Authors Note: Hey, this is a possible one-short, depending on the reaction it gets. If people want more, than I will write a continuation, which won't have the 'T' rating. Enjoy!

The soft glow from the moon shined through the balcony window, into the bedroom.

Our bedroom. Derek's and mine, as of one month ago. Well, mostly it was mine, but he has a drawer. I swear.

And what could be more perfect than this? Than sharing a house, a bedroom, with the one you love? I wonder that as I stare at Derek's body, strewn across the bed. All 6 feet and two inches of him. The duvet has fallen on the floor, in front of our queen sized bed, and the navy colored silk sheets are precariously close to falling off of his hips all together . . .

But, back to the point, before I wander too far off of it. So, what could be better? Well, gentle viewers, if this were a movie, there wouldn't be anything better. In the movie version of my life, Derek and I would live in a mansion, with a pool, and we wouldn't be struggling with rent or food money. Still, at least the bedroom was the biggest room in our one-bedroom apartment. And it has a killer view right now, and I'm not talking about the balcony.

Still . . . there is one thing stopping this from being perfect. Because, well, we haven't actually done it. You know? You'd think we would have, with his wolfy hormones going crazy wild. Sorry to disappoint, viewers, but so far this movie has been pretty damn anti- climactic, if you know what I mean. Not that I haven't, well, tried, to initiate something. But Derek is a little dense. Maybe I should just be more . . . direct.

I set the glass of water I had gotten on the dresser across from the bed. As I walk towards his sleeping figure, I pull off the red boxer short I had on, leaving only a slinky spaghetti strap top and cotton thong. As if in answer to my prayers, Derek's muscled figure moves off of his side and completely onto his back, and the sheets slip a little farther down his thighs.

I kneel on the bed beside him, and just stare. His chiseled abs look even better in the soft lighting, and I can't help but reach out to stroke them. I was soaked through, just looking at him.

As my finger gently brushes upwards, against his rock-hard chest, I can't help but stare lower. Even in his sleep, he could feel me, apparently.

I lift my knees, oh-so careful as to not wake him, and straddle his thighs, avoiding his manly bits. As I continue to trace one hand down his chest, my other hand sets out of a different task.

As I closed my eyes, I was startled by a strong- yet oddly gentle- hand grasping my right hand as it ceased tracing it's owner's chest.

"D-D-Derek?" I stuttered, mortified. As I was about to get off of him, his other hand caressed my shoulder.

"Chloe?" He asked, voice husky with sleep. God.

"Y-yes?" I stammered, frozen.

"Did I tell you that you could stop?" Oh, God.