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the chilled dildo at my opening. He teases my clit with it; circles my anus; but finally settles on my open, wet pussy, pressing it slowly inside.
    At first, it feels like everything has gone numb in reaction to
the ice-cold spike being driven through me. But my body warms it or becomes accustomed to it. Either way, all of my nerves are alive, on edge.
    He kisses my back, fucking me slowly with the glass dildo as I moan and push back against it for more, the edges of my opening relishing the new cold as it goes deeper.
    I hear his zipper, the rustle of fabric. I hear the liquid sound of the tube of lubricant spitting and the slick of a condom sliding on. The blunt weight of his cock pressures my ass.
    I inhale.
    As I exhale, he thrusts smoothly inside of me.
    We rest there as we both adjust to the sensation.
    His lips softly caress my ear with a swirl of breath. “I can feel the cold inside of you. I can feel it inside the walls of your body.”
    I rest my forehead on the windowsill, luxuriating in being so full, in the contrast of the cold dildo and the thick heat of his cock. They move inside of me, each radiating its own energy, trying to touch each other through the wall of my body. I shift on my feet, angling myself to get him where I want him, to that spot where his cock and the dildo move together, scratching an itch so deep inside that it’s never been touched.
    I’m stretched wide open for him and his toy—exposed and hungry for it, using it to feed the mounting lust that burns for being filled like this.
    The night air is muggy like death. A dog barks outside. A car drives by and no one knows what is going on in my room. No one suspects that I am right there, through the thin pane of a window with my lover’s cock in my ass, a cold dildo inside of my cunt.
    I’m so excited, I can hardly breathe.
    I rub my clit. He presses an ice cube against my arm and
I take it, using it to rub myself off. The cold is more than my clit can handle. I picture the soft pink flesh rubbing against the slick clear rectangle and I start to tremble above and beyond the cold.
    I’m so close and I just want to hear his voice. “Tell me you want me.”
    “God, yes. I want you. I want you to make me come like this.”
    The pleasure rolls over me like the lapping of waves, coming in slowly, cresting, connecting me to the world as my body fights for that ultimate release. I can hear my breathing and nothing else.
    I exhale and the air grows denser from the steaminess of my breath.
    I let go, feeling the pulses wrapped around the toy, sending the shock waves through my anus so that it clenches around him until he comes, too. He places his drink on the floor to knead my breasts as we twitch, milking the last of our releases, trying to ride it out for as long as we can.
    He pulls me up, fingers pinching my nipples. Then he grabs my arm to twirl me around. Then he kisses me. It’s the first time I’ve looked into his eyes all night. And the last for tonight.
    I tell him that I love him.
    He smiles and finishes his scotch.
    Then he leaves.

SMOKE
    Elizabeth Coldwell
    I really, really need a smoke.
    I’m in the middle of yet another attempt at cutting down—not giving up. I’ve tried that and failed so many times, I know it’s never going to happen. Instead, I try to go as long as I can without giving in to my cravings. And I’d been doing so well, until now.
    Two things are always guaranteed to make me want a cigarette. One is sex. My first instinct, once the last sweet waves of orgasm die away, is to roll over and light up. Not that I’m inconsiderate in these matters. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wrapped a sheet around myself and padded out onto the balcony of the flat to smoke in satisfied postcoital solitude.
    The other is beer. That’s why I knew I was in trouble as soon as I walked into the bar. But after a long, tedious couple of hours spent tramping round the Rijksmuseum, while the guide droned on about