The one that nearly finished me was a Tuesday. I didn’t even remember what started it.
He came in from work, and I was doing dishes, he put his hand on my back, looked at the clock and that was it — shorts down, me bent over the kitchen sink, him inside me, one hand over my mouth, and my mother upstairs changing out of her work clothes.
Six minutes, maybe. He was close, and was too. He had a fist in my hair and his mouth at my ear saying come on, come on in that low flat voice, the sink digging into my hips and I was so close I could taste it — then the stairs creaked.
"Odette?"
Riggs froze. Buried to the root, but not moving. Both of us looking at the doorway with our mouths open.
"Yeah?" My voice came out about half an octave too high.
"Did you put the chicken in?"
"Y—yes."
"On
