“You keep bending over in front of me, you’ll be disinfecting the whole house.” She cocks her head. “Especially that wall.” I point at the empty wall where I’m going to take her against when we come home.

“Promises, promises, McIntyre.” She winks at me and walks to my bedroom.

“Fuck,” I say silently to myself.

“What?” Her head pops around the corner. I look at her. “What happened?”

“I’m happy,” I say. “This is what it must feel like to be happy.” Shaking my head, I say, “I have an appointment at ten.”

“Oh, I can be out of here in twenty.” She smiles at me, and I just look at her, and she stops. “What now?”

“You’re coming with me,” I say, walking to her. She waits for me, and we walk to my bedroom together.

“Well, where are we going?” she asks. Going to the bathroom, she takes off the shirt and starts the shower at the same time I take off my boxers.

“It’s a surprise,” I say and step into the shower. I leave the glass door open for her to step in, and she stands there, leaning on one of the sinks. “Are you not coming in?”

“If I come in there,” she says, pointing at the shower, “it’s going to lead to things.”

I try not to laugh. “What kind of things?”

“Well, for one, I’m going to get on my knees,” she says, and my cock stirs. “Then I’m going to sit you on that little bench.” She points at the bench against the wall. “And I’m going to want to ride you.”

“I see nothing wrong with anything that you just said.” I turn to face her, and her eyes roam up and down my body.

“But then I won’t get breakfast.” She folds her arms over her chest.

“I have a compromise. We get breakfast to go, and everyone wins,” I say, holding out my hands.

“Fine,” she says, stepping into the shower as if I twisted her arm, “but we have to make this quick. I still have to clean the table.”

I laugh at her, and she gets on her knees, taking me all the way back into her throat. It doesn’t go as fast as she wants, and when I get out after her, she’s already dried off with her hair wrapped in a towel. “I need coffee,” she says, walking out of the room. When I finally get dressed and walk into the kitchen, she has two coffee cups on the counter, and she is wiping down the kitchen table with a bottle of Lysol.

“You ready?” I ask her and walk to the table in the living room, grabbing the piece of paper that I need.

“I have my mother’s truck,” she says, opening the cupboards in the kitchen and looking for a thermos.