Her hands pulled my shirt from my trousers and started ripping it apart at the buttons. They popped and went flying. I didn’t care. I had dozens of FBI uniform shirts just like it and I had a fleeting thought that my lack of style was finally paying off. She could ruin as many as she wanted. Her hands roamed my naked torso and from her moans I guessed she liked what she found. I felt her start to unbuckle my belt and I knew then my hours in her kitchen had paid off. I guess asking and caring about the age of buttermilk could be sexy.