Awash with the odors of salt and marine plant life carried ashore, oddly like strong cauliflower, their vacation beach is thronged by tourists and locals alike. Warm and well-manicured white-gold sands stretch out into the distance on either side of the beach chairs they set up on their arrival, under the shade of a wide umbrella. Loid carted it out of their rental car and planted with one vigorous thrust, the tight cuffs of his tee-shirt bulging around his biceps that still create something of a dangerous distraction when they work out together to maintain their physique.

It's not something that can just be let go. Fire ants crawl under their skin, or sand grinds into their clothes, and the only way to shake it all loose is to fall back into the routines set in lost childhoods.

They can't really let go of anything - just yoke themselves together and pull their new collective burden in tandem, legs pumping through slick muck and mire, lungs burning with the strain and the memory of smoke, sharp and acrid.

Familiar sounds mingle together to heighten the remarkably vivid impression of deja vu. The caws of seagull - flitting about in the air, bobbing in the water and combing the beach in search of small crustaceans and remnants of vacationers' foods - punctuate slow and steady whooshing rolls of the ocean waves coming in, cresting on the beach in frothing torrents of white foam, and are joined by the giggles and cries of children.

Oh, children .

Yor misses the innocent simplicity of children, of life feigned and lived and built up vicariously.

They and their parents frolic in the surf, mothers and fathers keeping keen watch on the youngsters to make certain of their safety, and the scene conjures innumerable fond memories of earlier vacations during the initial years after the conclusion of Operation: Strix.

From her place on her folding beach chair that had been extended so that she could lay flat on her back, Yor Forger looks on in the midst of a nostalgic melancholy, tugging absently at the shoulder-strap of her black bikini top with red accents. A little bit lewd given her figure, and more than enough to have her in a constant state of low-key embarrassment, but her modesty is preserved by the skirt that covers her bottoms and part of her thighs.

Plus, the way that Loid looked at her, his jaw growing slack as she bent forward, teasing a hand along the exposed side of her cleavage to see if the suit 'fit right' in the shop they'd been visiting when she made the purchase?

Worth it.

These days, always more interested in having the apartment to herself, Anya had asked to remain behind and look after Bond, whose old bones are just a little bit too feeble for him to join them on their trip. Yor and Loid trusted that there would be no boys . Having girls to the apartment while they were gone was one thing, but God help Anya if she broke that one rule because even if assassination and spycraft were long in the past, Twilight and the Thorn Princess would know and were not above coming out of retirement to execute one last tsundere boyfriend, heir to the Desmond fortune.

Granted, given what they suspected about Becky, Donovan, and Anya, it might have been wise for them to ban girls too, but there were, at least, less risks involved when it was girls only .

Banishing that thought - because, quite frankly, it's as odious to Yor and Loid as their wandering eyes, hands, and 'lovey-dovey nonsense' had become to an eye-rolling Anya - Yor refocuses on the book that she had been reading before becoming distracted by a young family: father, mother, and adorable toddler, tugging them into the shallow edge of the surf.

Even the cool breeze off the water isn't enough to cut the nearly intolerable mugginess that has Yor's suit clinging to her rear and chest with clammy sweat, droplets forming and rolling across the cut lines of her abdominals and creating a sheen on her lithe and long legs and arms even in the shade. She rather looks forward to her dip as well, and debates setting down her novel mid-chapter to join her husband who is already in the water.

Dostoyevsky is one of Loid's favorites, though Yor can't quite understand the fascination, even after twelve years of marriage.

With an impressing and resounding splash, the waves and flying water visible in Yor's peripheries as she tries to immerse herself in Prince Myshki's seemingly simple-minded struggles, the family hits water just as Loid emerges, shaking a deluge from his dripping hair and making the pounding sunlight and scorching sand jealous of the way in which he manages to elevate the temperature of the beach by approximately five degrees.

Quite a few of the middle aged men on the beach suffer from what Yor believes is known colloquially as "dad-bod."

Loid, on the other hand, possesses what could only be described as… Daddy bod .

