Emilia has already had two crises by now, and thorough and full-fledged ones at that; so one could hardly anticipate that she might still have another one in her. And yet, here it is, the familiar buzzing in her pelvis. It makes sense; after all she's had her first one with him - and conversely, her very first one with a real-life human penis inside her - in exactly this position. She's on her stomach, he's rolling his hips into and over her. His elbows are on the bed, on two sides, near her shoulders - and it's magic!

He's also making more of his noises - the same low thrum, a sonorous reverb, almost a burble. Trust a writer to verbally dress up a man grunting during shag - but blimey, she fancies it!

His hands are right in front of her nose, and she wraps her fingers around his right wrist. His skin is, in accordance with all clichés, scorching; and Emilia pressed her lips to his left flexor pollicis brevis. 

Remember what she said about showing just enough detail when discussing physical touch between characters, without quoting Cunningham's Manual of Practical Anatomy? Emilia has got hardcopies of all three volumes. One of her earlier protagonists was a female doctor working in an A&E - and Emilia always checks her facts!

What she's currently nuzzling and kissing is also called an 'anatomical snuffbox,' and his is making her giddy! She's not sure if it's years of kitchen work; or he was born with it; but the smallest muscles and tendons are starkly defined in his massive hands.

There is a certain, oddly coordinated rhythm to his movements, her kisses and strokes, her quiet moans, and his raspy exhales; but before she comes up with some sort of a soppy explanation to it, he shifts his weight, interrupting this 'copulation symphony,' rising on one arm.

And then her chin is locked between his thumb and index finger; and he firmly lifts her face, making her crane her neck. It's almost uncomfortable, but then he pivots her and catches her mouth in a rough kiss. Emilia can't hold back a whimper; and in response, he slams his hips into her. His tongue dives into her mouth; and the verb 'devour' bounces in Emilia's discombobulated mind.

He releases her lips, and she breathes out his name.

His palm slides lower, onto her throat; and without the support, Emilia's head hits the sheet. He rises even higher; he's stroking between her shoulder blades now; while thrusting harder and deeper - and then he stops.

"Dan— iel?"

"I can't... I'm too—" He rocks his hips and groans. "Too sensitive... It's too much..."

Emilia is pretty sure that she was about five of his moves away from the third orgasm - but she's not going to bring it up. No need to be selfish. It's not about the destination. Especially considering that the 'journey' with the man is basically as good as 90% of a full-blown orgasm.

"Too good..." He runs his fingers on her nape, ruffling her curls. Emilia shudders. "I fucking love your back," he murmurs and leans down, probably to kiss her again.

The angle of a certain part of his anatomy in relation to Emilia's 'geographical centre' changes. Emilia gasps - and suddenly cums.

"Holy mother! Bloody Nora! Bollocks!" She might be losing sight - and she might be in love with the man! At least with his cock, that's for sure. "Buggeration! Hell's bells!"

Somewhere, in the blinding fireworks of oxytocin flooding her brain, Emilia suddenly realises that she is not leaving poor Oates behind this time, no matter what.

She grabs his wrists again, clawing at them, and yells, "Fuck me! Right now!" Oates' body grows still and tense, and she adds in an utterly unequivocal tone, "Do it! Now!"

When the time comes, and all necessary elements fall into place, Emilia is going to make an excellent dog owner. Just listen to this irrefutable command!

Oates does.

He plants his hands onto the sheet again, stabilises himself - and goes for it.

Pounding. Plummeting. Stabbing. Impaling. No, maybe not the last two. Too much like a sword fight or a mediaeval torture. Bearing down? Not bad. But definitely, ravaging. Burying himself. Pummelling.

Just like most writers, Emilia has a file and a multitude of bookmarks in her browser with a wide assortment of intercourse-related terms and expressions. After all, most poor souls who have taken upon themselves to narrate human coitus often find themselves in need of a bit of help finding a synonym. To think of it, the actions themselves are sort of repetitive. There are only that many verbs that can be used to describe the same back and forth movement.

Nouns are even harder. One wouldn't want it to sound like the work of a power tool of sorts.

Drive. Momentum. Onslaught? Absolutely not. Nothing even remotely non-consensual, or even just one-sided. Poke? Ew. Pressure. Propulsion. See? Here come the heavy machinery vibes! Punch, push, shove. Yeah, that's bad.

