His trench coat covers both of them like a blanket as his body covers hers. It is so cold out that she can see her breath, but under him, fully clothed but for the pair of jeans still stuck around one ankle, she feels warm enough.
The push and pull of their grinding, thrusting hips are the only movements in this silent, starry night. She gazes at the stars above them, her eyes fluttering open and shut involuntarily, and wonders how many other people in all of space are doing the same thing she is doing at this time. Billions, she thinks. Somehow, the thought does not negate her feeling of importance, the significance of this moment, of being here right now, of being his. Billions of other people do not have his body pressed and moving into theirs as his is into hers. They do not know the feeling of him desperately claiming them as his own. She does. She clutches his shoulders over his coat and matches his desperate pace, her heart pounding in the space between his two. Billions of people have something very like this, but they will never have this. This is hers, as he is hers, and by the stars above, she is his.
His head is buried in the crook of her neck, gasping out and breathing her in as he fucks her, makes love to her, whatever this quiet frenzy of sighs is called.
The constellations above them twinkle and dance in rhythm with their quiet gasps. They fade in and out as her eyes flutter open and closed more frequently as her climax nears. The cold wind pulls at them slightly, urging them to hurry.
She opens her eyes one last time and thinks she sees a constellation in the sky that outlines their bodies holding each other so desperately tightly. She digs her nails into his shoulders and allows her eyes to close and stay closed as she gives herself over to pleasure.
When she comes, she sees stars.