for this? Maybe she would write a song to it. It would be like angels in chorus. Everyone would ‘ooh’ and 'ahh.’ People would ask, 'what do you call this gorgeous piece of music?’ And she’d say, 'Sleeping On Shannon’s Tummy.’
But now she was awake. Bouncing, jostled- what exactly-? After a second her brain caught up with reality and connected this quaking with the high pitched hyena noise just above her: he was laughing.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he said.