Completion, more or less together

"You  grip the water bottle."
"It's that soft type plastic."
"You grip it. You choke it."
"It's a matter-of-fact thing."
"It's sexual tension."
"It's everyday nervousness in a life."
"It's sexual tension," he said.

"Days like this."
"What?" she said.

"My mood shifts and bends. But when I'm alive and heightened, I'm super-acute. Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see a woman who wants to live shamelessly in her body. Tell me this is not the truth. You want to follow your body into idleness and fleshiness  That's why you have to run, to escape the drift of your basic nature. Tell me I'm making it up. You can't do that. It's there in your face, all of it, the way it rarely shows in any face. What do I see? Something lazy, sexy and insatiable."

"I'm comfortable with that."

"This is the woman you are inside the life. Looking at you, what? I'm more excited than I've been since the first burning nights of adolescent frenzy. Excited and confused. I look at you and feel an erection stirring even as the situation argues strenuously against it. (...)

Days like this. I look at you and feel electric. Tell me you don't feel it too. The minute you sat there in that whole tragic regalia of running. That whole sad business of Judeo-Christian jogging. You were not born to run. I look at you. I know what you are. You are a sloppy-bodied, smelly and wet. A woman who was born to sit strapped in a chair while a man tells her how much she excites him. (...)"

Days like this. He snaps a finger and flame shoots up. Every sensitivity, all his attunements. Things are ready to happen that normally never do. She knows what he means, that they don't even have to touch. The same thing that's happening to him is happening to her. She doesn't need to crawl under the table and suck his dick. too trite to interest either one of them. The flow is strong between them. The emotional tone. Let it express itself. He  sees her in her wallow and feels his pelvic muscles begin to quiver. He says, Tell me to stop and I'll stop. But he doesn't wait for her to replay. There isn't time. the tails of his sperm cells are lashing already. She is his sweetheart and love and slut undying. He doesn't have to do the unspeakable thing he wants to do. He only has to speak it. Because they're beyond every model of established behavior. He only has to say the words.

"Say the words."

"I want to bottle-fuck you slowly with my sunglasses on."

Her feet flew out from under her. She uttered a thing, a sound, herself, her soul in rapid rising inflection.

He saw his face on the screen, eyes closed, mouth framed in a soundless little simian howl.

He knew the spy-cam operated in real time, or was supposed to. How could he see himself if his eyes were closed? There wasn't time to analyze. He felt his body catching up to the independent image.

Then man and woman reached completion more or less together, touching neither each other nor themselves.

Don DeLillo, Cosmopolis, Picador, London, 2003: pp.48-52