Sometimes, it was like being in a hot spring. Warm liquid streams of mako twining around and over and between them, tossing them together as the motion of their bodies changed the flow of the tide.

At other times, when she took explicit control of the scenery, they would tumble and play in a garden, the scent of crushed grass and lilies rising about them. After, her dress and his knees would be stained green, and he would grin, proud and roguish, before tackling her back down among the flowers to do it all again.

When he had his way, they'd lose themselves in a bed fit for a pasha, piled high with thick pillows and plush coverings. If he was feeling particularly playful, he'd wrap her in diaphanous silks, pretending she was a harem maiden, and tease and touch her through the thin material. Joined together, they'd sink deeper and deeper into the overly soft mattress with every motion of his hips, nesting together in the resultant hollow.

They could, and did, try everything that occurred to them, thought alone creating new venues as easily as a painter would on canvas. But the best times, the most real times, were when they joined without the remembered trappings of the physical world.

When his thoughts slipped through her, warming and touching her spirit, sharing how much he loved and adored and cherished her, while she was nothing more than the distilled essence of her being.

When the sweetness of her presence curled intangible arms around his intangible body, and clung, with sheer willpower, to the truest facets of his personality.

When they made love without touching, for there was nothing to touch, and reveled in it.