Chores Can Wait, Clothes Can't. Close Quarters, #2

Reed is supposed to be sorting the mail. Joy sits on the kitchen counter in a too-short robe, bare legs crossed, the silence louder than a scream. He doesn't get to the mail. A couple who can't get through a single domestic task without ending up inside each other. Kitchen counters, garden trellises, hallway walls, bathroom pipes - every room becomes a crime scene. Broth spills down Joy's chin while Reed grinds against her.
They're chest-to-chest in the garden hiding from an intruder, his breath hot on her neck, her cunt still aching. The sauce dies on the burner. The mail never gets sorted. Domestic erotica where the mundane becomes the filthy and every surface in the house is fair game.