The rain beats a tattoo against the windows; because of the summer heat, the windows are not entirely closed and some water bounces off the sill and onto the floor. You pace the room, considering a smoke: I was expected almost an hour since, the rain has delayed me, and you are too-much delayed already. The bell rings, at last, and you almost slip as you turn quickly from the window and run to let me in.

I am drenched, head to toe, and despite the typical July temperature I am beginning to shiver from the wet. You pull me inside, into your embrace, and begin stripping my shirt even while we kiss, the kind of long, languorous, longing, lusty kiss shared by lovers whose last weeks have been spent in frustration and isolation. It is a kiss that begins, in no small way, making up for lost time.

Your mouth works its way down my neck while your hands struggle with my belt; your teeth find my chest as you push my pants to the floor. My hands are not idle: you step out of your dress, and our arms lock around each other, as desperate as their owners for the rediscovery, the exploration of familiar and too-long absent terrain. I taste your skin; I smell, and feel, your hyper-aroused state. I push your hand into you, then pull it out, well-lubricated, so you can touch me: I long to feel your hand, even more so when it is slicked with your own juice. My hand, too, is now wet, and we feed each other, licking fingers and sucking them clean before going back for more.

As we move to the bed, naked, and always upright, the windowpane tattoo becomes a waltz, even as I glide effortlessly and unguided into you: it sets our tempo for us, changing subtly to a foxtrot as the rain slows. Slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick. Long, short short long, short short long. Throughout, our lips do not lose contact, even as the deluge begins and the foxtrot becomes a mazurka, the frenzied spatter of rain a pale echo of our fervor.