Rita woke up, feeling languid and satisfied, in Kingsleys bed. She lay there for a long moment, relishing the soft sheets and the faint smell of the man still left on the pillowcases. She always felt so safe here. She wondered idly if Kingsley knew he was the only man to ever see her without makeup. The only person she'd ever spent a whole night with, allowing him access to gentle snores and whispered dreams and hair that tangled and got caught and messy. Probably not, and she wasn't about to tell him. It was one thing to make herself this vulnerable, it was quite another to let him know it. He had too much power over her already.
She found one of his old shirts in a drawer and threw it on, yet another casual gesture reserved only for Kingsley, and padded out into the kitchen.
He had clearly just worked out and showered, and the smell if his soap filled her senses and made her a little giddy. Fuck. What was she doing here?
"Coffee please," she said, sliding onto a chair at his table to watch him cook. This was becoming something of a tradition. She didn't need to tell him how she liked it, more cream and sugar than acutal coffee. She drank it black at the office, just to prove a point.