“Go on then! Go to work, you bastard! Don’t spare a thought for me! What am I meant to do all day?!”

“Think of something!” came the hollered reply as I swung the crate of empty bottles into my van. I risked a peek round to see Tom Fletcher striding up his garden path, red-faced with anger. His husband, Dougie Poynter, was standing topless in the doorway, hurling insults at his back.

“If you wanted someone who would stay home all day and do the housework, you should’ve married a bloody woman!”

“I wish I had!” Mr. Fletcher swung himself into his Jaguar. I didn’t know which type it was. It was a rich neighbourhood- one I could only see when I delivered milk. Once Mr. Fletcher had driven off, I shut my van door and moved down their path. Mr. Poynter was still leaning against the doorframe. He watched me as I came down the path.

“Morning, Danny.”

“Good morning, Mr. Poynter. More marital problems?”

He sighed, “If that’s what you want to call them. I don’t think we’ll be having them for much longer, though.”

I froze in my position squatted on the doorstep, my fingers brushing the neck of a milk bottle, and looked up at him. “You mean…divorce?”

He nodded solemnly, “It’s been coming for five years, Danny. Don’t look so shocked.” I couldn’t help it. Rich people were supposed to have happy, perfect lives.

“Sorry,” I muttered, returning to my job. I could sense he was still looking down at me.

“You’re looking awfully thin, Danny. Have you been eating?”

I stood up with a polite smile, “With all due respect, Mr. Poynter, if I could afford to eat regularly, I wouldn’t have to do this job.” I nodded my head and turned to leave.

“Wait!” I turned back at the sound of his voice. He took hold of my arm firmly, “Come in.” I saw the pleading look in his eyes and waved my key at my van, until the headlights flashed and it locked. He led me in and through to a kitchen. I stopped and stared. He giggled, “What?”

“This is bigger than my whole flat…”

He giggled even harder, some of the light that had drained during his argument with his husband coming back into his eyes. “What d’you want to eat?”

I wandered to the window to look out into their massive back garden, “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m not-” I turned round to find him directly in front of me. “-hungry,” I finished weakly. My eyes took him in. Delicate features, small nose, floppy blond hair that fell softly into light blue eyes. A toned, slightly tanned chest, and a dark blond trail of hair disappearing under the boxers that were on display because his jeans had slipped down past his hips. His feet were bare.

“Come on. You must be.” He moved up, and his lips met mine gently. It was a long, amazing moment before I thought to shove him back.

“Mr. Poynter!”

“Dougie. Call me Dougie. Don’t talk to me like I’m above you.” He slid his hands down my sides and onto my bum. I jumped.

“You have a husband!”

“Fine,” he muttered dejectedly. “Why should I expect you to want me? He doesn’t.” He turned away and stalked towards the large white object I was reluctant to admit to myself had to be a fridge. I stared at him in shock.

“Dougie?” I was taken aback as I spoke. He spun round. I crossed the distance to him. “Again, I say this with all respect and adoration, but your husband’s a moron.” I kissed him roughly, forcing him back into a wall. One of his hands drove into my hair, holding me in place. He forced his tongue past my yielding lips, taking the kiss deeper.

“I know he is,” he said breathlessly when we finally separated. He tore off my white coat, revealing the black band t-shirt I always wore underneath to remind myself that a milkman wasn’t all I was. He traced the band name with a finger, “Good choice.”

“I concur.” I undid the button on his jeans in one swift movement and pulled them down. His eyes widened at the efficiency of the action.

“You’re wearing too much clothes,” he informed me curtly, kicking his jeans to the side. “It’s rude.”

“You’ll have to punish me for that,” I murmured, lowering my mouth to his neck.

“I…mm…plan to,” he promised, fiddling with my belt. He forced my ugly white trousers down eagerly. I removed my mouth from his neck, and he kissed me hard, before pulling off my top. I nudged off my shoes and stepped out my trousers.

“You always take it this slow?” I taunted, trapping him against the wall.

“Oh, sorry. I was thinking you were weak from lack of food.” He crouched down slightly, and removed his boxers. Then he reached for mine, and slid them off agonizingly slowly. A growl came from the back of my throat. He giggled, “Impatient, Danny? You make sexy noises when you’re impatient.”

Keeping eye contact with him, I put my fingers in my mouth, lubricating them. Then I reached down and fingered his hole. He gasped in pleasure, and I slid one finger into place. “You okay?” I asked him. He nodded, his hand gripping my shoulder as he put up with the momentary pain in order to gain the sense of overwhelming pleasure.

“Danny…” he whimpered as I scissored my fingers inside him to widen the hole. “Do it. Now.” I looked into his pleading eyes, and gave a nod of consent. He boosted himself up on the wall, his legs locking round my waist, then he impaled himself.

Our gasps were simultaneous. His hands held onto my neck as I began to thrust in and out of him. He squeaked in pain for a moment, then his eyes went opaque as I hit the spot over and over. He clawed at my back. “Oh, God,” I stammered, as I felt myself clench. I came into him, crying his name.

“Danny!” he screamed, and a second later he followed suit, covering both of us in his essence. I pulled out of him, but he stayed where he was otherwise. His mouth found mine, and he kissed me deeply. “That was amazing.”

“That word isn’t enough to describe that,” I contradicted. He giggled, and allowed himself to drop to the floor. He got a flannel from the sink, and used it to wash me off. I trailed my tongue up his chest before he could clean himself, tasting him.

He moaned, “Mm… You have to stop doing this to me…” He kissed me once more, this time tasting himself on me. Then he turned away and cleaned himself off. “What do you want to eat, then?” he asked, pulling on his boxers again.

I stared at him, “Dougie, I swear, I’m not hungry.”

He zipped up his jeans. “Come on, Danny,” he said flirtatiously. “Are you seriously telling me you’re still not hungry after that?”