I love Sundays. No rushing. No chores. No need to dress. Just laze around in a silky nightgown. Sip spicy hot tea. Read an even spicier book. Hubby, of course, is always after me to go to church. Vance has his religion. I’ve got mine.

“You better hurry up and get ready, hon,” he said, stepping out of the shower, all steamy fresh and bundled up in a fluffy towel. “Pastor Robbins says—”

“Screw Pastor Robbins,” I said, letting my nightgown slip open just enough to bare a pert boobie and a trim patch of pussy fur.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” I shifted the nightie so it covered one pink nipple and uncovered another.

“Molly!” Vance growled.

“You’all git on to your church. I’ll be here when you get back. Maybe.”