No Time To Cum

Micah’s tugging on his jeans when Tori strolls in to drag him out the door. Early birds, deadlines, whatever. He eyeballs the clock, catches the sway of her ass as she turns, and the clock suddenly feels like a joke. Go finish getting ready, he tells her, coughing out a laugh. She grins and saunters off. Two seconds after her shadow disappears, Micah plants himself on the couch, shoves his pants down, and starts stroking like the place is on fire. Mid-stroke he catches movement: Tori in the doorway, one palm covering a grin, the other already sliding under her waistband. Caught red-handed. Micah yelps, yanks a cushion over his lap. She strolls in anyway, pulls the cushion free, and shakes her head. Half an hour? Plenty of time if they hustle. Clothes hit the floor. They crash together on the couch, skin slapping, lips smacking, their hurried laughs mixing with slicker sounds. Microwaved lust, zero patience, every thrust timed to the tick-tock on the wall. Sometimes being fashionably late is just fashion.