I hear him coming before I see him — the particular weight of his feet on the hall floor, the creak of the bathroom door, the fan of cold air that finds my back when it swings open. I don't turn around. I'm under the spray with my eyes shut, letting the hot water pound the sore spot at the base of my spine, and I know exactly who it is and exactly why he's here.

"You're supposed to be making coffee," I say.

"Coffee's made." His voice is closer than the door. "You're supposed to be saving me some hot water."

"I'm the one with the sore ass."

The door clicks shut. The cold draft stops. The stall is small — two people is a squeeze, and the fiberglass holds the heat like a fist. I open my eyes and look at the glass, and there he is in the fogged reflection: brown hair already flattened by the steam, chest bare, and below the waist, no mystery at all about what the coffee could wait for.

"You're hard already," I say.

"I woke up hard. I've been hard since the coffee. It's been a long morning for me, Jodi."

His hands find my hips. Wet hands on wet skin, fingers sliding around the curve of me like he's mapping something he's touched a thousand times and still can't quite believe he gets to. The water runs over both of us now, splashing off his forearms. He fits himself against my back, and his cock — thick, hot, that ridiculous thing I've had in every hole I own in the last twelve hours — settles into the crease of my ass like it's coming home.

"Jesus," I breathe.

"What."

"You're just —" I roll my hips back without deciding to. "Right there."

"Yeah." His mouth finds the wet curve of my shoulder. "I know."

He doesn't ask. He never asks, not with this — his hand slides down between my legs from the front, fingers finding the sore, swollen pussy, and I hiss through my teeth at the contact because I'm tender and I'm also, God help me, wet in a way that has nothing to do with the shower.

"Sore?" he says, low.

"A little."

"You want me to stop?"

I reach back and grip his thigh. "Don't you dare."

He laughs, that low thing in his chest, and lines himself up. "Tell me what you want, then."

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear it." His voice is right at my ear, the head of him pressing without going anywhere. "Say it, Jodi."

"Fuck me." It comes out flatter than I mean it to, my cheek on the tile. "Come on. Fuck me."

I brace — one hand flat on the tile, the other arm folded against the wall — and I feel the blunt head of him push against me, press, and then slide in, slow, so slow, the stretch of it making my breath come out wrong. My eyes squeeze shut. The water hisses down on both of us. He goes in to the hilt and holds there, his hips flush against my ass, and neither of us moves for a second.

"God," he says, and his voice has gone rough. "You feel like — you're still so tight, Jodi. After everything."

"That's because you've been —" I shift, and he groans — "fucking me senseless for a day."

"Twelve hours, give or take."

"Don't get proud about it."

"Too late." He pulls back, almost all the way out, and pushes back in — one long stroke that drags along the front wall of me and makes my hand slip on the tile. "You feel that? You feel how deep that is?"

"I feel it," I get out. "God, I feel it."

Then again. And he finds the rhythm fast, the way he does when he's already been thinking about it, his hips snapping against my ass with a wet slap under the noise of the shower. I press my forehead to the tile. The fiberglass is hot and slick and smells like cheap soap and him.

"Harder," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Harder."

"Say please."

"Fuck you."

"That's not please." But he gives it to me anyway. His hand comes down hard on my ass — the crack of it cutting through the water noise — and then he's driving into me, the whole stall shuddering on its brackets, the water splashing wild off his shoulders. I can't think. My cunt's gripping him like it's trying to keep him, and every thrust shoves a sound out of me I don't bother to swallow.

"That's it," he says. "Let me hear it. Nobody's home but us."

"David —"

"Louder."

"David."

"Again. Come on, say it like you mean it."

"David — God, right there, don't you stop —"

His hand slides around my hip, down over my stomach, and his fingers find my clit — slick and swollen and already so sensitive I flinch — and he pinches it, gently at first, then not gently, rolling it between his fingers in time with his thrusts. My knees go. I lock them. The heat coils up through my belly and my thighs start to shake and I'm saying something that isn't words, and then it breaks — hard, sudden, my cunt clenching down around his cock in waves that make him grunt and slow, riding me through it, his fingers still working me until I'm twitching and oversensitive and I have to push his hand away.

"Stop, stop —" I gasp. "God. Okay. Okay. I'm — okay."

