A sunday morning invitation

Sunday morning,
Early,
10:30,
In the kitchen,
Preparing breakfast.

Glanced back in the bedroom door,
Coffee in hand,
Saw you,
Sitting by the open french doors to the garden,
Bathed in the soft light,
Filtered through the vine leaves,
Covering the pergola,
Over the flagstone terrace,
Just outside the doors.

You were laying back,
In your favorite chair,
Legs out in front of you,
Head tilted back,
Eyes closed,
Softly sighing,
Gently,
Deeply,
Breathing,

You were still in your nightgown,
Its hem pulled up,
Baring your legs to the morning’s sun,
Your hand,
In your lap,
Your fingers,
Quietly touching yourself.

The shadow of your,
Peaked nipples,
Visible through the lace,
Highlighted by the sun.

The faint movement,
Of your hips,
Alluring,
In the morning’s blush.

The tremor of the muscles,
In your thighs,
Enticing,
In the softly filtered light.

Your delicate moans,
Barely perceptible,
Seductive,
In their gentleness.

Your arousal,
Increased;
Peaked;
Released.

Your wet finger,
From between your legs,
To your mouth.

Your eyes,
Found mine,
Winked.