The sheets were a war zone, soaked and twisted from the raw, relentless hours we'd spent devouring each other. Sweat, cum, and the faint scent of her arousal still clung to the fabric like evidence of a beautiful crime.
I lay flat on my back in what used to be a perfectly made bed and was now a topographical map of where two people had wrecked each other for the better part of the afternoon.
One pillow had been banished to the floor. The fitted sheet had given up completely, curled into the far corner of the mattress like a wounded animal trying to hide.
Mira was tucked warm and heavy against my side, her body soft and flushed, one sheer black stocking still stubbornly clinging to her left thigh like the lone survivor of our frenzy.
Her hair spilled in a glorious, tangled mess across my chest and collarbone. She smelled like sex mingled with the fading notes of her expensive perfume and the clean salt of her sweat. Every breath I took pulled her deeper into me.