"You're what?" He's still moving, shallow, mean little strokes. "Say it."

"I'm done. I'm done, I can't —"

"You can." His mouth's at my ear again, wet. "You just did. Feel that? You're squeezing the life out of me."

He's still inside me, still hard, breathing like he's run somewhere. I can feel him throbbing — that thick, insistent pulse against my walls — and I know he's close, one good push from the edge.

"Don't," I say. "Don't you finish."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

I don't let him have it.

I reach back, find the base of him, and pull — slick and slow — until he slides out of me with a wet sound and stands there, dripping, the water washing it off him.

"Jodi —" His voice cracks. "What are you — Christ, don't leave me like this —"

I turn around. The stall's too small to turn gracefully; my elbow hits the wall, my hair's plastered to my neck, and he's looking down at me with his mouth open and his cock standing up from his body, red and full and leaking down the shaft. I put my hand flat on his chest and push him back against the fiberglass.

"You said the only place you hadn't finished today was my mouth."

His eyes go dark. "I did say that."

"So get it."

"You're serious."

"You've seen me serious." I get a hand around him and squeeze, and he makes a noise like a door coming off its hinge. "Does this feel like I'm joking?"

I go down. Not gracefully either — the tile's hard on my knees and the water's coming down on my back, and I have to brace one hand on the wall to keep my balance. He groans before my mouth even gets there, just from watching me drop.

"God," he says. "Look at you. On your knees in a shower stall."

"Shut up and hold still."

"Not a chance."

I take him in my hand first, the whole thick length of it, feel it jump. Then I put my mouth on him.

The taste of him and the water together — salt and soap and skin. I take the head in and suck, tongue flat against the underside, and I feel the vein there pulse against my lips. His hand comes down on the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there, and his hips twitch like he's holding himself back.

"Fuck," he says. "Jodi. Your mouth — you have no idea what your mouth does —"

I take him deeper. He's big enough that it's work — I have to breathe through my nose and relax my throat and let him in, and when the head of his cock hits the back of my throat I gag a little and pull back, spit stringing between us, and then go again. His hand tightens in my wet hair.

"Look at me," he says. "Come on. Look at me while you do it."

I lift my eyes. He's looking down at me with his jaw slack, the water running off his chin, and something in his face that's not just hunger — something almost helpless, like I've got something of his in my mouth that he can't get back.

"That's it," he says, quieter. "That's my girl. Don't look away."

I hold his eyes and take him all the way down, my nose pressed to his belly, and swallow around him.

"Oh, God —" His head thuds back against the tile. "Oh, fuck, that's — don't stop, don't stop, don't you dare stop —"

I don't stop. I work him with my mouth and my hand together, my lips tight around the shaft, my tongue dragging up the underside on every pull, and I can feel him getting harder, thicker, his balls drawing up tight against my chin. His breathing's gone ragged, his fingers twisting in my hair, and he's saying my name in pieces — Jodi, Jodi — like he's forgotten every other word he knows.

"I'm gonna —" His hips jerk. "Jodi, I'm gonna — you gotta —"

I pull back just enough to breathe and keep my hand moving on him, my mouth right there, waiting, and I look up at him and say it around the head of his cock.

"Then do it."

"You want it?"

"I want it. Give it to me."

His whole body goes rigid. His hand fists in my hair. And I feel it — the first hot pulse against my tongue, and then the next, and he's coming in my mouth, thick and salt and heat, his hips stuttering forward, a sound coming out of him that's half groan and half something like relief. I hold him there and take it, swallow once, twice, my throat working, and the water keeps running down over both of us the whole time, washing everything away but the taste of him.

"Jesus," he's saying, over and over, his voice wrecked. "Jesus, Jodi. Jesus."

I stay on my knees with him in my mouth until the last of it's gone, until the shudders running through his thighs go quiet and his hand loosens in my hair. The water's gone lukewarm — it changed somewhere in the middle of all that and I didn't notice until now, and it's running cold down the back of my neck, down my spine, pooling where my knees meet the tile.

I pull off him slow, my lips dragging, and sit back on my heels. My jaw aches. There's a spot behind my teeth that feels used.

He's still braced on the wall, chest heaving, staring down at me like he's trying to remember the English language.

"Jesus Christ, Jodi."

"You said it yourself." I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist. "Only place you hadn't finished."

