His breath was still heavy against my ear, but his hands had already gentled. No more rough gripping-now it was soft, slow, careful touches. He pulled out of me with a soft groan, placing a kiss just above my heart, then my lips, and finally my forehead.
"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart," he whispered, like I was something fragile in his hands now. He carried me with ease, the way someone might cradle the most precious thing in the world, and gently laid me down on the bed, tucking a pillow under my head.
The sheets felt cool against my flushed skin, but his warmth never left.
I heard the rip of a tissue box and glanced up to see him crouching beside the bed, wiping my thighs with the softest care. Not hurried. Not annoyed. Just quiet, patient focus—tending to every slick, sticky trace of what we'd done. He didn't flinch, didn't frown. Just cleaned me like I was sacred.
