The door swung open as Joan and Mitchell stumbled into the house. Joan nearly tripped in her stilettos but steadied herself on the table in the hallway, the zippers on her purse clanging against the wood in the otherwise silent room.

“Shhhhh,” said Mitchell with his finger against his mouth, trying, and failing, to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside him.

“Oops!” said Joan, eyes wide, covering her mouth with her hand before turning her attention back to her purse. “I mean, shhhhh.”

“Did you just—” Mitchell couldn’t even complete his sentence without laughing again. “Did you just shush your purse?”

Joan was already distracted, groping the wall. “Where is that damn light switch?” she muttered in frustration.

“Don’t bother. The power’s out, remember?” Mitchell replied, shutting the door behind them, instantly making the room darker.

“Now I really can’t see anything.”

Mitchell didn’t have to see Joan’s face to hear the pout in her voice. Good thing he thought it was adorable. And sexy.

He took a couple steps forward and pushed her against the wall next to the table.

“That’s ok, we don’t have to see to be able to have fun,” he whispered into her ear.

Joan’s body immediately responded and pressed against his. Her leg came up and wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer.

“We never did get to finish what we started on the dance floor,” she said breathily, her body slowly grinding against him and making his thoughts spin even more than they already had been.

Mitchell lifted her up as she wrapped both her legs around him and pressed her mouth to his. It was rushed, hot, and burned right through him… and damn it if he wasn’t ready to rip her clothes off right here in the hallway and take her on the table.

Actually, that sounded like a fantastic plan.

Joan gasped as Mitchell turned and set her down on the table, all while kissing, sucking, and licking his way down her neck, following the scoop of the dress. He didn’t need light to find his way around these curves.

He pulled back for a moment, and Joan tugged on his shirt. He started trying to unbutton it, but his fingers couldn’t quite figure it out. What the fuck were buttons made from nowadays, Rubix cubes?

He struggled and managed to undo a few random buttons along the shirt while Joan whimpered and pouted, telling him to hurry up. Finally giving up, he pulled the shirt over his head, only flailing around with it stuck on his face for about five seconds. Strip teases were overrated anyway.

Back on track, Mitchell ran his hands along Joan’s thighs until he reached the hem of the dress that was already riding up to dangerous levels of naughty. He sunk to his knees, and Joan lay back when suddenly there was a distracting clanging and scraping sound.

“My fucking purse,” Joan muttered as she twisted around to reach the bag underneath her back.

She leaned over to set it down but lost her balance on the thin table and fell right to the floor. Mitchell immediately sprang over to her.

“Joan! Are you ok?”

“Owww,” she complained through the mess of hair in her face.

Ok, so maybe the hall table wasn’t the best idea.

“Are you hurt?” Mitchell asked again.

“I’m fine, but can we maybe go to the bedroom?”

He stood up first, then helped her up. But just one step later he was back on the floor, his legs tangled up in the shirt he had tossed there moments before.

Joan covered her mouth, attempting to keep the laughter in, but it broke free anyway.

Mitchell cursed and kicked and flailed around trying to get free of the stupid shirt from Hell. He was burning that thing in the morning. It only brought him problems with its damn buttons and… fabric.

“Hey, I didn’t laugh at you when you fell,” Mitchell snapped at Joan, but the corner of his mouth curving into a smile and the stutter of a giggle in his voice kind of took the bite out of it.

“That’s because it was your fault when I fell,” she replied, smirking.

“It was that damn loud purse of yours, not me. I didn’t even get to do anything to you yet.”

“Then let’s get into the bedroom and fix that already.”

With that, Joan gave Mitchell a playful look and started walking away. He hopped to his feet and chased after her until he was able to wrap his arms around her from behind, and the two tripped and stumbled all the way to the bedroom, a tangled mess of legs and feet and pants and shoes.

When they got into the bedroom, Joan paused. “Wait, if the power’s out, why is that night light on?”

Mitchell looked at the offending bulb and started giggling, which then turned into all out belly laughing.

Joan just stood there staring as Mitchell leaned against the bed holding his stomach.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked, but clearly the laughter was contagious because she was already catching it, unable to hide it from her voice.

“Because,” Mitchell managed between breaths, “why is that night light on?”

He burst into another round of laughter and collapsed onto the bed. Joan joined him on the bed, lost in laughter too.

A few minutes later, whatever was so funny subsided, and the two lay there in comfortable contentment staring at the ceiling until Joan’s voice broke the silence.

“But seriously, why is that night light on?”

“We should eat all the ice cream in the freezer before it melts!” exclaimed Mitchell, abruptly sitting up. Who cared about the night light when ice cream was at stake?

Joan propped herself up onto her elbows and considered his suggestion.

“We should add alcohol to the ice cream,” she said with a devilish grin.

“You, my love, are a fucking genius,” he replied, taking her face in his hands and planting a loud smooch on her forehead.

To be continued in Part 2…