He reached under the hem of her skirt, hands rubbing the insides of her thighs. The skin there was as smooth and pliant as new honey. “Oh,” she breathed, and moved against him. The friction as their hips came together left him stuttering and helpless. Home, he thought. This is my home. Not this palace made of dead things, not this city that I have forced to accept me at knifepoint, not even my god who takes and takes and will never stop taking. But this woman. This… love.
