The deed was done. Your body, exhausted and worn, was covered in all of his marks. Arthur’s, on the other hand, had none. He refused to ever let you give him a hickey. His wife would find out otherwise.

He sat at the edge of your bed, smoking a cigarette. The man was busy slipping his boots on, the bed creaking as he shifted his weight.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s about time I leave. She’s waiting for me.” Arthur finally spoke up, buttoning up his dress shirt.

Some aftercare would be nice.