That's when it happens. She will realize weeks later that, were it not for a playful lark and a simple accident, she'd never have known, but the moment she sees him dragging his hands over his figure, sluicing off seawater from his still cut form, and he glances over his shoulder, eyes smoldering as he bends over to pluck up a seashell that he still collects for Anya, Yor's lost .

A wardrobe malfunction at just the right wrong time.

Wet stretchy fabric from his black speedo had already clung to his skin, conforming to his musculature, as rivulets of sea-water trailed lazily down his figure and his blonde hair stood in an artful tangle, sodden but alluringly wild.

But the slip.

The accident.

The fabric of his bathing suit clinched up and dipped down into the valley between his cheeks, exposing two strips of pale white flesh along the inward edge.

Gone.

She's gone and staring at the page of her book, hyperventilating and face burning hotter than the sand, the sun, and her spouse's sensually seductive sinewy seat.

She can't get it out of her mind. That milky white flesh. Untanned. Unseen but for her, but for that moment.

Virgin territory.

Seen before, but never in contrast to that tan.

Never in the light of day.

Never in that speedo that cradles the package that would probably still be a smidgen too large for her to palm and that has nothing to do with her tiny hands and despite the fact that Loid just emerged from the chilly water and she can't possibly satisfy her curiosity in that regard by running an experiment because there are people everywhere and-

She nearly yelps when his feet and thighs appear just above the top edge of her book.

"Are you alright?" Loid asks as he descends like a graceful blonde-and-silver angel onto the beach towel next to her, his skin, now tanned, like finely wrought and burnished bronze, save for those stripes of white that have disappeared.

Yes. Alabaster, bronze, silver, and gold.

Her husband would take home every medal and force them to add a fourth.

In what competition, she's not sure.

All the other pale flesh that's nestled, smooth and hairless except for that little dusting that wends its way down his stomach because she, mortified though she was, told him, just as he was about to wax it clean like… everything else, that she… liked it.

It was so… tempting.

Made a woman lick her lips in anticipation.

Like it screamed for someone to tiptoe her fingers under his waistband and check to see if that hint of gold was a trail left to guide the ambitious and dedicated and rapacious to a treasure trove, only to find nothing and be all the happier for it.

Well, not nothing.

A lot more than nothing.

Certainly doesn't feel like nothing when she has to set her palms to his chest and sinks down. Inch by inch. Slow. Seating herself. Even when he uses his fingers and tongue first, it feels like he stretches her further each time…

"Yor?"

How long has she been staring at Loid's crotch and licking her lips over the hint of pale flesh that now pokes out from his sodden shorts?

"Yes?" she squeaks, slamming closed her book.

"I asked if you're alright. Is the heat getting to you?" His voice drips with concern; he's so honest now, just like the unrepressed expression of adoration and worry, his brow folded over and his keen eyes calculating.

Of course, yes, the heat is getting to her.

She doesn't say that.

Nor does she contemplate the shape of her husband's… buttox.

Given how she's gripped it during sex, leaving scratch marks and nail imprints, she knows it very well.

It's a good butt.

The best, really.

Because it's Loid's.

And hers. All hers.

Why does she want to cackle?

"Of course, Loid," her assurance flows so easily because, in a sense, it's entirely true. With him there, his boyish - something that only now, in his early forties, he's learnt how to be - smile blooming, how can she be anything other than okay?

Rising to a seated position, he leans in to press a kiss to her shin, his lips still chilly from the water, though that's not why she shivers in response. Oh, no.

Loid loves working his way up her body, from foot, to shin, to thigh, to-

"Happy to hear it, love," he says with an easy grace and purr, as if he hadn't just conjured thoughts of him eating her whole, right in front of the entire beach while fathers covered children's eyes and mothers glared with jealousy. The little quirk to his smile gives him away.

As he settles back in place, hands folded under his head and face going slack, Yor grits her teeth and returns to her book, trying to banish the sigh, still burnt into her retina, of that rear and the clinging fabric that disappeared, exposing … so much tempting flesh.

Throughout the rest of her vacation, and the drive home, and the week that follows, she fails.

The only distraction is Anya who, green around the gills, stares at her as if the girl is gazing at a pile of vomit, locks herself away in her room, and spends every moment she can at Becky's mansion.

