Chapter 5: The Stockroom

He knocked on the stockroom door at ten on Sunday night, after Gerda left for bingo.

I knew his knock.

I unlocked it and stood in the dark with my hand on the latch.

"The shop's closed," I said.

"I know."

"You came the back way."

"I didn't want an audience."

He stepped in, and the door clicked behind him, and the air between us caught fire.

The stockroom was shelves of canned beans, bags of flour stacked chest-high, a bare bulb on a string and the smell of burlap.

I pulled the string and the bulb went out.

Only the streetlight came through the high window, a thin yellow bar across his chest.

"Take your coat off," I said.

He did.

"Shirt."

He pulled his thermal over his head and dropped it on a sack.

I stood in front of him and looked, taking my time, and he let me.

His hands hung at his sides.

His breath came faster the longer I looked.

"You're doing it again," he said.

"What?"

"Making me wait."

"Does it bother you?"

"It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

I walked him backward until his shoulders met the shelves, and cans rattled.

Then I went down on my knees on the concrete.

His breath hissed out above me.

"Maja."

"Keep your hands on the shelf."

"Yes, ma'am."

I unbuckled his belt, and opened his jeans, and drew him out.

He was already hard, thick and heavy and hot, the head flushed dark.

I held him in my fist and looked up.

He was watching me with his lips parted and his jaw clenched.

"Look at you," he said, hoarse. "On your knees for me."

"Not for you."

"No?"

"For me. I want to taste you."

I licked a slow stripe from root to tip, and he shook.

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