It was perfect. Every touch, every whisper, every surrender. For six hours, Leo was not a man who had been left—he was a god of the skin, worshipped and worshiping. When it ended, he lay on silk sheets, grinning, weightless.
In its place, Solace gave him the night. lustysouls
He tried to remember his wife’s laugh. Nothing. Her face. Static. The way she said his name when she was tired. Gone . He scrambled for any warmth they had shared, but the shelf of his heart was empty. He remembered the arguments, the silences, the day she packed her bags. But the lust—the glue that had made the hard years bearable—had been siphoned away. It was perfect
Then the sun rose.
He thought of his wife’s face—what little remained of it—and felt a new kind of hunger. When it ended, he lay on silk sheets, grinning, weightless
Solace kissed him.