Granted, Yor can understand that, even if Loid is utterly baffled.

She felt exactly the same way when, on arriving home from their vacation, she walked in on Becky and Anya on the couch.

Which wouldn't have been a problem.

If Becky's tee-shirt hadn't been on backwards.

Families learnt how to put up with such things.


Yor, however, does not learn how to put up with her new obsession.

She sees it everywhere.

And by it , she means Loid's ass.

Yes. After foolishly tipping her hand to the possy of women at city hall, who absolutely go mad over any conversation pertaining to Loid's ass, she has taken to calling it just that. Not verbally, of course, not even when they try to goad her and ply her with some drinks during girls' night, but to her, mentally, it's an ass.

And what an ass!

Nursing a hangover even after pounding back a home-made remedy, mostly tomato juice followed up by some ginger tea with her over-easy eggs, provided to her by her doting and soulfully concerned husband, Yor watches him working the stove. Spandex sleeping shorts and a white sleeveless shirt cling to his figure so that she can watch each curve of muscle play under his skin, almost as if he's naked. Sweat begins to form in the crux of her thighs because she's clenching them together so tightly, squeezing, grinding.

All she can see is that ass.

Round.

She squirms in her chair, swallowing thickly but there's nothing to gulp down so she fumbles for her glass.

Slightly… bouncy despite the thick musculature.

A burning heat begins to well up, an itch that she can't hope to scratch.

Cleanly cut. All fine lines. Perfect balance.

It jiggles as he flows about the kitchen and Yor has to pound back the entire glass of tomato juice, not even tasting it. She very nearly crushes the glass to powder with a meep as Loid rises on his tip-toes and the entire thing stretches out in a way that cries out for a nice massage.

Those muscles look tense.

All she has to do is touch it.

Just once.

Just to give it a good squeeze and maybe bounce a quarter off of it and where did that thought-

Blurry-eyed and surly on the sofa, Anya grunts so loud it wakes Bond, tossing her hands into the air. As Yor starts, finally remembering to breathe, Anya scoffs, and storms off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

All without breakfast, too!

Inharmonious music - if the wails and clamor can be called such - spill out in seconds.

Loid turns to her with a shrug.

"Do you know what might be bothering Anya?" he asks, evidently confused, with her plate of eggs in hand.

Telepathy.

Poor girl might have been better as an orphan.

"Oh, no!" She fumbles even the simple words because the heat isn't dissipating as Loid sashays towards her with their breakfast.

Having a man cook for her?

Sexier than that ass, in a way.

Because giving, sacrificing, in all the ways subtle and gross that they shared over the years, is love. That's what it means to love for them, and only Twilight and the Thorn Princess can truly understand the depths of their offerings, their surrenders.

Their atonements.

"Probably just teenage hormones," Yor clarifies while Loid begins to butter his toast and she starts thinking about him buttering her toast, whatever that means.

"If you're certain." Reassured, Loid leans back in his chair and scoops up the daily newspaper to begin rifling through it for the international news.

"Oh, yes. I was a teenage girl once too." Yor's affirmation is accompanied by an unsatisfying groping for her fork, which she uses to crack into her plate of eggs… quite literally because she shatters the plate outright with an overly enthusiastic stab, much to Loid's concern.

He insists on giving her his eggs and making a new batch for himself out of concern that she might swallow a shard of porcelain.

"I know all about those hormones," she mutters before taking a simp - uh, sip of soothing ginger tea.

At which point, her face lit up like a tenement fire so intense there is no possibility of any residents surviving, she goes back to staring at her husband's ass while he works in the kitchen.

She does, indeed, know about hormones.

This simply cannot be allowed to continue! Yor is not, nor will she ever be, some wanton trollop, utterly obsessed with the male form, even if it is the impeccably sculpted derriere of her husband.


Affairs - and, sadly, no affairs because they're both quite busy - continue in that fashion for the next several days, but the passion hardly abates. Intense stares become commonplace as she gazes on that ass like she wants to stab it.

Murder it.

