Page 5 of Sticky Fingers

“MALCOLM!” he yells. “DEBRA!” he finishes.

But it’s not even a ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ or ‘you’re fucking my wife?!’ that he says.

Instead, his eyes go straight to the wall, and he yells,

“WHERE IS THE PICASSO?”

My pants are up now. I’m not rushing because I want to get away from the gasps and fingers pointing at us. I mean, people in this building have seen way worse.

They’ve seen a fucking food fight in the residents-only restaurant above us. I don’t give a fuck.

But what I do want to do is stay away from a condo board president who looks like he’s about to have a fucking aneurysm. He’s turning really red.

“What did you do?!” he says menacingly as he stalks towards us.

“I saw the thief that did this,” I say back to him. “I’m going to go find her. She stole the painting as I was fucking your wife.”

See? A true gentleman never fucking lies.

More shocking gasps from the crowd. I give a brief wave to everyone in response as Peter approaches me.

But that’s the problem.

Because as he steps closer…he steps on my cum.

And there’s a lot.

It’s hardwood floor.

And very, very slippery.

“I am going to kill you for—” he starts but never gets a chance to finish. That’s because he loses his footing, sliding on all that…semen.

The man crashes to the floor as the crowd begins to laugh and gasp at the same time. His face is buried in hardwood floor glazed with billions of tiny little Malcolms.

It would be funny to stand and watch. Because he was so fixated on the painting he never even noticed.

But I can’t stay.

There’s a fucking burglar on the loose, and I’ve set my sights on her.

Fucking hell. Grab ahold of your panties, dollface. This is going to be a long night.