It wasn't love, thought Meryl.

Roughened fingertips trailed across her breastbone.

It wasn't even need. Not really.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, urging, demanding.

It wasn't that he was that good -- He was that good, knee-shaking, lip-biting, blind-screaming good --

She knotted her fingers into thick black hair and pulled him down, tasting of cigarettes and coffee and her.

--But that wasn't it.

Panting against her throat through clenched teeth, and she arched into him, burning.

It wasn't that she needed a companion or a friend. He was that, too, though.

"Ton--!"

"Va--!"

It was that he understood.