The dining room is a furnace now, air thick and humid like a steam bath, saturated with the heavy, mingled scents of Erica's sweet pussy cream still coating Haruto's chin and lips, the faint soy-salt ghost of cold miso bowls, and the raw, rising musk of fresh sweat and pre-cum starting to leak from him. The overhead bulb burns a dull amber, casting long shadows across their naked bodies and painting every bead of perspiration in glossy highlights. The tatami mats beneath them are already darkened in wide, damp patches—her earlier floods, his sweat, the sticky trails left by discarded clothes.
