You wake up in your London flat, sunlight cutting through the blinds, your body aching in ways you didn’t know were possible. Last night bleeds into your memory—whiskey, laughter, Aaron’s hand on your back, then on your hair, then inside you. You remember the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness of him. You remember begging.

Now, the bed is a mess. So are you. Dried cum streaks your chest. Your ass throbs. And somewhere in the flat, Aaron is awake. You can hear the shower running.

You sit up slowly, wincing, and catch your reflection in the mirror across the room. You look wrecked. Used. Satisfied.

The bathroom door opens. Steam rolls out. Aaron steps into the hallway, towel around his waist, hair wet, beard glistening. He sees you watching. Smiles.

‘Morning, sweetheart,’ he says, voice rough with sleep and last night’s whiskey. ‘How’s that tight little ass feeling?’

You don’t answer. You just stare. Because the truth is, you want him again.

And you’re not sure if that scares you more than the fact that you like it.