Sloane told her husband she was going to yoga to "find balance." She's riding Jude hard and steady on his mahogany desk instead, matching his breath with hers until the room stops feeling like an office. He's all lean sinew and quiet command in a black tank that clings like a second skin.

The debt is always physical. The payment is always dirty. A garage where he holds a torque wrench like a scepter, his c**k straining against denim. A choir loft where she approaches with the stealth of a predator and the altar groans under their weight. A barber's chair where she's perched with a cape draped like a flimsy alibi. A storm-battered shack where he buries himself deep in one sloppy brutal shove while the wind howls. She took the room over and left him sitting there with the desk in pieces and his shirt open.