Dean Koontz - Night Chills

Later, they made love, taking their time about it, doing what most pleased each other. He seemed to float on her and she on him, he in her and she in him. It was a rich, full experience; and they were sated afterwards.

For a while they were silent, lying on their backs, holding hands, eyes closed.

At last she said, “It was different that time.”

“Not bad, though,” he said. “At least not for me.”

“Oh, no. Not bad. Not for me either.”

“What then?”

“Just. different. I don’t know. Maybe. We’ve gained something — intensity, I think. But we’ve also lost something. There wasn’t any innocence to it this time.”

“We’re not innocent people anymore.”

“I guess we aren’t,” she said.

We’re killers, he thought. Children of the 1970s, sons and daughters of the great machine age, survivalists.

All right, he told himself angrily. Enough. We’re killers. But even killers can grab hold of a little happiness. More important, even killers can give a little happiness. And isn’t that the most anyone can do in this life? Give a little happiness?

He thought of Mark: the faked death certificate, the small grave next to Annie’s casket…

He turned to Jenny again and took her in his arms and let the world shrink until it was no larger than their two bodies.