Had one of those moments today where a scent just hijacked your entire brain. Walking past a bakery and the smell of cinnamon hit me—suddenly I was back in bed this morning, the sheets damp, skin still buzzing. The memory wasn’t of the act itself, but the after. The heavy, quiet air, the sound of my husband’s breathing from the corner of the room, the weight of Dante’s hand resting possessively on my throat. It wasn’t the thrusting that stuck, it was the stillness. The profound, fucked-up peace of being exactly where I was meant to be: a used, satisfied woman for one man, and a living, breathing love letter for the other. My pussy still aches a little. A perfect, tender reminder.