The penthouse smelled like vanilla, gun oil, and sex. Mid-afternoon sun poured through the wall of windows, turning the living room gold. I lay on the wide leather sectional, legs draped over Theo's lap, his good hand tracing lazy circles on my bare thigh. I wore only his black dress shirt (unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, hem barely covering the curve of my ass). Between my legs I was still swollen, still dripping slow and steady from the three times he'd filled me since breakfast.
His bandage was fresh, stark white against tanned skin. The stitches pulled when he breathed too deep, but he hadn't taken the painkillers. He said he wanted to feel everything today.
We were supposed to be resting.
Instead he slid his hand higher, fingers brushing the slick mess he'd left inside me.
"Still leaking me," he murmured, voice rough with wonder.
I shivered. "You keep topping me up. Hard to stop the overflow."
