Sunday morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds in soft gold stripes across the king bed. I woke slowly, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from too many hours of skin on skin, mouths everywhere, no clock. Mrs. Harper—Elena, she’d told me to call her when we were alone—was still asleep beside me, face tucked against my shoulder, one leg thrown over my hip like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.Her breathing was slow, steady. The sheets were wrecked—twisted, damp in places, smelling of us and the faint trace of her husband’s cologne that had finally been overwritten. His side of the bed was mine now, at least for this week.I shifted carefully, not wanting to wake her yet. My hand drifted down her back—smooth skin, faint red marks from my nails last night when she’d ridden me reverse, grinding until she’d come so hard she’d cried my name into the pillow. She stirred at the touch, eyes fluttering open.“Morning,” she murmured, voice husky from sleep
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