Somewhere along the way, the thoughts begin to smush together between the music that's pouring out of Anya's bedroom and the brief contacts she has with Loid, a few of which are heated but unsatisfying, and all of which are frustrating in the extreme because a rush of mature hormones feel like they're mingling with the teenage ones that never had their say as she was out murdering for the state.

She's outnumbered a thousand to one, and in this arena, Loid could take her with one hand tied behind his back.

Murdering Loid.

Stabbing that perfect posterior.

Yes, those concepts morph and splice together into some Frankenstein's monster of a notion.

Murdering Loid by stabbing him in the ass.

It's so lewd that she's in a perpetual state of blushing arousal around him, unable to pry the thought from her brain, so deep it has dug its tendrils.

Through the Garden, she'd heard of such things.

Men who enjoyed… the touch of a finger.

A- a tongue.

A toy that women were supposed to use on themselves.

Debauchery.

But it's too late for her off-kilter moral compass to come into play. Not when she lays away next to her husband, her eyes squeezed shut, and her imagination, hand-in-hand with her hormones, runs wild.

Loid on all fours.

Immaculate, divine, radiant, pure, pristine, ass in the air, showing off that strip of white flesh that would curve under his perineum, cover two strips on his hips, and grow wide again along his cheeks.

Cock dangling, begging to be stroked.

A thin, tapered toy with a flared end pressing up to his -

She smacks her palms to her face and nearly weeps at her own degeneracy, but her entire body is aflame, the slick moisture between her thighs so intense and copious that she's certain that she's going to stain her nightclothes.

If Loid were awake, he'd remedy that quickly enough by drinking down the excess, but his face is too placid and calm in sleep for her to disturb him, even as she burns up beside her half-naked husband.

Fingering herself takes the edge off, lets her work out a sufficient amount of tension so that she can get a marginally satisfactory half night of sleep.

But even in her dreams, she has Loid pinned to the bed, her body draped over his so that her aching breasts are crushed against his shoulder blades, and, pleasure-drunk and trembling, he turns his head back to her for a heated, torpid kiss while his rear grinds backwards into her hips.


Holding it together will be completely impossible, but she believes that she's at least concealed the depths of her madness.

She's wrong.

The light from the television screen casts a flickering painting across his face as he turns to her late one evening.

"Love?" her husband asks.

She thrills, toes curling and stomach dropping like she's in free fall, when Loid calls her that. It must be the years she's missed - the teenage infatuation and romantic yearnings forgone, now compressed into this. Into him.

"Yes?"

His legs cross. "Is … anything the matter?"

"Not at all," she responds while petting his chest lightly. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just that you've been acting somewhat-" fingers twiddle against his thigh - "strangely lately."

"Strange?" Yor falters as her mind races to catalog the utterly embarrassing instants he might be recalling. There are too many to count. "Really?"

"Yes." He takes her hand, plucking it up from the couch and, of course, his palm is massive, a perfect fit around her thighs, when the time is right. "It's very much like the way you acted when we first admitted that we had feelings for one another."

"Oh, really?" She inhales deeply in an effort to calm herself. His eyes always seem like they can see through her, pinning her to the sofa like a butterfly being pierced by a pin into a display board. That's not a wise image on which to dwell. If Loid is going to stab her, she'll be impaled on something a lot thicker than a pin. Probably need lube and some fingers to help prepare the way. Wait. Is that if he's plunging into her, or is she stabbing him? She was an assassin; she shouldn't be confused about this. "I hadn't noticed, since, of course, we do have feelings and everything is out in the open now. No more secrets at all."

"You know," he begins and she wants to bury her flushing face in his shoulder, " you've always been a terrible liar."

"You've always been good at figuring them out." She scratches absently at her thigh, though the itch is more… central, looking down as she does just to find an excuse to escape those haunting eyes.

Her husband does things to her.

Oh, how he does things to her.

Thank God Anya's at Becky's.

She spends so much time there these days.

Loid shakes his head, shifting his cute butt lower on the chair so that he's at the right height to draw her to chest. "Not true considering how many years we danced around each other."

