Copia, nude save for his socks, reclining comfortably on the couch while you're in the shower. One arm propped up on the back of it, ruffling his mussed up hair, the other draped over his lap, adjusting his soft dick, still trapped within the phantom grip of the feel of you. The marks of his suspenders run from his shoulders down to his chest. They're a little less red now, soothed by your hands and lips, traces of you remaining on his irritated skin. Your scent, somehow, still caught in his nose. He closes his eyes, feels a breath of air, inducing goosebumps where he is swollen with the bites of your love. Traces of your nails on his thighs, on his belly, his chest, a trail between curls of greying hair, a soft burn echoing where you gripped him. Cooling sweat, his hands a little stiff, he feels it all now, like a comforting ache, and hopes it lingers. He hears the spray of the water in the distance, smiles when it stops. How lucky, he thinks, that you're never further away than the extent of your sounds.
