Book Club (takes place after Mrs. Dalloway)

"Our stories always have better endings," Sheldon said.

First, there is Book Club. There are words, phrases, passages rolling off the tongue. There are surprises accented by raised eyebrows, irony accented by quiet chuckles. There are smiles of agreement, head shakes of disagreement. Ideas are put forth tentatively or forcefully. There are similes and symbolism. Thoughts are stirred, hearts are inflamed.

Afterwards, there is often calm. There is cuddling on the couch, watching something together. Or there is silently working at their partners desk, across from each other, faces half-hidden by computer screens. Or there are preparations for the next day: Ada's lunch is packed, the dishwasher is ran, clothes are folded. Thoughts are silently sorted, sifted, new ideas mentioned by the other are pondered. The heart burns ever brighter.

Then, at the appointed time, there is the unspoken ritual of bedtime. Lights are turned down, electronics are put to sleep, it is confirmed the door is locked. There is standing next to each other, each person at their respective sink, brushing their teeth. Privacy in the bathroom is given. Clothes are removed. The words and feelings of Book Club linger, the heart is combustable, and, almost always, their bodies are not recovered.

It is almost never discussed. In the dark now, there are small movements, rolling toward one another, soft touches, gentle kisses; the silent asking and giving of consent. The taste of mint on the tongue, the feel of broad shoulders, the depths of freed hair.

It deepens. Necks are arched, pulses are felt through lips. Erect nipples are teased, taunted. Ticklish bellies shy away from fingers. Bodies are wrapped in embraces. Even in the blackness of night, eyes sparkle and twinkle. Breathing quickens, shallows.

There are the very depths of her. A topography he knows well. Hot, wet, intoxicating. There is stroking or sometimes swirling. Holding her close, listening to her every sound, the way the air catches in her throat on the way in, the way it starts coming out with just a hint of a moan behind it. At some point, she will lick her lips. A dam of feeling is released, the sounds come louder, quicker now, the mewing of pleasure. Her body will curve repeatedly toward him, pushing herself closer to what she wants. And then it will happen: crying, clawing, clamping, maybe an "Oh! Yes!"

For a moment, all is still. There is a gentle kiss somewhere: the cheek, the forehead, the top of her hair. A strong arm around her soft shoulders. The heart beat slows, but only slightly. Recovery but also the anticipation of more.

There is the zenith of him. A landscape she knows well. Warm, velvety, potent. There is gripping, squeezing, rubbing, sometimes swiping across the peak. Staying close to him, listening to his every sound, the way the air stumbles on the way into his lungs, the ways it starts coming out deeper, in a groan. At some point, he clutches her tightly and whispers, "That's enough."

For a second, there is indecision. No, too brief even for that word. There is a spark, a flash, and something is decided. Pillows are hastily arranged. No time is given for the heart beat to slow. Not recovery, just the hot lightening of passion. Eagerness and hunger.

He is long, lean, angular, sharp. She is smaller, rounder, softer, comprised of curves. And, yet, when she straddles him and takes him in, the congruence cannot be denied. They were made for each other. They are two halves of a whole. Every time, something between a gasp and a moan escapes their lips at the same time. A refrain of thanksgiving.

There is movement, the shifting of muscle beneath skin. There is the leaning, the tilting. Her hair and her breasts fall forward, and he is bewitched all over again. He rubs his palms along her thighs, her hips, her buttocks, and she is possessed by him once more. He rises up to meet her, she presses into him. She sets the pace, and it moves quickly, easily, slick and sliding. Everything is perfect: the heat, the sounds, the angle of where their pelvises meet. Their lips join in a frenzy, pulling, sucking.

Because of the angle, it happens together, the pulsing, the stiffening. Once again, she cries out, her mouth forming a perfect O, her body flushing. His head tilts back, his upper lip curls, a deep groan of pleasure escapes his lips.

She falls against him, their sweating chests heaving together. He wraps her in a hug, and she kisses the dampness of his neck. This time, something new happens. The words will make Sheldon raise his eyebrows in surprise before squeezing Amy tighter in tacit agreement.

"Book Club sex is so hot."

Thank you in advance for your reviews!