Dark Hollow by Brian Keene

why somebody can’t design a condom that’s easier to open. It kills the mood when you’re biting and tearing at the wrapper, trying all the while to maintain an erection and keep your partner interested. I slid it down my length and then we embraced again. Tara leaned back on the pillows and arched her hips. I climbed between her widespread legs, looked at her glistening sex, and felt a wellspring of emotion and need erupt inside of me.
    “Go slow,” she whispered. “It’s been a while.”
    I did, resisting the urge to plunge into her slick warmth all the way. I took my time, inch by excruciating inch. She flinched, and her body tensed.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    She nodded. “It’s just a little tight. You’re okay. Just keep going slow like that.”
    When I’d entered her completely, we lay still, kissing and caressing each other. I felt her inner walls begin to relax. Then, very slowly, Tara began to work her hips. I felt her stretching to accommodate me. After a moment, she relaxed.
    “Better,” she gasped. “Oh, God, that’s much better. You feel so good.”
    “So do you.” I kissed her neck. “I missed this so much, Tara.”
    Slowly I began to slide in and out of her, and she moved her hips in time with me. Soon we found that familiar old rhythm that we both knew so well. We gasped each other’s names, and our speed increased in time with our mutual need. We moaned each other’s name, tasted each other’s sweat, and breathed in each other’s scents. I sensed that she was close to orgasm, and even with the condom on I knew I wouldn’t be able to last very long either. Our movements took on greater urgency as we built toward a mutual climax. Tara was dripping wet and I felt like a steel girder. Both of our bodies became tense as our orgasms approached.
    Then Tara grew stiff and silent.
    I leaned down to lick her cheek. It was wet. At first I thought it was just perspiration, but as I kissed her eyes I realized that she was crying.
    I stopped midstroke. “Tara, what’s wrong?”
    “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I just…”
    She broke down, unable to finish. I pulled out, lay down beside her, and put my arms around her. I was confused—and, in truth, a little disappointed as well. It had been so long since we’d made love, and something had gone terribly wrong. Now I felt rejected, and my balls were swollen and aching for release. It was painful, both physically and emotionally.
    We lay there in the darkness and I held her, promising her that it was all right, even though I secretly didn’t understand what had happened. I wondered to myself if I’d done or said something wrong. Had I hurt her in some way? I racked my brain, trying to figure it out, while Tara shook against me, her head buried in my chest.
    “Do you want a tissue?” I asked.
    She shook her head.
    “How about a drink?”
    “No.” She sniffled and looked up from my chest. “No, I’m fine. Just stay here with me?”
    “Of course.” I grabbed my cigarettes from the nightstand and shook one out of the pack. I lit it, inhaled, and settled back against the headboard. Tara lay across my chest. Her tears and mucus dried on my skin.
    I stroked her hair. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t understand.…”
    “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “It felt so good, and all of a sudden I just started thinking about the baby. I guess it reminded me.”
    I nodded.
    “I couldn’t help it. I started thinking about the miscarriage, and the harder I tried to push it from my mind, the worse it got.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me to stop?” I asked.
    “I didn’t want to upset you. It’s been so long since we made love. I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”
    “I’m not,” I lied.
    She sniffled. “Are you sure?”
    “Very much so. I totally understand.” And I did, despite my own selfish need.
    Tara sat up and wiped her eyes. She went to the bathroom while I lay there and smoked my cigarette