He closed his eyes; his hands guided her hips with each push.
"You're too opinionated. And you're almost always wrong." She leaned down and placed a palm on each side of his shoulders. She elongated her neck, seeped a moan, arched her back, and bent down to kiss him.
His lips met hers; his groin met hers; his mood matched hers. Thoughts entered his mind with the same rapidity he entered her flesh. Each plunge punctuated his disappointment. "You're a fucking bitch," he left unsaid. The veracity of the sentence was silenced as he allowed each sensation to satiate his sadness.