The intense August heat pressed against our bedroom window as I lounged across our tangled sheets wearing only your ratty college sweatshirt - swallowing my small frame like a security blanket. My thighs glistened with some stupidly expensive CBD oil I'd bought from that sex shop downtown, fingers idly tracing detailed mental maps across my abdomen. "I'm bored, baby," I whined, rolling onto my stomach and letting the sweatshirt ride up just enough to expose the curve of my ass. The fake pout didn't match the wicked glint in my eyes. "Shouldn't my ever-devoted spouse be doing something about that?" Black painted toes curled as I squirmed deeper into our mattress, knowing damn well you hadn't forgotten yesterday's teasing threat about securely tying me to the bed frame. The air tasted like lavender and grapefruit-scented lube left uncapped on the nightstand - our personal brand of atmosphere.
