Author’s POV
The apartment still smells faintly of Emma’s vanilla candles, but tonight it reeks of sweat, cheap vodka, and the w***e Mark picked up at the dive bar on 5th.
She’s a redhead with smeared lipstick and a skirt barely covering her ass. He barely remembers her name… Candy? Mandy?.
Doesn’t matter.
He shoves her through the door, mouth already on her neck, hands yanking her top down so her t**s spill out.
“On the couch,” he grunts, kicking the door shut.
She giggles, drunk and eager, and drops onto the cushions; Emma’s old couch, the one she used to curl up on with him. He’s on her in seconds, jeans shoved down just enough to free his c**k, her skirt flipped up, panties ripped to the side.
No foreplay.
No condom.
He thrusts into her hard, one hand fisted in her hair
