Ines stared up at the canopy of the bed. Her body felt heavy, like it had been turned into liquid gold and poured onto the mattress. Her breath was still coming in short, shallow gasps, and her heart hammered a wild rhythm against her ribs.
Writing this experience into a novel… she thought, her mind hazy and floating. I could never do that.
She had thought herself a good writer. She had thought Arthur Pendleton already knew everything there was to know about passion. She had used adjectives like "fiery" and "explosive." But now, lying here in the dim light of Carcel's bedroom, those words felt flat. They felt like pale imitations of the real thing.
No matter what language I use, she realized, a sense of awe washing over her, none of them could accurately describe this pleasure.
