The next morning hit the Underground like a heavy hangover. The artificial light in the ceiling took its sweet time turning from a deep, bruised purple into that familiar, fake orange glare.
Inside the apartment, the bedroom still smelled of the wild, messy night before. Nash was already awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress while fastening his heavy racing trousers. His body felt completely recharged, not a single ounce of fatigue in his muscles.
On either side of him, the sheets were a total disaster, soaked through with sweat and rivers of dried white cream. Lina was dead to the world, snoring softly with her face buried in a pillow, her pink twin-tails tangled up across her bare, sticky back.
Sarra was curled up right next to his thigh, her glasses resting on the nightstand, her plush, voluptuous body still shivering slightly in her sleep as thick white lines of his previous loads continued to slowly seep out from her thighs.
