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She took him in her hand and put him against herself and sank down onto him bare, and they both made the sound — the involuntary one, the one the latex had been muffling all night — because there was nothing in the way now at all, just the slick scalding fact of him, every vein and ridge of him printing itself on her, skin reading skin. He filled her differently like this; he always had. Deeper, somehow, though the inches were the same. Realer. She settled the last of her weight down onto him and sat there a moment, full of him, his heart visible in his actual throat, and the room was so quiet she could hear the wine fizzing faintly in the abandoned glasses as they kissed.

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