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The Morning After the Credit Card Before

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The credit card is stuck on the bed head with the chewing gum he had the bellboy deliver for that very purpose. There’s a champagne cork in the space between their pillows, the gold foil from the neck of the bottle scrunched into a love heart next to it. Above her head is her black dress and his tie is wrapped around her left wrist. The skin on her inner thighs tingles and she rolls over to face a gently snoring Mulder. His breathing stops, he snuffles, he lifts a hand over her hip and squeezes her ass, shuffling to close the gap between them.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he kisses her, just pushes his mouth to her sleep-dried lips. They lay like that, faces stuck together, for what could have been hours. She pulls back eventually and he flops onto his back.

“Pussy,” he says, running his tongue over his plump lips.

“Yeah,” she replies, pressing her temples and forehead to see if her face has moved.

“Still tastes good.”

She giggles. It hurts. But it hurts good.