Olivia is standing in the kitchen. Nearly every inch of her lean legs is visible in her tiny sleep shorts. Her loose tank top is old enough to be nearly transparent; it reveals the curve of her breast when she reaches for something on a high shelf.
It also reveals the marks I left on her skin—the inside of her thigh, her neck, her ribs. Purple and blue. Watercolor evidence of the mistakes we made together.
My c**k twitches. I should be running for the door, but my body leans the opposite way instead. Towards her, towards the promise of an encore of last night. I could lift her knee onto the counter, shift between her legs, and sheathe myself inside of her.
I don’t do the morning-after thing, but suddenly, I’m wondering if I should. If maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to sample the c
