Richard woke in the pre-dawn hours and looked at the woman next to him. The heat was on, and like so many apartment dwellers they could not regulate it properly; not for lack of trying, nor for want of repeated calls to the super. But the heat, like central heating in so many houses and buildings throughout the area, seemed to exist only in a binary state: it was on or it was off, with the unavoidable consequence that the apartment was either too hot, or too cold. This morning was too hot, for temperatures last night had dropped to well below freezing and they had not wanted to wake up cold. Few ordinary things are more unpleasant than touching down, from a warm bed, onto a cold floor in a cold room, and then re-emerging into the cold from a hot shower. So they had made sure the heat was on. At some point in the night, Corinne had thrown off the bedclothes: she lay on her side, naked, curled towards Richard, her steady breathing betraying deep sleep. He looked at her short-cropped, mousey hair; her slightly parted lips; the curve of her breast and the arc of her hip; and he smiled, taking in these sights as if for the first time, though in truth this was a regular part of his morning ritual.

He thought, sometimes, that he liked her best when she was asleep. For awake, she could be by turns maddening and aloof, kittenish and engaging, intensely open-minded and sullenly stubborn. Awake, she was all Gemini. He accepted her duality, but still struggled to control it.

Richard slid to the floor and put on the kettle, ground the coffee and set up the filter. He showered, poured the water and shaved while it dripped, poured two cups. Into hers he poured the half-and-half, watching it cloud and disperse and lighten the thick, dark elixir, finishing the job with a spoon. “This coffee,” he thought, “it’s a perfect metaphor for my life. Muddled. Muddied, Clear, and dark, and — ” he thought for a moment, considering the quality of coffee “– rich and complex.” He laughed to himself: he might never be wealthy, but his life was especially rich.

Corinne shifted onto her back, her right arm thrown above her head. Richard looked at her carefully: her face, her mouth, her breasts, her fair skin. He took a sip of coffee then bent and pulled her nipple into his mouth, warming and teasing it with his tongue and lips while she stirred again. He bit down, gently at first and then harder, feeling her delicate flesh stiffen between his teeth and against his tongue. He stroked her leg gently, always just grazing her pussy and clitoris, not invading yet, feeling the arousal building in her entire body, along the line between his hand and his mouth and everywhere in between. Slowly, slowly, Richard moved his lips along Corinne’s collarbone, touching down softly on the way to her neck. He tasted her shoulder, a mix of salt and musk, of sleep and arousal and desire and need, and felt his fingers beginning to push into her, past the light stubble and her outer labia, licking her folds with his fingertips.

She moaned softly, and opened her eyes: “What are you doing?” As she moved her arms to enclose him, he rose up and gently held her wrists, gripping firmly but not too tightly, raising them above her head. His knee was between her legs now, and she began to rock her hips up and down, gathering momentum. He pushed his thigh tight against her wet slit, forcing her hips to the bed, making her be still.

“Not yet,” he purred in her ear. “You can be so impatient, can’t you?” She closed her eyes and tried to count to twenty, to calm herself, to suppress her urges and her desires. It was difficult enough when she was wide awake, but Richard always did this to her when she was asleep, preying on her vulnerability and her sleep-diminished capacity. He knew her body so well, he knew every fold and dimple, every pucker of flesh, and he knew exactly where to touch her, to kiss her, where to place his mouth and fingers so that he seemed to be using his entire body as a bow to coax her, his instrument, to ever-greater pleasure. She wanted desperately to please him in return; no, not in return. Just to please him. She raised her head and found his mouth willing, their tongues entwining and teeth gently pulling at lower lips.

Corinne’s small wrists were both in one of Richard’s hands, still held high above her head, while his other hand went between her legs, his first two fingers pushing inside her, gliding unimpeded. He pressed his thumb against her clitoris, stroking her from the inside as well, thrusting deep and twisting his fingers to enhance her pleasure. He smiled when he heard her moan and whimper; and when she called out to him, ready to burst, he would still his hand and kiss her again, prolonging her ache and dragging her higher. Suddenly he was inside her, his two hands closed over her wrists, his body stretching hers, it seemed, in every direction so that she almost felt she might be getting taller from the effort. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting, but again he slowed and would not let her finish until he was ready.

With all the force she could muster, Corinne twisted her wrists free and pulled Richard’s face down to hers, kissing him deeply and rocking her pelvis back and forth against him, gathering both their energies for the final assault. She rolled, so that their positions were reversed and she was bestride him, impaled on his throbbing cock, rising up and down to her own pace, no longer constrained by his will but imposing her own. She felt him tense, saw the change on his face, knew he was there, and she was right alongside. She cried out again, incoherent and (to any random passerby) inconsolable, and then collapsed onto him. Their bodies were a tangle of limbs, and sweat, and passion, and they lay still for a few moments before Corinne raised her head and looked at the bedside table.

“Damn,” she said. “My coffee’s cold.”