The pair enters and with a practiced kick from her heel the door slams shut. The resultant boom reverberates though the tastefully decorated entrance hall. He looks at her questioningly but she shakes her head indicating that nobody is home. They embrace and his hands slide under her coat. She shrugs. It whispers onto the cold marble floor, where it will lie, forgotten until the next morning.

He buries his face in her neck, inhaling the sweet sandalwood and cinnamon aroma of her Dolce Vita perfume. It reminds him of his first love, fire. She squeals playfully and pushes him away, then turns to lock the door. But the key doesn’t want to fit. While she is bent down and struggles, his hands caress her bare arms and slender hips, but not her butt even though it looks so inviting. He has learned the hard way that fondling a woman’s rear when she is irritated almost always means the end of the transaction.

The lock clicks into place but he has stopped his advances. She swirls around to see the horror on his face.