Adrian stared at the crisp white cotton shirt in his hands. It felt impossibly heavy, the symbol of his professional servitude clashing violently with the sticky, intimate residue of the last ten minutes. He dragged the towel—now a discarded, damp memory of the floor—over his skin in quick, abrasive motions, trying to scrub away the lingering sensation of Alexander's mouth and the scent of his own release.
He pulled on his trousers and the shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. He had to redo the first two because his hands were shaking too badly. Every surface of his body felt hypersensitive: his mouth was swollen, his throat ached from swallowing, and the spot on his waist where Alexander's fingers had dug in felt branded.
He glanced at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. His eyes were too bright, his lips were red and slightly parted, and his skin was flushed, a high, feverish color that the shirt couldn't hide. He looked completely ruined.
