The wing-points of her hipbones point skyward as she slides free of her underwear. They blow away across the floor out of sight. She's made of triangles, she's architecture dressed in dew. His palm moves over her nipple with fingertips in the shadow of her breast, feelless arc carved out by bra elastic. The bud of his tongue first on the nipple then sliding down into the unconsidered crevice. Her thumbs hook his shorts, darkness taking the last sip of his skin before he kicks them off, and he's all illuminated.
They rearrange their legs, anxious florists. He is a glacier, she is a faultline. Further, he leans to her mouth. They taste the tears of each others' bodies. He is deep and pressing and she tastes his organs in the back of her throat, his memories, the empty belly of his need. Tastes inflate into hoarse new languages and escape. She is shaking, she is wet, she is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
He pushes. He pushes. Her hand flies to her mouth. Small white teeth gash her knuckle, she is struggling against a shout. The hand shoots from her mouth out to the side, stabs the floor with an invisible knife then tries to find a hand-hold. She is shattering. Her body lights up and is lifted. At the clench he gasps, shoves in hard. Sucks three hard breaths, lets go.
Smug, she pushes sweat back up his chest as he pouts the last of it, pumping weakly and still flexing.
He withdraws and lifts the gate of her leg. Willingly she is flipped, presses back on her knees to expose a blooming kaleidoscope of secret pieces. She is slick, he fits. He is a forward march, he is a cannon. She is a penitent captive.