The thin line of her hair swam in the sweat on her stomach. It was there after the tossing of her head, the arching of her back, the deep gripping spasms of her abdomen. It was there to draw the boundary between her skin and her heart. It told her where his touch ended and she began. Sometimes, that was not an easy thing to know. When his chest was in her hands, and the wide cap of his cock rubbed against the door to her soul, she could not tell the difference between his flesh and hers. She drifted in warm clouds, verdant and emerald valleys below. The wind blew across her naked skin and lifted her in its arms. Every thought became like a tiny brilliant point of light in the darkness, and the point drove into her, again and again and again, raising her up until she felt weightless and free. When the white dove flew out of her mouth, it was her voice that it carried. And the mountain spring from within her burst, anointing his hardness with her love. And the hair, tangled in passion, fell like a protective web upon her, to hold her in, to keep her safe.