“Shit.”

“Whatsa matter?” He rolls over, yawning.

“Can't find my panties.”

“Leave 'em in the Uber?”

She snorts. “I wasn't that drunk. Was I?”

“Let's fuck.”

“Can't.” She shimmies into her skirt sans panties. “Gotta run, get ready for work.”

“Maybe we can do it again ... Ellen?”

“Yeah,” Ellen smiles, zipping her skirt. “Definitely, uh, um, oh fuck.”

“Steve.”

“Steve,” Ellen says. “Call me. Bye.”

“You bet.”

The door slams. Steve feels under his pillow and retrieves Ellen’s panties. Cotton. Black. Skimpy French cut.

Perfect.

Cock leaking anticipation, Steve drinks Ellen’s scent, then slides her panties onto his legs.