Her palm flattening on my back, her fingers fisting in my hair, she sucks on my tongue, and my dick feels like it’s going to explode as I imagine thrusting into her pussy the way I’m thrusting into her mouth.

But first, the ice needs to tease her in another spot. Breaking the kiss, I grab a new cube and forge a path. Down her neck, straight through the cleavage, over her belly. Resting the ice in her belly button, I flatten my palm over it until she stops wiggling. Then, hooking my fingers around the fabric hugging her hips, I slide it down her legs, revealing trim curls.

Her chest rises and falls, her breasts tempting, but I’ve got important business to conduct. Retrieving what’s left of the ice, I take it between my lips, spread her legs, and then prop myself up on my elbows. Releasing the ice with the same pop she’d made back at the machine, I spread the lips of her vulva too.

“So pretty,” I say softly before playing over and around its folds until arching hips bring her bud to my lips. Chucking what’s left of the ice over my shoulder, I dive in for a feast, exploring her with my mouth and fingers as I learn what she likes.

She’s not shy about telling me, but I’m proud to say that she can’t quite form a sentence. “More. There. Yes. Fuck,” are the directions I get until her body goes rigid, she fists the sheets, and then finds her release.

I’m so fascinated with the way spasms roll through her entire body that her words take a moment to pierce the fog of my brain. “Sam. Condom? Please.”

My brain scrambled, I lurch to the bathroom, praying that I’ll find at least one in my dopp kit. The gods are with me. I have three. Grabbing them and a towel, I return to the bed where she’s on her knees, still panting, making grabby hands. “Gimme.”

I obey, handing over the packets, and shuck off my boxer briefs. Before I know it, she’s got me sheathed and points to the bed. Falling onto it, I roll onto my back and let her take over the sweet torture of ice play until I can’t take it anymore. “I need to be inside you.”

As she mounts me, we gasp at the contact. She’s slick and tight as hell. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.”

With an evil grin, top teeth pressed to her reddened lower lip, she seats herself fully. Gripping my dick with the muscles of her vagina, she rises and falls, rolling her hips. So powerful. So beautiful. A goddess visiting earth just for me.

When she places my hands on her breasts and arches into them, my brain goes offline. All I can feel is the friction, the deep caverns of her, the tension spreading through every limb.

She gasps, her hips buck, her walls clench, and I flip her over, pistoning into her until I fall into complete oblivion.

Next thing I know, the sun’s on my face, and there’s a terrible sound coming from the bedside table. It takes me a minute to figure out that it’s the hotel room phone.

As I reach for it, I realize that the other side of the bed is empty. Wondering if it’s Diane inviting me to breakfast, I snatch it up. “Hello?”

“Where’ve you been?”

Unfortunately, the voice doesn’t belong to Diane. It’s my boss. Ron Lansdowne.

“Uh, here in my room. What’s up?”

“I’ve been texting you for the past two hours.”

Wondering if I’m late for the hearing, I check the clock, but it’s only just past eight. Just as I’m wondering how early Diane left, a groan from Ron hooks my attention.

“I think I have food poisoning,” my boss says, his voice hoarse. “You’re going to have to do the hearing solo.”

“By myself? But I⁠—”

“Oh shit. Hang on.” The phone clunks, and I hear him mutter, “I knew it was a bad idea to order shrimp.”

Do the hearing solo? I’ve never even been to one of these things before, and now I have to argue in support of new state regulation, representing not just my company but the entire Seed Trade Association?

I’m up and out of bed and pacing as far as the cord will allow, my own gut churning, when Ron begins talking again. No preamble, he barks orders. “I emailed my statement and some additional talking points to you. Take a look at them and call me on my cell if you have any questions. Ugh. I gotta go again.”

“But Ron⁠—”

“You do well, I’ll push for an early promotion.”

And then he’s gone, replaced by the dial tone. Dropping the receiver in the cradle, I scrub a hand through my hair, trying to figure out what to do first.

Grabbing my cell phone, I stare at it, wondering why the hell I didn’t get Diane’s number. Or her last name, even.

But then Ron’s words come back to me. Early promotion. The more money I make, the sooner I can leave this horrible job behind.