She falls into him without resistance, placing a hand to his far hip while his curls around her back, running up and down her side. Sparks and pop rocks burst under his fingertips, just from the anticipation alone. Spice and musk and the odor of his skin, intense at the end of the day, but in no way unpleasant, floods her nose, seeps into her brain and fills the cracks and crevices.

Nothing to get worked up about.

Weird that she's relaxing and getting more … agitated all at once.

"Well, once we knew." She pats his chest, absolutely refusing to grope the muscle there. "I doubt if I could really hide anything from you."

The arm around her waist tightens up, but when he speaks, there is not a hint of recrimination or blame. "So you are hiding something from me."

"Well, I- I-."

"You don't have to tell me." Loid grants her a moment to allow that to process and sink in even as her eyes widen and she nuzzles into his pectoral. "I understand that even between husband and wife, there should be some secrets."

"Really?" Shyness lingers even now, despite everything they've done together over the years. Neither of them is truly used to this.

"According to the relationship guides that I've read," he continues, and adorable doesn't begin to cover the way he shows his teeth.

"Oh, I suppose if the guides say so." Hopefully she doesn't sound as dubious as she feels, not due to the guides, but because of yet another note in her litany of failures. She's worried her husband.

"But even without them, I don't want you to be uncomfortable," Loid says, his finger to his ring. Her husband has few tells, and most of them are like echoes of affectations that he taught himself and learnt how to forget. "Can you just… are you alright? Truly? There's nothing wrong, is there?"

"Honestly, Loid." She shifts so that she can put a hand to his chest. Even now, years after they unveiled Twilight and The Thorn Princess to one another, these moments of spoken intimacy are charged with a certain undercurrent of violence, like they're waiting to fail and fall and for the walls of their apartment to be breached by SSS agents and a contingent of spies under Nightfall's command. "No. It's very sweet of you to ask."

His hand crimps around hers, like a cuff, stifling the motion of her fingers but it's evocative of being swaddled, and not imprisoned. "I'm just being a good husband."

"Which is what you are, after all," Yor agrees as she hunches forward to nuzzle his chin.

The invitation is embraced with a slow slide of stubble against her cheek, a roll of prickles over her forehead, reciprocated by light pecks that run along his jaw.

"I can only hope." The murmur flows forth just as her nose nudges the edge of his ear, the lobule.

"You do much more than that." She's close enough to whisper and still be heard, but with the way that he can still read her even in the darkened room, words might not even be necessary. Just a perfunctory pleasantry. "You give people hope."

"I… what?" The pinched muscle at the edge of his jaw tightens up.

"Anya?" She explains. "She never thought that she'd have a home. You gave her hope that it might be possible to build one."

"That's-" His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and the little undulation draws her mouth; it's so adorable that she can't help but kiss it, humming absently as he continues, "Very generous."

"And me?" She can't keep the questioning tone from her voice, like she's asking for his approval even though the query is one that he's answered long ago, in another lifetime. "I thought … I knew that no one would ever want me. That I'd never live a normal life. You made me … hope that I was wrong."

Loid draws her hand to his lips, and for a moment, all that she can see are his eyes, glassy and piercing all at once.

"And you made me believe." His breath, sweet with mint, ghosts over the back of her hand. Hairs prickle as a shiver races up her arm.

"In what?" she gulps, fingers twitching as if she wants to pull away simply because the static flowing through her palm is so warm that she thinks she'll scald.

"In you." A kiss to her knuckles, each in turn. "In Loid Forger."

She swallows back the fire in her throat and if he keeps gazing on her like that she's going to break down.

"And in living."

And just like that, she does.


She wakes up before him on a lazy Sunday morning. As part of the ritual they've adopted, simply because it seems to add an air of normalcy that they've been experimenting with, they tend to go to Church on Sundays. Neither she nor her husband understand very much, though his research into the matters of doctrine and dogma do afford him far more insight, but settling into a pew, rising and falling with the crowds, getting lost in the music and the ritual as they sit side-by-side is its own form of comfort and connection.

Another thing they can discover together.

Another way of weaving together lives that they don't quite know how to live because the foundations are riddled with cracks.

