A faint sheen of perspiration made Simone's face glow, and every part of him felt warm and alive. I want you, he thought. God, I want you. He used his free hand to cup the side of her face. Her skin was so soft...so dewy and creamy and perfect. He wanted to touch every inch of her. He wanted to lick the salt sheen from her breasts and her belly and her legs. He wanted to taste the deep places.
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This was what she couldn't get enough of, not if she lived forever: Harry on her skin, Harry's grateful kisses on her neck, Harry and Olive, teeming and sated, brimming over with each other, as if this house and this world had been built by God's hands for their love alone.
There was a skyness to the sky and a nowness to the world that he had never seen or felt or realized before.
The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air--a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.
(He remembered resting against her afterward, listening to the beat of her heart, taking her breath into his lungs, and thinking that he was the luckiest man in the world, that you couldn't connect with a human being any more perfectly than that. And sure enough, he'd been right.)