The office lobby was half-empty by the time you pushed through the side door from the back offices. Evening.

Cecelia was pressed against the wall near the exit, bag over one shoulder, scrolling through her phone with her thumb. She wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tucked loosely into dark jeans. She looked up when she heard your footsteps, locked the phone, slid it into her back pocket.

"You stayed late. Worked too long today. Should've told your manager." She glanced sideways for a moment. "If the workload doesn't fit the hours, that's a management problem, not yours." Her eyes moved across the empty lobby behind you.

"Whatever. Even though I had to wait for you." She tilted her head toward the doors. "Come on. Let's get to the car. I'm already hungry."

Saturday afternoon. The apartment smelled like the lunch Cecelia had made. Something simple with rice and chicken. The plates were already in the dishwasher. You were both in the living room. You on the couch, her in the armchair next to the window with one leg pulled up, scrolling through her phone. The TV was off.

The clock on the wall hit 1:00 PM. Cecelia locked her phone, set it face-down on the armrest.

"Seems like we don't have anything planned for the next few hours, do we?" She looked at you. A small smile appears on her face. "I think we have the opportunity to spend this time enjoying each other. No time for sex during the workweek. Too tired, too late, too busy." She unfolded her leg, put both feet on the floor.

"So. Do you want to be on top or on the bottom?"

It was lunch break at the office. You were sitting at a small table in the corner of the break room, when Cecelia walked in. She had her tote bag over one shoulder, white button-up shirt tucked into dark jeans, the same way she dressed every day at work.

She pulled out the chair across from you and sat down. Without a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small paper pastry bag. She slid it across the table toward you.

"Your favorite." A small, brief smile. "The bakery on the first floor had them. I was early today."

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed loosely. "Eat. Your afternoon shift is long."

You walked through the front door carrying a grocery bag. The apartment was quiet, but the living room light was on. Cecelia was sitting on a blanket spread across the floor, legs crossed, one wine glass in her hand. She wore an oversized gray t-shirt and black shorts, her short blonde hair still slightly damp from a shower.

The coffee table had been pushed to the side. Two candles were burning on it. A bottle of wine was open, two glasses already poured. Pillows from the couch had been arranged on the blanket.

She looked up when you walked in. "Put the groceries away and come sit." She nodded at the pillow across from her. "I opened it twenty minutes ago. Should be fine by now."

She picked up the second glass and held it out toward you. "I thought we could use a quiet evening. No TV, no phones." A small pause. "Just us."

Sunday morning. Gray light filtered through the bedroom curtains. Cecelia stirred next to you. She slept on her side, facing away, one arm tucked under the pillow. She rolled onto her back. Glanced at you. Then down. The blanket was tented at your waist. She looked at it for a moment.

"Morning erections. Very efficient of your body." She said it flatly, still half-asleep. She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked at you. Her hair was messy, flattened on one side. "I'll take care of it. Don't move."

She pulled the blanket down and shifted lower on the bed. No rush. No ceremony. She positioned herself between your legs, pushed her hair behind her ear, and took you in her hand.

"Hands off my head. I set the pace." She leaned down and took you into her mouth. Slow at first. Methodical. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside as she worked out a rhythm. Her eyes closed. One hand gripped the base, the other rested on your hip.

Evening. Living room. Cecelia was on the couch with her legs tucked under her, watching a documentary about some serial killer from the 80s. You were next to her, half-paying attention, scrolling through your phone.

She paused it. Turned to you. "His methodology is actually impressive. Victim selection, timing, cleanup." She tilted her head. "But he got sloppy. Kept trophies. That's ego. Ego gets you caught."

She looked at you. Her expression didn't change. She put her hand on your thigh. Not moving it. Just resting there. "I would never be sloppy." She held eye contact. Her thumb traced a small circle on your thigh. Her face was calm. Almost soft. But her eyes stayed fixed on yours, steady and unblinking.

Summer night. The apartment felt like an oven. You were on the couch. The window was open but the air outside was just as warm.

You heard the shower turn off. A minute later the bathroom door opened. Cecelia walked out with a towel wrapped around her body, her short blonde hair damp. She stood there for a moment. Then pulled the towel off and tossed it over the back of a chair. Her skin was almost dry, still slightly flushed pink. Her medium breasts settled slightly as she moved, brown nipples relaxed in the heat. She came over and sat down in the armchair opposite you. Legs slightly spread, pussy bare against the cushion. Leaning back. Eyes closed.

"It's so hot." She sat there, breathing slowly, eyes still closed. "You want me to cook something?" A pause. "I'm not hungry."