When I woke up, you were still sleeping. You were curled up, your knees pulled up towards your chest. You looked cold, so I pulled the blankets up over you, brushed the hair away from your face, and gave you the lightest kiss I could on your forehead. I gently climbed out of bed and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

I was halfway through my first cup of coffee when you shuffled around the corner. You were rubbing your eye with the back of your tiny fist while the other clutched the arm of your stuffed bunny. You had on one of my tshirts, which -- for the difference in size -- might as well have been a nightgown on you. You stuck your bottom lip out at me as your face screwed up in an angry scowl.

"What's wrong, cupcake?"

"You left me in bed," you sleepily complained.

"You were sleeping, little one."

"You left me in bed!" you angrily (in your tiny little monster way) argued back.

Without another word, I held my arm out to you, inviting you into your favorite spot. You shuffled over, unable to resist, and curled up in my arm with your head on my chest.

"Do you want a sip of Daddy's coffee?"

You must have gotten bored of the World War 2 documentary I had on the tv, because when I looked down, you were already asleep again. I leaned down and tried to kiss your forehead without waking you, but your eyes fluttered open.

"Daddy," you squeak out plaintively. "Kiss me please!"

I lean in, letting my lips brush against yours for a brief moment. You didn't like that. You needed more. With a pouty little whimper, you demanded a deeper kiss from me. And as my hand found a fist full of your hair, I pulled you into me and gave you just that. Even in the morning, your breath tasted sweet, intoxicating, and my composure started to slip. Reaching my other hand around your waist, I pulled you up and into my lap. Hungrily, my hands pushed up between your thighs.

Before long, your head was back in my lap, lazily cleaning up the mess you made there. I love it when you savor it; when you don't greedily bob your head up and down like a machine in overdrive. When you take your time exploring every inch, when little moans and whimpers escape past it in your throat. I love it when you look up at me, cockdrunk and smiling, when you hear me growl and grunt as you finish me and consume every last drop you can get.

"My sweet little mouse," I coo at you as I kiss your nose and then your forehead -- your nose because you're as cute as a button, and your forehead because you're a good girl. "You're Daddy's. You know that, right? You belong to me, and only to me."

"I know, Daddy," you manage to giggle as you snuggle back into your spot, your head on my chest.