I couldn’t remember the last time Mark’s cock had been inside me.

Not the polite, two-minute, lights-off version he sometimes offered when he felt guilty. I meant the real thing—the filthy, raw, skin-slapping sex we used to have before the wedding, before the three babies, before I quit the newsroom and started delivering pubs just to keep the house quiet and the mortgage paid. Back then I lived for it. I used to come home from late shifts with ink on my fingers and climb straight onto his face, grinding my wet cunt against his tongue until he flipped me over and fucked me like he was trying to break...