I need coffee and a shower before I can digest any of this. Twenty minutes later, I’m back in a suit. Weather app says it’s decent out—for November in Albany anyway—so I walk to the New York State Assembly building instead of calling an Uber. The bright blue sky and brisk breeze clear my head, but it’s not enough to calm my nerves.

Or my conscience.

It’s bad enough that Congento sues farmers who accidentally grow our seeds because they blew over from a client’s farm. But to stamp out something as harmless as a seed library or co-op that’s likely doing actual good for the world?

I manage to find the hearing room and a seat before the politicians arrive, so I hunker down to reread the email Ron sent. As I do, I’m wondering if I have food poisoning too, or if the nausea is coming from the thought of saying this particular brand of fake news out loud, when someone nudges my shoulder.

I grew up with three brothers, so I instinctively swat the hand away.

“Ouch! What the hell, Sam?” a woman yelps.

I look up to find Ron’s assistant Marianne glaring at me. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Bringing you these.” She hands me a stack of papers and points to the raised bank of desks where the state representatives on the agriculture committee are now getting seated. “You have to provide copies of your testimony.” She checks her watch. “I need to rearrange Ron’s schedule for the day. You good?”

No fucking way am I good, is what I want to say, but an image of my grandfather’s proud face when I told him about landing this job has me sucking it up. “Yeah. I’ve got what I need.”

Moments later, a man introduces himself as the chair of the NYSA Standing Committee on Agriculture. “I hereby call this public hearing to order, where our invited guests will articulate their concerns and/or support regarding SB 385, which regulates the practices of seed sharing, libraries, and banks. Please remember to keep your statements under three minutes.”

Thankfully, a few other citizens are called to testify before me, so I get to see the routine. Take your place at the desk facing the lineup of the committee members, hand over the stack of paper to an aide, read your statement into the microphone, and then answer questions. I’m scrolling through Ron’s words on my phone, wondering if I can say them aloud without throwing up, when the guy next to me points at the name on the lanyard around my neck. “I think they’re talking to you.”

Blinking, I take the stand. Words march across the screen and out of my mouth into the microphone. Words that belie everything I learned in school. Words that don’t even make logical sense. When I want to scream that it’s all lies, I remind myself of how proud my grandfather was when I told him about landing this job. He actually patted me on the back, saying that he knew his investment in me would pay off. “Maybe you’ll use that big brain of yours to invent a soybean that’ll make me rich.”

So I keep reading. “The Seed Trade Association would like to remind the assembly that unregulated seed distribution is a potential threat to our state’s–even our country’s–food system. Without regulation, including state-monitored testing, there’s nothing to stop bad actors from infiltrating these groups and introducing contaminants into the food supply.”

Before I can continue, one of the representatives asks, “Let me make sure I’m getting this right, Mr. Lansdowne. Are you saying that there’s a threat of some sort of agroterrorism?”

I’m so shocked at the word that I don’t bother correcting him about my name. Looking at my notes, I continue reading. “Uh, what I’m saying is laws governing the distribution of seeds, like any truth in labeling laws, protect the livelihoods of farmers who need to be able to trust the quality of the seeds they’re working with and prevent unfair competition between seed purveyors.”

A different representative calls for the floor. “Does the Seed Trade Association believe that seed libraries and seed banks are essentially and legally analogous to seed companies like Congento?”

The chair, thankfully, interrupts me. “He’s not here to testify on that subject, Assembly Member Tanner. He’s here to talk about the potential dangers associated with lack of regulation or testing of seeds.”

Just when I think I’m off the hook, another representative is called on. “Would you say, Mr. Lansdowne, that libraries sharing seeds–this agroterrorist scenario–makes our food system vulnerable?” Pulling her microphone closer to her mouth, she adds, “The way we need to control the pornography librarians are selling to our vulnerable children?”

My sister Colleen would kill me if she heard this.

When they run out of follow-up questions, I’m relieved to be dismissed, hoping I did enough to keep my job without completely selling my soul. If you’re going to sacrifice your integrity on the altar of Big Agro, it’d better be worth it.