They tossed flame-thrower glances at each other all through dinner, and began fucking as soon as they got back to the room, from the floor to the couch to the bed, through the evening into late night, then early morning.
He lay on the bed, utterly spent, remote on his chest, watching Seinfeld. She was on her side, head propped on her hand, watching him. She had plans of her own that did not involve television.
She leaned into his ear. She whispered in a voice he had never heard before.