Today, Yor reaches over her slumbering husband to flick off the alarm clock.

He lays there in the midst of a sunbeam, something like a well-muscled cat lazing on his stomach in all his opulent indulgence. Shadows from the half-drawn curtains shade the side of his face. The band of sunlight across his upper back, exposed because the blanket has been tugged down over the course of the night and now lays at waist level, casts his musculature in sharp relief, and she has to touch him.

They always have to touch each other. There's some deep absence, or a long unfulfilled need such as that which a baby has for his mother's breast, that they can only address and satiate through touch. Every night, sex or no sex, they sleep naked, entwining their bodies in myriad, experimental ways. A new arrangement awaits, some repositioning of arms and legs, but they're always nude, just so that they can touch everything.

Getting used to that took some time, but after the first night, spent in the dark, it simply felt too right for her to allow her embarrassment to overtake her.

Now, she watches the shadows shift along her husband's back, her hands itching, her mouth going dry, other places moistening to match, as each rise and fall creates an enthralling play of muscles. Flexing sinew arches down from his shoulders, dipping into the small of his back where she can see the vertebrae of his spine and gooseflesh that breaks out when she can't help but put a finger to his skin.

The pad of her index flames with the soft heat, and she swallows back the fire that's starting to build up. Getting randy by seeing her husband's back! Just touching him and trailing down to the edge of the fluffy comforter, smelling of floral detergent and soaked with their perfume, soaps, and cologne, has her jamming her teeth against her lower lip. He's so vulnerable there, so trusting because he knows that she would kill and die for him.

That was something that Twilight never would have believed of anyone.

Whatever the context, from the prestigious, brightly lit halls of Eden Academy to the Berlint galleries and art houses that he struts with a cool confidence, men and women alike chewing the insides of their mouths or biting down on their tongues to keep themselves from panting at the sight of him, Loid Forger is always gorgeous.

But nothing can compare to this Loid.

She has to see it all. Who would know? Who could it hurt?

It's just too much. The temptation that has her indulging in thoughts that are most assuredly unsuitable for a Sunday morning, or for the service that they're going to be skipping, is so strong.

Just a quick peek

She has to hold in the coo and sigh, relief and need, master her trembling fingers because she's leaning in, dragging the sheet down, and can't wake him.

A pang shoots upwards from between her thighs as she watches that diaphanous sheet edge lower. Darker, sun-kissed skin on his forearms lays right next to the lighter flesh of his lower back, but the tan line just above his butt cheek emerges, the strip growing larger as her breath catches. What would he think if he saw her and knew what she was doing?!

The pulsations in her core are growing stronger, sheets against her thighs and calves suddenly growing scratchy though the feeling pales in comparison to the tacky itch. An ache builds up in her lungs from a lack of air, but she dare not suck down a hot breath for fear of the slightest jostle, the most minute sound that he's trained to hear; she's already skirting the edge of disaster.

Another inch, halfway down his cheeks, all pale and perfectly smooth, the faint radiance through the blinds cutting ethereal lines along his rear, and it's then that she feels her emptiness.

He fills her to overflowing however they couple, each one unfathomably, ungodly satisfying in its own way, even when the ache becomes a storm.

If he woke up, would he turn over? Have a morning erection? Flutter his sleepy eyes at her? Murmur and cup her head. Bring her down to his cock? His balls? His-

With a more furious, impatient tug, everything is exposed. The muscular globes of his ass are right there, the sheet having slipped down so that it now lays on the back of his thighs and her glorious husband is naked and vulnerable.

But not really everything, she realizes with her face growing completely crimson like one of the sweaters he adores peeling off her form. No. There's still a part of him tucked away between those firm cheeks, and though she's now seen, gazed on, veritably consumed with her eyes, he's still hiding something.

Husbands shouldn't hide things from their wives.

There's nothing wrong with touching him, of course. That too is her right as a wife, so, faint like a whisper or a dying breath, she raises her fingers, ghosting them over the bottom curve of his ass as her free hand slips below the sheets, between her thighs, into her folds, shockingly wet. She has to bite her lip to keep from screaming aloud, the grind of her teeth almost painless because all her focus has condensed down to her fingers, those running along the seam of her womanhood, the lips clinging, walls groping for something more than a touch, and those that are running the softest circles around Loid's rear.

