I could feel his presence even though I couldn't hear him or feel him. His husky male scent always alerted me to the possibility of danger, excitement and .... a quick peck on the cheek.
But no, today was a bit different. He lingered, sniffing me in avidly and I paused, fingers lifted off the keyboard in mid sentence as I became aware of his aftershave, minty-fresh breath cooling on my neck ----
---- as he started rubbing my shoulders.
"Oooh," I sighed rapturously, "This is an unexpected bonus for 7am, Love Chunks."
His strong, confident hands started kneading, expertly moving down lower and lower until ----
----- "HEY! You're not massaging me, you're wiping your hands on my bathrobe!"
Skipping out of the room he called out, "Well it is made of towelling."
I should have known. It was coming from the same guy, who, back in our Flemington flat in 1994, wiped his wet-but-washed hands on my not-quite-awake face and said, "Dontcha just hate it when you accidentally piss on your fingers?"
I married him less than a year later.