"This place smells weird."

I inhale deeply, breathing in the familiar miasma of unidentifiable chemical and mechanical scents. "Maybe. I'm just used to it, I guess."

"You would be, Dr. DIY." Letting go of me so I can grab a cart from the corral, she slides a hand into the back pocket of my jeans, her fingers caressing my buttock as we stroll over toward the gardening center. "What I don't get is how you can MacGyver, like, a cuckoo clock out of aluminum foil, Tinker Toys and a handful of thumbtacks but can't put together a simple table from IKEA without screwing it up."

Bumping her with my hip, I stick out my tongue at her. "That's because the cuckoo clock would probably have clear, concise and logical directions for its construction. Whereas the IKEA table comes with a 30-page booklet filled with infernally unhelpful cartoon figures and exploded diagrams that don't warn you that some of the parts have extra holes for no reason whatsoever. And you have to put it together with a stubby little hex wrench that cramps your hand before you can screw in a bolt even halfway and then strips the socket before it can be seated properly."

"Yeah, well, it took me thirty minutes to undo your mess and then maybe ten to assemble it the right way. I just think it's fucking hilarious that you have absolutely no chill when it comes to that shit."

I roll my eyes, giving the cart a little extra shove against the rubber bumpers on the heavy swinging doors to nudge them open. Over in the far aisle, I sling three 60.5-liter bags of organic potting mix, a bag of worm compost and a bag of perlite into the cart. On the way back to the main store area, I grab a roll of contractor weed control fabric and a bottle of fish fertilizer. An older couple approaching with a cart full of cleaning supplies frown at us as Cosima slips her hand back into my pocket; she waggles her tongue obscenely and blows them a noisy kiss as the woman scowls and looks away.

"That wasn't very nice of you, chérie," I murmur in her ear, taking the opportunity to kiss her cheek.

"Not my fault those two are so uptight they probably shit diamonds," she says, not bothering to lower her voice. "Dried up old bat's probably got cobwebs in what used to be her pussy. Hey!" she glares at me when I pinch her bottom.

Giving her my blandest look, I head us over to the storage container aisle. Quickly I find three 53-liter and three 38-liter heavy-duty plastic totes and stack them and their lids into the cart.

"So what is it you're making, again?"

"Sub-irrigated containers, so I can grow herbs and other things on the terrace. Not that kind of herb," I admonish at her bemused look.

"Spoilsport."

"Brat."

In Plumbing, I find three pieces of PVC pipe of the right diameter pre-cut to an appropriate length. "That should be it. Do we need anything else?"

"Hmmm." A mischievous glint in her eye makes me suddenly uneasy. "They sell, like, carpets and rugs here, don't they?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Yes, but why?"

"You'll see," she says in a singsong voice.

"Okay," I say as we approach the carpeting section. "Please don't tell me you want to cover up the hardwood and granite floors with that."

Critically eyeing the long strip of grass-colored artificial turf, she shrugs. "Nah. Maybe someday if we want to set up a putt-putt course in the entranceway or something." Taking me by the hand, she tows me away from the cart and toward a humpbacked pile of carpet samples and remnants. Which is comfortably waist-high for her and, she demonstrates, quite firm and supportive when she drapes herself over it.

My mouth suddenly dry, it takes a couple tries for my voice to work. "Cosima!" I hiss.

She raises her head and grins impudently at me, swiveling and humping her ass suggestively. A wide-eyed passing customer rams the corner of his cart into a stack of laminate flooring. "What do you think?"

I swallow hard, looking up as an orange-aproned associate starts toward us from the other end of the aisle. "I think you're going to get us thrown out of this store in record time."

"Lucky for you I'm not looking to get arrested today, babe." Reluctantly she clambers to her feet, then drapes her arms around my neck to kiss me deeply. "But in case you didn't notice," she murmurs against my lips, "if we threw a few more pieces on top of that pile, it would be the absolutely perfect height for you to ream out my ass."

My face flushes. "The thought did cross my mind."

"Pervy girl." She smiles. "Say the word and it's yours."

I nip the tip of her nose. "I'll think about it." Which I can't help doing, in minute detail, my mind's eye picturing a great many scenarios in which the pile could come in handy. Deciding that she looks entirely too pleased with herself, I swat her on her bottom to make her yelp in protest. "This way, chérie."

"Lay on, Macduff." Her hand again comes to rest against my buttock as I steer our heavily laden cart toward the hardware section and the fasteners aisle. "Ooooohhh."

Watching her take in the seemingly endless selection of various types and colors and sizes of rope and chain and bins of eyebolts and carabiners, I smile. "Do you see anything you like?"

"See everything I like," she says huskily, pulling me into another kiss.

For a long moment I forget about everything else except the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the warmth of her slender body, the scent of her skin and hair, the insistent press of her firm thigh against my crotch. A wolf-whistle from a passing customer brings me back to earth. I pull away with a smile, resting my forehead against hers. "Bee charmer."

With an effort I tear myself from her embrace and move closer to inspect one of the dangling ropes, a wide silky multi-stranded plait that glides smoothly through my fingers. "Hmm, I like this." Swiftly I tie a slipknot in the end and tighten the loop just below her elbow, then throw a few half-hitches up her forearm, placing the last one at her wrist. Unspooling a little more of the rope, I tug on her arm to test the security; it holds nicely despite its slipperiness, the half-hitches preventing the knot from cutting off her circulation no matter how hard I pull.

"Very nice," she says, eyeing the reel speculatively. "How long is this, do you think?"

"I don't know, maybe a hundred meters or so. Why?"

"Something I read about once. Fascinating book about a Japanese bondage art called kinbaku. Think about tying me up with this, with knots in a few strategic places — like right against my clit, so that every time I tried to move or you pulled on the rope, that knot would rub over me. For fucking hours, if you want."

I feel a jolt straight to my sex, my heart banging wildly in my chest just from imagining it. "I want," I say hoarsely, claiming her mouth again and cupping the rounds of her ass in my hands, pulling her hips tight against mine.

As though from a distance I hear a querulous voice saying, "There they are!," then the sound of a throat clearing.

Breaking our kiss, I look over to see the older lady we'd encountered earlier clutching at the arm of a vaguely embarrassed looking man in a short sleeved shirt bearing a nametag that identifies him as the store manager. "Pardon me, ladies. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to pay for your merchandise and leave."

Quickly, though not without a great deal of giggling from both of us, I unwind the end of the rope from Cosima's forearm and pull the rest of it off the reel, coiling the entire length into a neat bundle. We meekly check out, then trundle the cart out to the parking lot.

"Hey, Delphine?" she says, wrapping her arms around me from behind as I stow our purchases in the trunk and back seat.

"Yes, Cosima?"

"Wanna go get kicked out of Lowe's?"

Okay, okay, this isn't exactly smutty, but there will be follow-up chapters that springboard off of this one. Next up: Saturday night at the movies — who cares what picture we see?