The warmth of his skin lingering against my pillows, that joy always makes me yearn for more as I sink down into his imprint, the one left on my body, in my body. My hands cannot help but clutch at my vulva, as I squeeze my delicate, tender wrists between my thighs, making his essence stay inside of me, my apartment, willing his presence back into my life before the door slams back against its frame. I smell the musk of him lingering in the air around my nostrils as I struggle into a sitting position attempting to right myself in the bed, before my feet find the barren coldness of the Utah morning’s light reflected in the grains of the wood floor. The curtains flutter around the heaters gruff exhalation and I wrap my tired arms around my naked waist hoping that I can hobble to the bathroom without falling.

A night in the arms of my lord and master often exhausts every inch of my body, leaving me in need of a long soak in Epsom salt. I can’t stand the thought of sloughing off the proof that I do have a husband just yet; needing to feel the sweat and heat of him for just awhile longer. As I squat to begin my morning ablutions my mind wanders to the passion of the night before, the wrists bound in hard hands, the sharp intake of my breath as he pushes me over the edge, spiraling me beyond my limit to his excess, and my blush is hotter against my cheeks than the burning ache in my over worked vagina.

“Damn him.”

My courage goes as far as the echo against tile, as my angst against him for making me feel this way, wanting it so bad, feeling so desperate that I accept anything, rolls to a stop against the hard truth.

“And now I’ve even come to like it.”

I wipe at myself bitterly trying to translate this life into the one that I had dreamt of when I…