Clark slid his arms around Clarissa, pulling her closer to him. Her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist, her eyes on his eyes, his eyes on her silhouette, her head filled with thoughts of love, his filled with thoughts of danger, a smile on her cheeks, his lips on her smile...the beautiful workings of Clarissa and Clark's dance. To the whisper of Sous de les Ciel de Paris, their intertwined bodies toured the extents of the room in harmonious footwork: the moonlit wooden floors sparkled, kissing their feet with each step taken; the flowered-fabric love-seat tucked comfortably in the corner of the room before the flat-screen plasma television; the various draping plants that smelt of soil and fresh life; the oriental vase upon a miniature column-like pedestal in the center of the room; the glass table in the far corner of the room surrounded by a couple of chairs padded with soft, fashionable cushions, and the archway door leading upstairs.

Still spinning sweetly, slowly, across the room, Clark clutched her tighter still- her cool breath on his lips, the heat of his air on hers, forehead to forehead, toe to toe, body to body, soul to soul, they danced until dawn. Midnight envied their sweet romance as it passed by, and the grace of the morning came with a new-found exquisiteness. Dark-circled eyes and worn out legs were the only indication of their undeniable exhaustion as the sun rose, for they both felt as if they were more alive than ever before. Agreeing without sharing a word, they traveled upstairs and laid down upon Clarissa's ruffled-edged canopy bed. As though they had known each other for a lifetime, they stared wearily into each other's eyes until sleep stole their unspoken secrets. Wrapped in Clark's arms, Clarissa was the first to be robbed, and soon after, he followed, smiling himself to sleep.