The suite smelled of sweat and Amanda's release – thick, musky, intimate. She lay sprawled beside me, limp, trembling, a sheen of perspiration catching the low light like scattered diamonds. Her chest heaved, each ragged breath a testament to the ruin I'd wrought between her thighs.
The rawness of the 69 still hung in the air, the phantom ache of her throat around me, the taste of her gushing on my chin. But now, in the sudden quiet after the storm, something else stirred. Her eyes, when they fluttered open, weren't glazed with shock or surrender. They held something deeper, a dawning wonder, a vulnerability that cut through the predatory haze still clinging to me.
This wasn't just another conquest gasping on Harold's sheets. This was Amanda, irrevocably altered, waiting.
