He flicks the ash from his cigarette out the window. “Pam, this isn’t a game.”
“Who’s playing?” She points downward, instructing him to get on his knees. Reluctantly he follows. “Kiss my toes while you’re down there. I just got them painted.”
On all fours, he looks up and balancing the cigarette between his lips, speaks in a muffled voice. “Is this really necessary?”
“Was it necessary for you to screw your client on your office desk?”
“I was helping her find her husband!”
“Where? Between her thighs?”
He scoffs, then does as he is told.