Dawn Delight

When the night shift ends, the real work begins.

⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit sexual content and adult themes (consensual). Intended for 18+ readers.

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My name’s Donovan. I work nights—8 p.m. to 6 a.m.—as the security guard at a country club. Easy money, most nights. I babysit the parking lot until the last Mercedes ghosts out, lock the bathrooms around the course from a golf cart that rattles like a Chevy, shut down the clubhouse—doors, lights, and anything that could burn in the kitchen—and then it’s just me and a quiet building.

Around 4 a.m. I reverse the order, wake the place up for staff and members, and head home. The money’s alright—better when the members get generous or holiday-drunk and start stuffing tips into my pocket. For a vet with some shrapnel still rattling in places it shouldn’t be, it’s a decent living. I look fine. I am fine. Mostly.

But the best part of my job isn’t the job. It happens about thirty minutes after I clock out, when I walk into my place and find my girl, Dawn.

That’s her—gold on white. Sheets like fresh snow, her honey-bronze skin poured across the mattress. Look all you want. Touch? Different story. I’ll break stuff on you that they can’t fix. She’s mine.

There are three reasons mornings are the best:

One: Dawn’s a heavy sleeper. It takes a little coaxing to pull her up out of dreams.

Two: She doesn’t sleep in anything. Not a stitch. Which is perfect by me.

Three: She likes being woken up the way I wake her. We talked about it—clear green light, her idea, since our schedules duel like they do. Consent first, fellas. Always.

So I step inside, strip out of the uniform, wash the night off, and stand in the doorway for a second just to look. There’s nothing better on God’s green earth than that woman waiting for me in our bed, sunlight crawling over her shoulder, the room quiet except for her slow, even breath—and my pulse catching up.

Her scent lingers in the air—warm skin, clean sheets, a hint of vanilla from her lotion—like a soft trail pulling me closer.

Here’s the trick: I don’t just jolt her awake. That ruins it—like someone spoiling the ending of a movie you were saving. I take my time. I savor the moment and ease into it: the quiet, the light, the drift of her breathing. I kneel by the bed, let the cool air off my skin meet the heat rising from hers, and hover a palm near her ankle—close enough to trade warmth, not quite touching. A kiss lands on the sheet beside her hip, then another at her shoulder. I whisper her name, low, like a secret the morning and I share.

Sometimes—just sometimes—she hears me in that part of her mind that’s still listening even while she’s dreaming. She murmurs something—maybe my name—like she knows I’m there but isn’t ready to wake yet.

I love that. It makes me believe she’s still thinking of me even while she sleeps.

Then I start—right where her shoulder meets her neck. I brace over her on my hands and kiss her, feather‑soft. Her skin on my lips is unreal; I don’t know how she keeps it that soft—like kissing warm satin that’s been sunlit all morning.

I love the taste of her. Sometimes I lick just one spot to keep it on my tongue, to savor it—clean skin and a little salt‑sweet, the faint vanilla of her lotion, a whisper of sleep‑warm musk. It’s like honey thinned with sea air, soft and bright and unmistakably her.

I follow the natural line of her spine, kissing and tasting until I reach the small of her back. I love how she’s shaped—the gentle hollow before the rise of her hips. When I span her waist with both hands, my thumbs and fingers almost touch—almost. I hold there and feel her breathe, the slow flex and release under my palms, like the tide turning.

I move lower, kissing my way from the small of her back along the curve that follows. I linger where her curves meet, letting breath and mouth do the coaxing. When lips aren’t the right tool, my tongue takes over—slow, careful, unhurried—tracing what she offers and listening for the way her body answers.

It’s all sensation now—a chain of little responses: the shift under my mouth, a low, sleepy sound, the soft reach of her hips toward heat. I’m never sure if she’s fully awake or still dreaming, but her body knows when Daddy’s home, and it answers in kind.

Gently, I coax her legs apart, just a little, with a hand on the inside of each thigh. The air in the room shifts, becomes charged.