Warmth radiates into her fingertips as they spiral towards the center of him, tiny, invisible blond hairs just discernible as she finally sucks down air in a gasp that feeds oxygen to her brain, but it doesn't help. She's still in a fog, heart throbbing, womanhood throbbing, mouth dry, fingers slick as she sinks one inside of herself and moans in a bizarre sense of satisfaction - finally, something, but not enough.

Just one of her own tiny fingers?

Hardly enough for her considering what she's gotten used to.

Some long-forgotten voice bubbles up inside her brain, cutting through the haze as her finger sinks deeper, to the knuckle: it whispers forbidden things. Unimaginable things that Yor would never think herself, but this voice is not the mother and wife and unassuming secretary at city hall.

Oh no.

It's the voice that whispers, sultry, like incense in her nose and has her walls palpitating around her finger:

Would your finger be enough for him?

Years ago, she'd heard of another assassin who'd done it while getting close to a man she was going to kill.

That voice does not want her to kill her husband.

Kiss.

Too beautiful not to kiss.

Her husband and that ass.

Just a quick peck, her body jerking in a feral writhe as a growl erupts from the back of her throat and she darts in.

Soft, warm, and firm against her dry lips, right to the center of one cheek.

Oh, god, she wants to part those cheeks so badly, and-

"Yor?" a voice gruff with sleep calls.

Her heart slams into her gut like the two of them are clashing in a brawl as she flails back, her face on fire, her body on fire, her womanhood flooding with liquid napalm that's going to burn her alive.

While rocking back on her haunches, trying to tame her tongue that feels bloated in her mouth, she starts waving her hands, praying that he won't notice that her nipples are erect, her breathing is rough, her thighs are wet and the sheets are going to need to be changed because they've gotten a little bit damp.

All those fears are cut off in an instant because she goes completely brain dead.

Having rolled over onto his back to reveal what must be morning wood, but that's pitching even higher and firmer by the second, precum beading up at the slick tip of his cock, Loid does not look upset by any means. One fine blond brow arches as he coughs and smiles with a hint of awkward trepidation.

"Were you-" He blinks sleepily. "Kissing my ass?"

There's no reason to deny that she's a degenerate now. Loid knows. And she can barely speak while fixating on that equally alluring cock that they should really be putting to good us, let alone lie.

The fact that she can still conjure the mental image of just tossing caution to the wind, clambering onto Loid's lap, and putting that cock to use by riding him until he faints so they can chalk all of this up to a dream when he awoke is testament to her mental fortitude, Loid's attractiveness, and the sheer depths of her horniness.

She'd thought she'd reached rock bottom, but the floor gave way and she'd started tumbling again the second she did, indeed, kiss his ass.

"I… yes," she admits feebly, crossing her arms over her chest as if that's enough to hide.

"Oh." The response pops from Loid's lips, dry as he licks them. His beyond cute ass shuffles over a few inches until his shoulder butts up against hers. The mortification and arousal mingle and have her eyes squeezing shut even as he draws her to his warm chest

When she finally finds the courage necessary to look up at him, her eyes fluttering open in part because he's slipped a cocked finger under her chin and tilted her head back, she finds that his honeyed gaze is fixed on her lips.

"Would you…" The hand around her shoulders tightens, fingers digging in but her musculature is too thick, and her shock too acute, for her to feel it. An increase in his heart rate? The dusting of redness of his cheeks? The way that his perfectly-proportioned cock, jutting up from the entirely hairless region between his legs, twitches ?

Those, she notices.

"Would you like to do that again?" he asks in a fashion that is more awkward than anything she ever expected to hear from her self-assured husband.

As if they're trying to wait each other out, they pause, just holding on, until, finally, she croaks out:

"Yes?"

Taking only a few seconds to reposition his cock, Loid's on his belly almost instantly, hips hunched slightly so that the curves of his now-straining and flexing rear are even more pronounced.

Not expected.

Nor unwelcome.