no time for bags

You turn into the driveway and nearly stall the car.

Sandra has both of your balls in her mouth, warm and wet, sucking in slow pulls while her hand strokes your cock in lazy, focused twists. She is not rushing it. She is coaxing, working you like she intends to wring out more than you have, like she plans to drown herself in it the second you are through the door. The house is ten metres away and your brain is already gone.

The second the engine dies you are both moving.

She is out of the passenger seat before you have the keys fully out,the respectable skirt from the shop—already coming off as she hits the front step. By the time the door swings open she is stripping in the threshold, top over her head Jeff the Land Shark abandoned on the shoe rack like a witness. You kick the door shut behind you. The groceries stay in the car. The ice. The deep-frozen pizza. All of it left to melt while you grab her and take her down the hall.

There is no patience left to get the bags.

You get the arousal out of your system the only way either of you can stand: her back hitting the nearest wall, then the floor, then whatever surface is closest, your cock back inside her while she still has the taste of you on her tongue and that same intent in her eyes. She clings, wraps, pulls you deeper, still working on that private plan to take everything you can give her.

Outside, the pizza starts to soften in the midday heat.

The heat this time is not just hunger.

It is the same love spilling over again—the shark, the thank-you in the car, the way she looks at you when she is not performing—and it turns the hallway into another half hour you do not try to shorten. You fuck like people who have already said the words and still cannot keep them in their bodies. When it finally breaks you stay tangled on the floor until your breathing is human again, her forehead against yours, both of you grinning at nothing in particular.

Only then do you get up for the bags.

The car is a crime scene of good intentions. What used to be ice is a shallow lake in the bottom of a bag. The deep-frozen pizza has surrendered into something closer to a wet, flappy disc than food. You bring the wreckage inside anyway and set it on the counter. Sandra pads in behind you, still bare, still pink, takes one look at the slush and the sad pizza, and starts laughing.

You laugh too.

There is no version of this where either of you assigns blame. Of course the shopping melted. Of course you left a frozen pizza to die in a closed car because you could not walk ten extra metres before putting your hands on each other. She leans into your side, shakes her head at the sorbet soup, and calls the flappy discs a new recipe. You dump what is salvageable into the freezer anyway and leave the rest as evidence.