I lean in. My hands glide up the backs of her thighs, and I use my thumbs to part her, to expose her to the morning light and to me. The sight of her, so vulnerable and trusting in her sleep, makes something sharp and sweet twist in my chest.

I don’t dive right in. I breathe against her first, a soft, warm exhale that makes the fine, dark curls at her center stir. A low, sleepy sound floats from her lips, and she pushes her hips back, just an inch, into the warmth of my breath.

Then I taste her.

My tongue finds her soft, outer folds first, a slow, languid stroke from bottom to top. Her flavor blooms on my tongue—salt‑sweet and warm, a hush of vanilla and skin that could only be her. I circle her opening, not entering yet, just painting slow, wet circles that make her flesh grow slicker with each pass. Another sound, this one deeper, more resonant, vibrates from her chest into the mattress.

I work her like this for long, delicious minutes, using the flat of my tongue, then the pointed tip. I savor the growing wetness, the way her body begins to open for me even in unconsciousness. Every so often, I let my tongue drift higher, tracing a slow, wet circle around the tight, hidden knot of her other opening. She jolts, a tiny, involuntary spasm, and a sigh escapes her—half-pleasure, half-protest at the intrusion into her dreams.

Good.

I keep at it, my focus absolute. I drink from her, licking and sucking until my chin is wet with her and the taste of her coats my chin, rich and addictive. Her hips begin a slow, unconscious roll, meeting the rhythm of my mouth. The sheets beneath her grow damp.

When I can taste her readiness—that sweet, slick flood—I ease back. My cock is heavy and hard, straining against my stomach. I grip myself, giving a slow, tight stroke. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip. Perfect.

I kneel up, positioning myself behind her. I guide the broad, sensitive head of my cock through her wetness, sliding it along her slit, back and forth, coating myself in her. The sensation is electric—hot silk against aching need. She moans, a soft, dreaming sound, and pushes back, seeking more.

The trick here is I don’t want to wake her up. Not just yet. Not until I’m fully inside.

I press forward, just a little. The resistance of her body is a sweet, firm pressure. I hold there, letting her adjust, letting the dreamy warmth of her surround just the tip. Another inch. Her inner muscles flutter, a sleepy, welcoming squeeze. I sink deeper, a slow, relentless invasion that steals my breath. Her heat is a furnace, a perfect, glove-tight fit. I have to grit my teeth, force myself to move with glacial patience. Almost there.

Every inch redraws a map of her—slick heat, velvet pressure, a ripple of muscle that grips and releases like a hand learning my shape. The head sparks bright and tender; deeper, it melts into a heavy pull that climbs my spine and makes my knees untrustworthy. The fit is tailored made, so exact it feels less like entering and more like being locked into place. I can feel her heartbeat through the underside of me, answering mine, and the steady, wet clasp of her makes patience feel like a holy thing.

With the first stroke, I ease back until the head threatens to slip free, then slide in again—shallow, deliberate—letting her meet me an inch at a time. Her body answers with a slow, sleepy squeeze that climbs the length of me. I breathe through it, counting heartbeats, keeping the world quiet.

The second stroke goes deeper, not quite all the way. I rock and settle, exploring the ends of her: the soft front where she’s slickest, the back wall where the pressure turns sharp‑sweet. I angle my hips a shade left, then right, until the glide is molten and unbroken and a quick little tremor flutters against me like a trapped bird.

On the third excruciatingly slow stroke, I bury myself to the hilt. A full, deep possession. My hips meet the curves of her ass, and I stay there, entombed, feeling her grip tighten around me.

A sharp, surprised gasp breaks from her lips. Her body tenses, then melts all at once.

She’s awake.

I hold perfectly still, my weight braced on my arms above her. I can feel every frantic beat of her heart through the place where we’re joined.

“Good morning, babe,” I murmur, my voice rough with restraint.

There’s a beat of silence, then a slow, luxurious stretch beneath me. Her voice is thick with sleep and something else, something dark and pleased. “Good morning, love.”

Then, wistfully, almost dreamily, she tells me, “Don’t stop.”

