When she arrived at the apartment, the door was slightly ajar; from inside she could hear him clattering in the kitchen. He had dialed up his Hot Tuna playlist, “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning” competing with the chopping and sizzling noises. She knocked and pushed the door open without waiting.

“Hello, darling.” He was washing and drying his hands and rushing over to her in one smooth motion. How did he manage to make the dishtowel vanish, she wondered, before taking her hands and kissing her? “Lunch is just about ready — I’ll pour you some wine.” It was a Pinot Grigio, crisp and icy cold, and she let it settle and warm on her palate for a moment. She saw two large salads on the counter. He moved something off the cooktop and leaned across to kiss her again, with more passion and fervor now that the door was closed and the busybody neighbors couldn’t spy.

“Mmmmm. I like that.”

“So do I.”

He sliced the tuna and fanned a small portion across each of the salads. She looked at the plates in his hand and shook her head gently, then cocked it to one side.

“Later,” she said. “Right now… well, it’s not food I want. Or need.”

He grinned at her, the boyish grin of a man less than half his age but still very becoming. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. She looked around and smiled: after all this time he could still surprise her; she hoped he would say the same. She kissed him again, her hands on the back of his head telling him more than words ever could. He responded, as he always did: by letting down her hair, holding her head in his own hands, and slowly peeling away her blouse and slacks, stylish but never flashy, perfect for the office. His hand moved from her hair to her back, and her breasts tumbled free from her brassiere. She shrugged her shoulders and let it fall to the floor while she stripped off her panties and let them drift, joining the bra and slacks in a puddle between the doorway and the bed.

He stepped back to admire her, then stepped forward to appreciate her fully: not just her appearance, but her presence. Her stature, the lift of her chin, the nipples hardening in the cool air-conditioned space. He reached for her, enclosing one breast in his hand, squeezing the way she liked, feeling the pucker of her areola and the stiff point of her nipple against his palm. She let out a soft moan, and he pressed his other hand between her legs. He knew even before he reached for her she would be wet: she was always wet, and he caught himself wondering for a moment if she was always wet at the office, too. No, he decided; she was too good at her job. Early in their courtship it had been a game for them: he would send texts and emails to distract her throughout the day, to see just how far he could push her. He smiled, remembering some of her most explicit replies.

She reached up and kissed him while he continued to massage her breast. He could taste the morning’s coffee on her tongue, mingling with the salt on her skin. He loved that taste, that combination; it always surprised him a little, he never got used to it or tired of it. It always aroused him. She was unbuttoning his shirt, unfastening his trousers, pushing everything off him: she is in a hurry today, he thought, but she was always in a hurry. She wanted to consume him, and could never quite have enough of his body nor give enough of hers. He pressed his finger forward and up, slipping inside her and gently probing her G-spot. He felt her body relax, willing him to take her then and there, to have her, finish her, do whatever he wanted. The kiss, already in its eighth minute, ticked on to a ninth and tenth, while their passions raged and increased and their tongues engaged in sensuous battle. He slipped a second finger inside her and she tensed momentarily, not quite expecting the invasion but not at all objecting to it.

Her lips broke from his and she began to kiss his neck, shoulders, chest. She stroked his abdomen, took his cock in her mouth, and continued to stroke his chest and inner thighs while he laced his fingers in her hair, pressing her head forward and pulling her back, almost against her will. He grasped her breast again, felt her moan through her full mouth, and smiled to himself. She reached up and pinched and twisted his nipple. He moaned and pulled her to the bed, threw her across it and spread her legs far apart before thrusting into her from behind, pressing his lips to her cheek and whispering in her ear. She moaned again, softly at first and then louder, until he pushed two fingers in her mouth to quiet her.

After their climax he fetched the plates and two glasses from the kitchen. They ate their salads and drank their wine, laughing and playing with each other. They made love again, more slowly and leisurely, and then showered quickly before returning to work. When they parted in the lobby, they kissed again and gave each other a lingering, languorous look that made them both yearn to finish the day and return to their apartment as quickly as possible.

Her afternoon meetings were interrupted, as she was sure they would be, by a series of ribald texts and emails. She smiled at each one and then returned her attention to work, trying to stay focused. Just before six she slipped out and took the subway back home.

He was waiting in the living room, reading the newspaper as he always was when she returned home. She sighed, dropped her bag on the chair and headed into the kitchen to prepare dinner. They ate quietly, consuming a half-bottle of Sancerre, and he did the dishes. When she passed him the dishtowel, he pulled her close and kissed her. She closed her eyes and tried to live in the moment, but she couldn’t help flashing back to the afternoon, and the many afternoons before that and the ones yet to come.

With the same effort she exercised in the office, she pushed these thoughts out for the night. Her husband took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom. They made love, tenderly as they always did. How odd, she thought. It was being here, in this room, that felt like betrayal.