The handprint on the outside of the glass stayed there like a ghost—small, wet, perfect outline of fingers that had pressed right where Aria’s boobs had been flattened. Rain kept washing at it, but the mark refused to fade completely. We stared at it in silence for a long moment, still on our knees in the puddle of cum and squirt we’d made on the carpet.

Aria reached out. Traced the outline from the inside with one fingertip.