A current of pure heat arcs through me. I obey.

I settle my weight onto her, pressing her deliciously into the mattress. My hands find hers, our fingers threading together beside her head. I begin to move. Not fast, not frantic. Deep. Long, measured strokes that pull me almost all the way out before sliding home again, a slow, grinding rhythm that rubs every perfect part of her inside. The sound of it—skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic slide—fills the quiet room.

“Donovan,” she sighs, and the way she says my name, all breathy and full, is better than any tip I’ve ever pocketed.

Her back arches, pushing her hips up to meet my downward thrust. I feel the change in her, the tightening coil. Her breaths come in short, sharp pants against the pillow. Her fingers crush mine. She’s close. I angle my hips, changing the tilt just so, and brush that spot inside her that makes her cry out.

It doesn’t take long. A shudder runs through her, starting deep in her core and radiating out in visible waves. Her inner muscles clamp down on me in slow, rolling peaks, a hot, milking pressure that drags a guttural sound from my own throat. She comes with a muffled cry, her body bowing under mine.

She goes limp for a moment, boneless and sated. Then she turns her head, her lips brushing my knuckles. Her voice is a smoky, satisfied purr. “I want to taste you.”

The demand, so direct after such surrender, is its own kind of thrill. I pull out slowly, the separation a sweet agony. I shift on the bed, kneeling beside her head. She rolls onto her side, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark. She reaches for me, her hand wrapping around my shaft, guiding me to her mouth.

Her lips part. She takes me in, not all at once, but with a slow, deliberate suction that erases every other thought. Her tongue swirls around the head, lapping at the mixture of her taste and mine. I groan, one hand tangling in her sleep-mussed hair, the other finding her breast. Her nipple is a hard peak against my palm. I roll it between my thumb and finger, gently at first, then with more pressure.

She moans around me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine. She takes me deeper, her other hand cupping and kneading the weight of her other breast. The sight of her—pleasure-drunk, taking her own pleasure from me—is almost too much.

“Dawn,” I warn, my voice tight.

She releases me with a soft, wet pop, her lips glistening.

Without a word, she rolls onto her back, her legs falling open in a silent, wanton invitation. Her gaze locks with mine, bright and clear now, utterly awake and full of intent.

I fall into her. This time, there’s no sleepy gentleness, no drawn-out tease. I sink into her welcoming heat in one smooth, deep stroke, and she wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into the small of my back. We find a new rhythm, faster, more urgent, born of waking hunger. Our mouths find each other, kissing deeply, sharing the taste of ourselves.

The world narrows to our bodies becoming one, the creak of the bed, the raw, open sounds of pleasure we don’t bother to stifle. I can feel my own end building, a tight, hot pressure coiling low in my belly. Her nails score down my back, her cries growing sharper, more fractured.

“Look at me,” I grit out, and her eyes fly open, locking onto mine. “Come with me.”

It’s a command, a plea, a promise. Her body tightens around me, and I see the exact moment she shatters. Her mouth opens in a silent cry, her entire body seizing. The sight, the feeling, pulls my own release from me in a hot, blinding rush. I drive into her, burying myself as deep as I can go, as my own world whites out.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing, the smell of sex and sweat and her vanilla lotion, and the solid, perfect weight of her beneath me.

I collapse to the side, gathering her against my chest. She molds herself to me, her head on my shoulder, one leg thrown over mine.

Outside, the sun is fully up. My shift is over. Hers is about to begin.

But for now, there is only this. Her skin, slick against mine. Her heartbeat, slowly syncing with my own.

She traces a finger over a scar on my chest, her voice a sleepy murmur against my skin.

“I love how you give wake‑up calls,” she says, a smile tucked into the words.

I kiss her hair. “I’m always delighted to wake you—call it a Dawn delight.”

She chuckles, soft and pleased. “How was your night?”

“Nothing compared to my morning.”

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“Night shift fades, and Dawn teaches me the slow art of waking.” #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #DawnDelight #MorningRitual #Sensual #Consent