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He stood with his back to her. His gaze lost, with his thoughts, out the narrow window. The pale, late afternoon light of the grey, overcast day, outlined his body as he leaned his forearms on the window sash, his brow almost touching the pane. He was pensive, the concern of their situation written across his features.

It's my fault we're here, she thought. I backed us into this corner. I got us to this place.

Only one panel of the waning illumination lit the dismal space. The boxes on the bare floor and the hastily made up mattress were barely more then unremarkable lumps but as she looked around she could see the extent of their precarious position and a lump rose in her throat. For once in her life lost the desire to feel totally in control of everything. Her obsessions had only brought her to this point. Maybe if she had asked him, or even told him what was going on, she could have prevented this. Maybe he would have known what to do. Again, the feelings began to overwhelm her and, needing his comforting and his strength, she went to him.

She walked up behind him and slid her hands up his back, tangling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. She raked he nails down the back of his neck and past his bare shoulders. He shivered in pleasure as red streaks appeared. She reached forward around his waist eagerly, grasping for the belt buckle. Her tongue flicked out, tracing ...

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