He set a bag of groceries on the tailgate—eggs, milk, a pack of chicken thighs—and heard her before he saw her. "Danny! Finally caught you home." The neighbor from three doors down, maybe thirty-five, gardening gloves tucked into her back pocket, a cheerful wave cutting through the afternoon light.
His hand found her breast before her name came back to him. Through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, his thumb and forefinger found her nipple and pinched—hard—and she didn't flinch. Didn't even pause. "Been meaning to ask about your compost setup. Mine's gone sour." Her voice stayed bright, unbothered, as he rolled the stiff peak between his calloused fingers.
"Add more browns," he said, his other hand already sliding down her hip, bunching the fabric of her skirt. "Leaves, cardboard." He pushed her forward, hard, her palms slapping against the warm metal of the tailgate, and she let out a little huff of air, adjusting her grip. "The basil really took off this year," she said, her voice steady, as he hiked her skirt up over her ass. "Never had luck with it before."
She wasn't wearing panties. He didn't ask why. He unzipped his jeans, his cock already thick and aching, and lined himself up at the slick cleft of her cunt. She was wet—had been wet since his hand found her breast, maybe before. He pushed into her in one slow, relentless thrust, and her breath caught, her voice faltering for just a word. "—and the oregano—" She managed the rest on an exhale as he seated himself fully, his hips flush against her ass, her heat clenching around him.
He didn't wait. He drew back and drove into her again, harder, the tailgate shuddering with the force. Her voice quavered, riding the edge of a moan, but she kept going. "The, ah—the thyme is taking over the whole bed." Her hands gripped the edge of the truck bed, knuckles white, as he set a punishing rhythm, the slap of his hips against her ass cracking through the quiet driveway.
The afternoon sun warmed his back. A bird called from the oak tree. He fucked her like she was nothing more than a hole to fill, and she took it, her body rocking forward with each thrust, the carton of eggs rattling against the milk jug. "I pulled most of it out," she said, her voice breathier now, but still bright, "but it just comes back."
He reached around and found her clit, wet and swollen, and pressed down hard, rubbing in rough circles as he fucked her. Her hips stuttered, her words breaking into a gasp. "Fuck—that's—" She swallowed, tried again. "The compost's in the back. You should check it." He increased the pace, his balls slapping against her, and her voice dissolved into a string of half-moans, half-syllables, the basil and oregano lost to the rhythm of his cock driving into her