What happened next wasn't sex. It wasn't even about dominance or ownership or love. It was something raw and primal—something that tore right through the designer leather of her Mercedes and cracked into the kind of truth that people spend years in therapy trying to name.
It was Madison trying to take me back with everything she had—nails, hips, teeth, breath—and me reminding her, in no uncertain terms, why she never had to worry in the first place.
The car rocked on its suspension like it was trying to match our rhythm, and neither of us gave a damn who saw.
Except someone did see. Of course.
Some elderly woman walking her tiny rat-dog past the sidewalk glanced over at the shaking Mercedes. Her eyes locked on the motion. Her face morphed into that perfect cocktail of horror, disgust, and nostalgia for a youth she probably never had.
