On the edge of the counter, a glass of warm milk. Misty Malevolent, a teenager, brushed the smooth glass of milk with her slender fingertips, the glass wobbled, she brushed her fingers against it again, the glass of milk tottered but did not wobble. She looked behind her as if to make certain her parents weren't home (even though rationally she knew she'd hear their key in the lock), that she was perfectly alone, and she leaned forward and drew her tongue up the length of the warm glass.
The glass fell. A guilty flood of pleasure raced down her face to the pit of her gut.
Hopefully there was time to clean up the mess before her parents came home.