The air in the room grew thick and heavy, charged with the scent of her exertion and the faint perfume of spilled wine. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and up through the soles of my feet. Her back arched sharply off the rumpled sheets, a perfect, straining curve as her fingers twisted into the fabric. Every muscle in her body tensed, drawn wire-tight in a moment of agonizing suspension before the inevitable fall. A shuddering wave of release crashed over her, visible in the frantic flutter of her eyelids and the sharp, sudden gasp that filled her lungs. Her climax was a silent scream given form, a convulsive tremor that made the old bedframe groan in sympathetic rhythm. A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her skin, catching the dim lamplight like dew on a fevered landscape. The tension finally broke, leaving her limp and breathless, a soft, continuous sigh now whispering from her parted mouth. In the profound quiet that followed, the only sound was the frantic, slowing drumbeat of my own heart echoing in the stillness.
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