Page 6 of Saddle and Scent
He leaves, and I collapse back into the ruined sheets, already feeling the next wave building at the base of my spine.
I could fight it.
But the idea of riding it out—just this once—make me want to surrender into this pleasurable domain.
The second wave hits before I can even finish a glass of water.
So much for the rumors that post-orgasm euphoria resets your brain.
Mine is still short-circuiting, frying all its own wiring, refusing to let me ride out the aftermath in peace.
The air in the room is thick with musk, my own. It sits on the tongue, heavy, impossible to ignore. Sheets are a disaster zone. I can’t even look at the wet spot without wanting to die, but I don’t have the energy to remake the bed. Instead, I flop on top of it, thighs slick, shirt damp, still panting.
My fingers are trembling, the muscles in my hands already sore from the earlier death grip.
I stare at the ceiling and wait for the next round of humiliation, which comes in the form of another creak at the door.
“You didn’t call,” Callum says. He’s there again, not asking for permission this time, just moving with the quiet certainty of someone who knows the job’s not finished. There’s a bowl of something in his hands—fruit, maybe, or that weird protein paste he lives on.
He puts it on the nightstand like an offering to the gods of heat cycles and self-destruction.
He studies me, eyes sharp but mouth soft.
I don’t know how he does it—makes concern look like indifference, hides his every intention under a veneer of farmhand stoicism.
It’s infuriating and also a little bit comforting, if I’m honest.
Which I’m not. Not even with myself.
“I thought I could handle it,” I say, and it comes out as a whimper.
I roll over, trying to face away from him, but that just puts my ass on full display.
Dignity is a myth, anyway.
Callum sits, heavier this time, and I feel the mattress sink under his weight.
“You did great,” he says. “But it’ll keep coming. You know that, right?”
I want to groan into the pillow and pretend I’ll fade away into a sinful existence that doesn’t go down this path of confrontation.
Wishful thinking I guess…
I nod slightly.
My teeth are chattering now, not from cold but from the aftershocks of the last round and the anticipation of the next.
It’s like my body’s determined to ring every last drop of shame out of me.
He looks around the room, and his eyes settle on the dresser, on the mirror perched above it. It’s old, the kind with a bevelled frame and spots where the silvering has warped.
But it catches the whole bed from the right angle.
He must have noticed me noticing it, because he says, “Try facing that way. It helps.”
I twist, but resist.
“What, you want me to watch myself lose it? That’s—” I stop.
