The first light of dawn slipped through the half-drawn blinds of apartment 3B at 1427 Willow Lane, washing the bedroom in a soft, golden glow that felt almost too gentle for the raw chaos left behind from the night. The jasmine candles had burned out hours ago, their wicks reduced to ash, leaving faint curls of smoke and a thick, musky scent hanging in the air sweat, cum, and the sharp tang of feminine arousal woven together like a lover's lingering touch.
The king-sized bed was a mess, its white sheets twisted into knots, stained with dark, wet patches that told the story of their debauchery. Pillows lay scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers, and the air felt heavy, saturated with the memory of moans and slick skin.
