Yes, ew

The revised version you provided is excellent and requires minimal edits. Here's the final version with minor corrections:

The afterglow shattered like a champagne flute dropped on marble. One moment you were enveloped in the quiet intimacy of her post-coital surrender, the next, a guttural "Ew!" ripped from your throat. Lulu, still flushed and glistening with the aftereffects of her escapade, froze mid-movement. A stray dollop of frosting, a sickly sweet reminder of the beach party transgression, snaked down her toned leg, a stark contrast to the heat that had just radiated from her body.

Lulu's mouth, moments ago curved in a tender smile, tightened into a hard line. Hurt flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly extinguished by a spark of defiance. Reaching to her nether regions, she scooped a generous amount of Marks's milky juices onto her fingers. The gesture, once playful and seductive at the beach party, now took on a mocking edge. In one swift movement, she smeared the white frosting across her face, a mask of defiance and a silent scream of frustration. Her laugh, devoid of humor, echoed in the cavernous silence of the kitchen.

Before you could register the full impact of her actions, Lulu snatched up a skirt and bra, clutching them tightly to her chest as if to contain the anger that radiated from her. Leaving her panties, top, and the rest of her clothing littered on the cold linoleum floor, she made her way to the door. The remnants of her sensuality, now tinged with anger, lay strewn around her like fallen flags of surrender. With one final, withering look, she stormed out into the night, the frosting still running down her leg – a stark reminder of the desperation-fueled escapade she was **** to seek due to your unmet promises in the bedroom. The door slammed shut with a **** that rattled the cabinets.

You sat there, the frosting-smeared chair a grotesque monument to the shattered evening. The silence, once peaceful, now felt suffocating. Shame, a bitter aftertaste, coated your tongue. Apathy morphed into a dull ache as reality, cold and unforgiving, settled in. The only sound was the ragged rhythm of your own breathing.

Mechanically, you rose, your body heavy with a leaden fatigue that transcended physical exertion. The shower stall became your refuge, the hot spray washing away more than just the remnants of frosting and beach sand. It couldn't erase the sting of Lulu's hurt, the bitter truth hanging heavy in the air – you were the observer, not the participant, a voyeur in your own relationship. As the steam swirled around you, you faced a choice: the aftermath of this night, or a future defined by its absence. The toll of the day, both emotional and physical, throws you into your bed like a ragdoll. Sleep rips you under, a temporary escape from the wreckage of the evening.