Dragged up, up, up, and it's almost as if he's weightless for a second -- an astronaut in orbit above her -- grounded only when he feels the press of her hands on his shoulders. He breathes her name, her real name, against her mouth. His eyes are closed, but he's full of visions of her beneath him. 'Hand slaps the night stand, upsetting the digital clock onto the floor. He growls and pushes his kneecap into the mattress, getting a better angle, until he can slip his hand into the drawer and pull out one of the foil-wrapped packets she keeps there.

This part is awkward: arms and elbows and knees going everywhere while he splits the foil and rolls on the condom. He's glad for her hands; they keep him interested even while he has to force every ounce of his brain to concentrate on the task. Then he's kissing her again, the want of her spreading through his chest like radiant heat.