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.

The bathroom door creaks open. He steps out, towel slung low, droplets clinging to his skin like tiny jewels. His eyes find mine—dark, direct—and I feel it again: that unmistakable pull in my core.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” he says, voice low, edged with mischief.

“Maybe I am,” I murmur, letting the sheet slide from my body. My breasts rise with the motion, my waist curves into view. His gaze darkens—hungry, possessive—and I bask in it, powerful in my ruin.

“I was just thinking,” I add, running a finger across my inner thigh, smearing a glisten of our aftermath, “I might need a little help cleaning up.”

He chuckles, deep and rich, the sound rumbling through me like an aftershock. The towel hits the floor. He’s on me before I can take another breath, all heat and hands and quiet promise. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers against my ear, lips brushing the shell, sending sparks straight down my spine.

His hands trace where mine had been, but with a firmer claim—commanding, coaxing, reverent. He guides me back into the pillows, covers my body with his, and I feel the pressure of him, the need. His fingers slip between my thighs, slick from before, and he groans low in his throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he murmurs, and I gasp, hips lifting to meet him.

His lips move lower—my neck, my collarbone, the soft underswell of my breast—until he’s between my thighs, and then I lose track of everything but the hot press of his mouth. His tongue slides through the mess he left behind, and I cry out, fingers knotting in his hair. He licks me like a penitent man at the altar—thorough, worshipful, relentless. Every flick, every suck, is both a cleansing and a claiming.

The air thickens. The shadows stretch longer. The silk sticks to my back, but I can’t move—I don’t want to move. I want this. Him. The way he makes me come undone like it’s the only thing that matters.

When I break apart again, I say his name like a secret, like a vow.

He climbs back up and kisses me deep, his mouth slick with me. I taste us there—heady, primal, divine.

“Clean enough?” he murmurs, grinning.

“For now,” I say, pulling him closer, knowing full the night is far from over, and we’re not done yet.