Sinful Sunday

Coming home


She places her hand, edge down and curved, into the dip in his chest. “Look,” she says “even my hand fits in your chest.” He glances down at her, his eyes still glossy with their sheen of lust, and smiles. “Yes,” he says “one more place where you are at home.”

They lie, curled up together on a bed with its duvet sprawled on the floor. His legs over hers, her head on his shoulder.

Complete, content, home.

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