I shower like he told me.
I wash my hair. I soap my t**s, my stomach, the dried streaks on my thighs. I do not put a single finger inside myself. His c*m is still in there — thick, warm, sliding every time I move — and I leave it exactly where he put it.
I put on one of his shirts and nothing else. It hangs to mid-thigh. Every step I take, I feel him leaking out of me in a slow, filthy trickle that wets the inside of my legs.
The front door opens at 12:17.
I don’t even make it out of the hallway.
Marcus drops his keys, grabs me by the throat — not hard enough to hurt, just enough to own — and walks me backward until my ass hits the wall. His mouth crashes onto mine. He tastes like coffee and control. His other hand shoves straight under the shirt, two fingers sinking into my dripping,
