She's bent over the kitchen counter, skirt hiked up, bare ass catching the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. The curve is obscene in the best way — full, soft, with just enough tension in her stance to tell you she's already thinking about what comes next.

Your lunch break is forty-five minutes. You could take your time, press your face into her warmth, feel her thighs tremble against your jaw. Or you could grip those hips and make the most of every remaining minute.

The clock on the microwave blinks. She glances back at you, impatient. You haven't even loosened your tie yet.