The Inspector dreams someone else’s dreams, contented and lazy. Her back is warm in a bigger, softer bed, and in her hand is the endlessly bizarre, endlessly fascinating solidity of her lover’s erection. She tinkers with it almost idly, half-drowsing, then—having his fullest attention—eases back so that they can make love. He whispers her name, but she doesn’t hear it properly because there’s too much else to enjoy: the scent and taste of him, the touch of his hands on one hip and one breast, the tension in her and the gathering promise of release. She looks down at herself, then back at him. She moves unhastily, traps his roving fingers and presses them against her, rocks and curls in search of a particular path. There are side roads, each singular in its appeal. Not today. She turns slightly, laughs as she hears the catch in his breathing, feels the same in her own. Then they get it exactly right and tension is no longer the word. Time passes, slow and honeyed. Seconds. Minutes. More. At last she says something in a language she does not know and goes away for a rigid moment, an enduring flash of physical light that wells up from her marrow and settles in her skin.