I woke in her bed, cocooned in linen sheets that held the warm, complex scent of our sin: the deep, musky aroma of her passion, a whisper of vanilla from her skin, the sharp, spent smell of sex, and something new—something sweet, creamy, and utterly divine.
The morning light spilled through the slats of the blinds not as beams, but as liquid gold, bathing her naked body in a holy fire.
It illuminated the full, heavy curve of her breasts, sapphire veins tracing secret rivers beneath alabaster skin, her nipples dark and glistening, and yes—leaking. Delicate, silvery stretch marks mapped the beautiful history of her motherhood.
Her ass still glowed a soft crimson from the fervent worship of my hands.
She lay curled around me, humming a lullaby that felt older than time itself, her fingers stroking my hair with a rhythm that spoke of a love both ancient and brand new, as if I were her newborn, her god, her everything.
Then—drip.
A sensation warm as honey, sweet as forgiveness.
