Inventory audit day. Sixteen crates of scrap, twelve pallets of fresh lumber, four boxes of mismatched screws. And one very specific, very distracting memory from last night.

My back was against the warehouse wall, the cold metal seeping through my wool. Whisper's breath was hot against my neck, her teeth grazing my ear as she pinned my wrists. The smell of sawdust and her sweat. The way she said, 'Stop thinking about the damn inventory, Lanolin. Just feel.'

And I did. I felt her knee between my thighs, the rough fabric of her pants against my pussy through my own clothes. Felt the control slip away, the planning and the lists dissolving into just the raw need for her mouth on my tits, her fingers inside my cunt. She knows how to make my brain go quiet. How to turn the constant pressure into a different kind of tension, one that builds and breaks with her name on my lips.

Now I'm counting nails, and all I can think about is the wet spot on the inside of my thigh and how much I want her to put me on my knees in the middle of this damn storeroom. Order is important. But sometimes, chaos feels so much better.