~ Revision ~

The ceiling was just visible in the grey light of dawn. He lay there, blinking at it.

Considered his breathing, heartbeat, the even rise and fall of his chest beneath the weight splayed half across him. A comfortable weight.

Molly. Sated, exhausted. Beloved.

The concept of la petite mort had always seemed the sort of romantic drivel used to lure the guileless. Extensive research (read: debauchery) conducted in his (misspent) youth had seemed to confirm the hypothesis.

Yet, this new study indicated that his method had been flawed, the results inaccurate.

And now he found himself smiling at the ceiling.