"Harder."

My voice is a lazy rasp in the silence, an emotion given words that drip with frost. Even the harsh slam of my hips has subsided, a mechanical desperation to the syllables the only energy in the room.

"Harder," I whisper, and through a break in the wash of sweat, I can catch the scent of what passes for sex. Stale Chinese discarded in the corner, the smoky artifice of rubber, lube, and skin.

I came home like a hurricane, rain clinging to my coat, and shed it all, slamming into you like a wave. Harder, I'd panted, grabbing you from your cradle, the wires snapping and popping from the plugs as the world clicked back from standby.

It's always different, the sudden shock of heat, and this time it was hard, my fingers scrabbling at your hair, digging in the back of your head. My eyes were alight with need, cold and hungry, and the first breath you took was full of cold and questions, but the second was full of cock.

It was hard, my hips working in tandem with the steady burn in your scalp and press of your nose into hair tangled, running with our juices. You didn't need to breathe, and I was hard, a rhythmic slam-slap-smack, my silhouette black against the neon outside.

But I need it harder.

With a growl like a wounded dog, I lean over you, one hand square against your chest, holding you down, the other almost gentle against your cheek. The world is out there, and you're in here, littered among the tubes and wires and cracked black glass.

My hips press against yours, needily, insistently, a low rumble in my throat as my hand closes around yours.

My eyes are wild.

A breath, and I think of out there, all pale and distant, a cozy world without us rammed into each others' deepest places. Pale and wet and soft, and full of hurt.

My eyes close, and another breath drags in, your world teetering at the edges.

"Harder."

Yes: A small room, a hard girl, and feeling.

No: Feelings.