They cleaned up only enough to be decent.
Eli wiped between her thighs with the damp cloth, slow and thorough, but the scent of sex still clung to her skin and the insides of her legs. It was thick, unmistakable, the kind that soap and water only muted.
Clara did the same beside her, quieter, her movements precise even when her hands trembled slightly from overuse.
She cleaned herself with the same care she brought to everything, but the residual slickness and the faint ache between her legs made her breath catch once. Atlas rinsed his cock and stomach at the sink, water running over the marks already darkening on his skin.
There was no erasing the bite marks on his neck or the crescent bruises Eli's fingers had left on his hips. He dried off with a towel that smelled faintly of the three of them mixed together, then reached for his clothes.
