For long minutes, they simply existed in the humid dark, connected, breathing each other’s air. The ordinary sounds of the laundry room, the final buzz of a dryer, the distant drip of a pipe, seeped back into their awareness. Slowly, tenderly, Odell withdrew. He gently lowered Nichole until her feet, wobbly and weak, touched the floor. He kept his arms around her, holding her steady, pressing soft, lingering kisses to her temple, her cheek, her swollen lips. “Okay?” he murmured, his voice rough but infinitely soft. “More than okay,” she sighed, leaning into him, her body humming with a profound, satiated peace. “I think… I think I’m perfect.” He smiled, that slow, heart-stopping smile that was now entirely, unquestionably hers. He retrieved their clothes, and they dressed each other in a silent, intimate ritual. He kissed her shoulder as he pulled the soft lavender tank top over her head. She smoothed his t-shirt over his back, her hands lingering on the hard planes of his muscles
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