I stirred, alarmed at the sudden voices invading my fragile consciousness. An arm let go of my waist and hit something, making the voices shut up. I turned around, faced with a broad back and well-muscled shoulders. I ran my hand up and down Jack’s back, mindless in its exploration of the bumps, the dips, the muscled ridges. “Mmmm. Harder….” I smiled, digging my fist into that tight little triangle right between the shoulder blade and his spine. “Ahhh… is it really tight?” he asked. “Yeah. Have you been sitting a lot?” “At the damn computer,” he grumbled. I nestled my chin on his shoulder, comfortable and warm, and poked and stroked and rubbed and kneaded, making his morning a bit nicer. “Your cheek is getting scratchy,” he purred, and I moved my jaw up and down his shoulder with a sigh. “This is Nina Totenberg, reporting from Washington, DC….” The radio alarm went off again, and this time Jack only turned the volume down to an acceptable level. He turned toward me.
