Quentin had been hesitant about attending the party. “They’re your friends,” he’d told Letitia. But, when he actually got there, he had fun with them. The orchestra welcomed SOs; and there had even been an economist who was informed enough about global warming to give a good argument. She was the SO of one of the bassists. As it was, Letitia had to tell him that it was time to go. They took the Brown Line to the Belmont stop. On the ride north, Quentin watched Letitia’s profile against the slight glow from the east. She looked away from him towards the dark lake.

“Dawn,” she said, “nature’s gentle hit that it’s time for bed.”

When they got off at Jarvis, the street and sidewalks were empty. By the time they got to their apartment house, Quentin’s party spirit was leaking away. He was sleepy, but -- paradoxically -- horny as hell. Even watching Letitia’s hips flexing in front of him didn’t make the last flight of stairs a pleasure. He was tempted to hold one, but she’d said that it was time to sleep.

Letitia used the bathroom first. When she got back in her robe, he was holding his pajamas.

“Need those?” she asked.

“You said it was time for sleep.”

“I said it was time for bed.” Fair enough. He dropped the pajamas onto the chair back, but put on his robe for his trip to the bathroom. She was under the covers and only the bedside lamp was on when he returned. He dropped the robe on the pajamas and hurried in behind her. They were lying on their left sides.

“Mmm,” he said. She was warm after the cool air.

“You’re cold,” she replied.

“So warm me up.” She complied by turning around and kissing him. But she stayed far enough away that nothing touched below their chins. She also held his hands away from her. That was okay; the kiss warmed him, if not his skin. They started with closed mouths, but when his tongue touched her lips, hers met him half way. The tongue top was minty from her toothpaste, but the underside held Letitia’s personal sweetness. After licking the underside for a moment, he pulled his tongue back a little. When hers followed, he sucked gently on it.

When she relaxed her grip on his hands, he moved his right hand to her forearm. He caressed upward on that arm to her shoulder. He let it rest there, kneading her shoulder. When he thought his hand was warm enough, he moved it down to her breast. Her nipple firmed immediately.

“Still a little chilly,” she said.

“Strange, it feels warm to me.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. The reason I feel warm to you is that you are still cold.”

“The reason you feel warm to me is that you are hot stuff.”

“And you feel cold because you aren’t?”

“Cold hands, warm heart.”

“I’ll go get a knife.”

“Now, that would only get you colder.” He ducked under the covers. He breathed on the tip of the breast pressed against the mattress. She murmured contentedly, but he didn’t want to taste sheet. He inhaled deeply and switched breasts. When he blew across that nipple, it lengthened a bit in response. He licked it, feeling a firmness there.

“Now,” she said, “that’s nice.”

“Yeah, it’s cute and responsive.” He moved his head so that only his lips touched the nipple. He sucked, then relaxed the suction to touch the nipple with his tongue tip. Meanwhile, he slid his right hand between his thighs. She was right; it was cold. When it no longer felt cold, he slid it between her thighs. They were definitely warmer than his.