She's slowing into a rhythm, so she obviously wants it to last. He talks to himself; Man City's League Cup wining team, by order of squad number, most capped England players, highest transfer rates through the last ten years....but she's right there, her sweat and her breath and her hair over his face. He tries to stay slow, really tries, but he can't stop the urgency of his thrusts, the yearning to be as deep in her as he can get, like he could paint himself on her bones. He tries, but it's no good.

'Alex. Gonna...'