Tight. Perhaps he should've secured a fitter apartment with a bathroom that wasn't so bitty you could hardly fit two people.

Nevertheless, here you were, reclined plushly on his lap germane that of a spoilt little thing in nothing but his shirt.

Additionally, you were droning a melody, sweat ever teeming down your forehead, hair clammy around your face after hours of blowzy lovemaking.

“Finished?” He queried, idle and motionless as you etched his eyeliner as best you could.