Fingers trace a soft arc over her thigh. Spent muscles spasm and twitch. The paths of his touches are as long as the shadows cast against the wall.
He makes love to her differently in the daylight. No more or less intimately, just differently. Maybe it is she who is different - burning from the trail of his gaze, their passions laid bare in the milky light of the sun, freeing her in some ways, holding her thrall to her inhibitions in others.
In the dark she feels the expanse of him, lives in awe of the hidden reality they create between each other; a realm of raw, wet sensation, of salt and sweat, trust and whispered cries. In the dark she closes her eyes.
In the daylight she is greedy; endlessly drinking in the turns and corners of his body, the dark, private hair that washes down his torso. By day her eyes are open.