The first gray light of dawn slipped through the blinds and painted silver stripes across Ethan’s back. He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over my waist, face half-buried in the pillow that still smelled faintly of my husband’s cologne.
His breathing was slow, deep, the kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve been f****d senseless. I watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the faint red scratches I’d left down his spine, and felt a low, possessive throb between my legs.
My p***y was sore—deliciously, perfectly sore. Swollen lips, tender c**t, the ghost of his c**k still stretching me in memory. c*m had dried in crusty patches on my inner thighs, the sheets, the headboard where I’d gripped it while he’d railed me from behind in the shower. I could still taste him on my
