That’s when I spot the pink splotches on his new white duvet. “Told you white wasn’t a good option,” I say when he walks back into the room, wet washcloth in hand. He picks up a rose petal. “That’s not you. That’s the rose petals.” “Oh.” Rhys gently wipes the warm washcloth between my legs, and it feels wonderful. While everything after the initial thrust had felt good, I can tell I’m going to be sore. When he’s done with me, he uses the washcloth to clean himself up. “Now, that’s you.” He lifts the cloth up for me to see a few red-tinged streaks. I wince. “Sorry.” “Don’t be. I like it.” “You
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This gave me the ick