"That was a joke. That was — I was joking at the party, that wasn't a challenge."

"Everything's a challenge with you."

He reaches down and hauls me up by the arm — the water's cold enough now that I gasp when it hits my shoulders square — and he pulls me in against his chest, both arms around me, my face mashed into his wet collarbone. He's still breathing hard. His heart's going under my cheek like something trapped.

"I'm gonna be forty-three in April," he says into my hair. "You can't keep doing this to me. I'll die. I'll actually die."

"You'll die happy."

"I'll die in a shower stall in October with my wife's spit on my chin."

I laugh against his skin, and the laugh turns into a shiver, and he feels it and reaches past me to twist the tap. The water cuts out with a thunk and a dying gurgle in the pipes. The silence after it is enormous — just the drip off both of us onto the tile, the fan whirring somewhere, the tick of the house settling.

"Sorry," he says. "Should've let you have the hot."

"You should've." I step back, and the cold air hits my wet skin and raises every hair on me. "I'm going to remember that. When you're old and I'm picking your nursing home, I'm going to remember the lukewarm shower."

"Fair." He grabs the towel off the hook and wraps it around me first — the rough cheap cotton of it, the smell of the drawer — and rubs my shoulders brisk and hard like he's drying a dog. "Fair enough."

"Easy. I'm not a car."

"You're shivering."

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering," he says again, and keeps going. I let him. The towel's warm where he's been holding it. My legs are still not entirely reliable and I keep one hand on the wall while he works it down my arms, my back, the backs of my thighs, crouching to get my calves. His own hair's dripping on the floor and he hasn't touched a towel himself.

"You're making a puddle," I say.

"I'm aware."

He straightens up and finally takes a towel for himself, and we stand there in the cold bathroom, both of us pink from the heat and the cold and everything else, and something about it — the ordinary ugly bathroom, the mirror fogged, his towel round his waist, my hair dripping on my shoulders — makes the whole thing land at once. The beer mile. The barn. The wall. This morning. His cum cooling on my thigh an hour ago and now in my throat.

"What," he says, catching my face.

"Nothing."

"That's not a nothing face."

"It's just —" I pull the towel tighter. "Twenty-four hours ago I was a woman who wears a sweater to a party."

He looks at me a long moment. Then he reaches over and wipes a smear of something off my chin with his thumb, and shows it to me, and licks it off his own thumb without breaking eye contact — which is such a David thing to do, so entirely and infuriatingly him, that I laugh and shove his chest.

"You're disgusting."

"You married me."

"I was young. I didn't know."

"You knew exactly." He hangs his towel and takes mine off me and hangs that too, and then he's got his hands on my bare hips again, damp and warm, and he's steering me out of the bathroom into the hall. "Come on. Coffee's still hot. That part I didn't lie about."

The kitchen's bright and cold after the steam, and the coffee's on the counter in the pot where he left it, and the clock on the stove says 7:14, and out the window the October morning's doing that thing where the frost on the grass is starting to burn off in patches. I sit on the edge of the table in my towel because the chairs are cold, and he pours two cups and hands me one and stands there in his towel with his coffee, looking out at the yard.

"Karen texted," he says, not turning around.

"Oh God."

"It's in the group chat. She wants to know if we're doing a rematch of the beer mile next weekend." He takes a sip. "She says, and I'm quoting, 'I know the two of you left early and I know it wasn't for the bathroom.'"

I put my coffee down on the table very carefully.

"She said that?"

"She said that. With a winking face. Two winking faces."

I look at my hands. There's a small dark bruise coming up on my knee where I went down on the tile, and I hadn't noticed it until now, and for some reason it's that — that little purple mark — that makes my face go hot all the way to my ears.

"What did you say back?"

"Nothing yet." He turns around, and the look on his face is the one from the barn, the one from last night, the dark one. "I figured I'd let you decide. Since you're the one who's so good at saying things."

"I hate you."

"You really don't."

I pick my coffee back up. The frost is going off the grass out the window in slow grey patches, and somewhere up the road a dog's barking at nothing, and my husband is standing in the kitchen in a towel with his hair drying crooked and a hickey I don't remember giving him on his neck, waiting for me to write something back to Karen.

"Tell her," I say, and I take a sip, "that we'll bring a cooler."