The room was saturated in the aftermath of their first fall: the air cloying with the briny reek of cum, the metallic bite of spit, and the feral musk of a mother's surrender, thick enough to taste on the tongue.
Peter lay sprawled, chest heaving in jagged, sweat-sheened pulls, his cock—titanic, glazed with her throat's worship and his own spend—pulsing against his thigh, already swelling with a hunger that gnawed at his bones.
Linda hovered besides him, the blanket draped over her shoulders like a funeral veil, her silhouette a shadowed idol etched in the bruised gold of the morning, skin glistening where stray sunbeams licked her curves.
She didn't speak. Words would shatter this.
Her eyes—laced with her unsatisfied lust, pinned his, pupils blown to pits of devotion and his own lust.
A silent covenant passed through them both: This is ours. This is ruin. This is all.
