The sound she made when he pressed into her soft flesh, he thought, could only be described as cooing. Either from surprise, or sudden pleasure, she would part her flower-petal lips and let loose a soft pleading noise that would give him the oddest stirrings of pleasure. He was compelled to hear this new and entirely igniting utterance again. Soon. He took deep draughts in the arch of her body. She rose against him. She was like a rose, too: velvety and slowly opening...

The idea left him ragged and with the gnashing of teeth he took her in with his hands, the dream landscape of ever-running slopes, warm and dark valleys--fingertips and too-rough pressings the avid and desperate wanderers.

In the warm and gently scented cradle of neck and shoulder he would be at home. He would gladly breathe in this tight and quickly-heating space until he could draw no usefulness from the air, and when he would draw away, she would, he hoped, allow him to dip his mouth to hers and forgive the bruising. Who needed oxygen?

Sagara Sousuke woke, consciousness slamming down on him so as to be nearly painful, though in reality his awakening was marked only by a short, full-body twitch. His breaths were clipped and fast, and he noticed it was uncomfortably stuffy under his bed.

Something about the warm air made him wonder at his agitated state--was it a nightmare that woke him just now, before sunrise? No, he concluded instinctively, not a nightmare. Making an effort to remember the dream was like watching a shooting star, he found. The vision faded to the cloudy peripheral of his mind, where he couldn't take a good look. A few more seconds of concentration and it was gone.

All that was left was a slight prickling of the fingertips that he found strangely pleasant.