When his tie feels too tight and his knee hops on its own, he rises. Goes to the bathroom down the hall. Lights paper under the sensor.

The mist precedes the spray, the alarm, the strobe.

He walks back to the office door and waits.

She is the last one. His arm catches her around the waist as he drags her back inside. The door closes with a click, the lock with a clack.

Her mouth is silent. Her eyes, though.

Her neck tastes of her, not one thing else. Her pulse is high under his tongue, her moan low against his lips. Her hair is up, then down, her buttons there, then flying. Her fingers fumble and his belt buckle hits his shoe.

Wet. Everything is wet.

Her skin slides against him. He lifts. She slips. He growls and lifts again, and then warmth. No, heat. Her fingers link behind his neck, her feet behind his hips, and she lifts herself now. Drop, lift, drop, lift. Her head falls back and she shudders, cries out. He pushes her into the wall once, again, and again. He is blind.

His cheek falls onto her breast. She releases his hair.

Her mouth is silent. Her eyes, though.

*  *  *

When the sun hits her bed, he wakes. She hums in another room. Batter hits a griddle.

He's listening to a voice mail when she enters. Water damage, no charges, but fired.

He takes the plate as she listens. As syrup and butter mingle, she lets the phone slip from her fingers. Straddles him. Licks him clean.

Her mouth laughs. So do her eyes.