“My meal is late.”

Caitlyn scolds, eyes sharp as you saunter over to her with soft steps. Transparent pieces of fabric doing poorly at the covering the lacy undergarments you wore, pink bows and frilly lace. Wrapped up like a present just waiting to be tore into, pieces of clothing scattered around like wrapping paper.

Nails drum against cool leather, sitting manspread as you come to stand between her thighs. Dark hairs fall over her face, finger curling under the front loop of your bra to yank you down.

And she’s mad.

“Didn’t I say be on time?”