I have cum dripping out of my pussy right now, and maybe a little lube. I’m ready to be rid of it, to feel clean and new again, but the warmth lingers—sticky, sacred—a trace of the fevered moments that brought me here. The room is heavy with the scent of sex: musky, sweet, raw. My skin glows with leftover heat. Breath uneven. Limbs slack. I lie sprawled across the silk sheets, their coolness stark against the radiant flush of my body.

Candlelight flickers on the nightstand, shadows dancing across the walls like his hands had danced across me—firm, assured, reverent in ways that left me open and trembling. He’s in the shower now, the rush of water a steady hush behind the door, and I am alone with the pulse still thrumming between my legs.

I shift, and feel it—the slickness, that mix of him and me. I bite my lip, smiling. I should clean up. I will. But not yet. Not before I savor it a little longer. My fingers skim down the slope of my belly, slow and deliberate, pausing just above the spot where I’m still tender, still sensitive. The faintest touch draws a throb, low and insistent.