Amara lay curled tight against Devon's chest, her skin still slick and shining with a mix of sweat and cum that clung to every curve like a second skin, warm and sticky, drying crusty in places, wet and fresh in others.
The air around them hung thick and heavy, saturated with the raw, filthy scent of sex—jasmine from her perfume twisted deep and dark with the heavier, animal musk of bodies pushed past exhaustion, past reason, past mercy.
Salt stung the air sharp from their sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered where she'd bitten his lip hard enough to draw it, the taste still on her tongue.
The sheets beneath them were a total battlefield, soaked through in dark, spreading patches that smelled like squirt and semen, twisted into tight knots, stained with thick, creamy streaks that had dried flaky in the creases and stayed wet and glossy in the dips.