Her thoughts jumble, tangling like overcooked fettuccine. Is there such a thing as 'too much orgasm?' Can one actually pass out from too much pleasure?

"Em?" His voice rumbles next to her ear. "Are you here?"

He playfully nips her ear, and something sweetly pulls under her navel.

"I'm—" It's impossible to gather her thoughts. "I need more..." Nothing comes to mind. "More— torque."

"If I let go any more, I might break you," he murmurs and kisses behind her ear. "You're driving me bloody mad..."

Emilia has only that much energy left - about a tablespoon - and she turns her head and bites his hand; first, gently, and then slowly clenching her jaw more and more. She can't remember if he said anything about his limits on biting; but she's not going to break the skin! She just needs to release a tad of pressure building up in her noggin - and look, he's definitely into it!

Knobbing. Bonking. Banging. Having it off. She never needs these in her overly clean and vanilla historic romance - but, blimey, isn't the good old shag between two normal people just brilliant?

"Harder, Daniel!"

That sounded like her, but she can't recall forming any sentences. She might not remember her own name right now, to say nothing of coming up with any potentially encouraging statements. And yet, here she is, barking, "Harder!"

His right hand grips her hip, fingers digging into her squishiness; and she bites into his hand harder.

He cums. And that is the hackneyed roar. Apparently, men, indeed, roar. At least, Daniel Oates does. It's a growl, a bellow. 

And then he collapses, back onto his elbows; and his nose presses into her hair. He's heavy, and sweaty; and it is the most amazing sensation! Emilia stretches her arms in front of her and closes her eyes.

"Oh wow..."

She's not sure which one of them has just voiced this out, but they are probably on the same page on that, anyway.

"Can I stay?" Oates asks.

"Yeah," Emilia answers.

Did he mean inside Emilia? In her bed? In her flat? The answer would be the same, so who cares.

"Am I crushing you?"

"Nah."

The small, shaky exhale through his nose was probably a weak attempt of a chuckle from him; but it seems that, just as Emilia, Oates is done for.

"I'm not comfortable with other people's flats," he mutters and carefully lowers his cheek on her shoulder. "Usually. But you are—" He yawns, interrupting himself. "You're different. I'm conking out."

"Mhm."

Emilia isn't any better than him, by the looks of it.

"Do you need a towel?" she asks, slightly slurring words. "I don't have any clothes your size." Now it's her turn to yawn. "But you can just— have a quick wash. And you're welcome to stay."

Who knew that the key to overcoming one's inferiority complex in the questions of sex-related social protocol lay in exhausting oneself and your partner beyond the point of full consciousness.

The two of them shuffle, move clumsily; and he leaves for the washroom. Emilia considers changing the sheets, but she might not have strength for it. She still needs to herd at least a couple of her brain cells and to figure out where her extra toiletries are.

She has a moment of lucid bewilderment when she realises that she's standing near her sink, dressed solely in her bathrobe, brushing her teeth - next to a man, who is sleepily moving a cheap brush in his mouth, one of those they give you at your dentist's and everyone always takes for some reason. He's done faster than Emilia; she still needs to attempt some skincare, at least just the bare minimum. And then he casually sticks 'his' toothbrush into the holder, kisses the top of Emilia's head, and leaves.

Emilia is frozen for a few seconds - and then she shrugs and goes back to her ablutions.

In the bedroom, the lights are off. Emilia pats the bed trying to figure out where Oates is.

"Can I take this half?" he asks in the dark.

Emilia climbs into the bed without answering. She has no preferences; and even if she had, she'd give him either half, the whole bed, and even the room. To think of it, he can have her whole flat.

"Is it OK if I—" She wants to ask about touching and potentially overcrowding him, which is the last thing she'd want; but another yawn stops her.

She hasn't yet closed her mouth, when she feels his arm go around her; and he pulls her in, tucking her into his side.

"Never tried this, but you're—"

He doesn't get to finish his statement either. With a deep sigh, he sinks into her bed, tightly wrapped around Emilia; and just a few seconds later his breathing deepens and evens out.

Emilia will have to ponder this shocking turn of events tomorrow. She thinks, Hopefully I don't snore - and the world grows black.