I put a period at the end. It doesn't mean it's a sentence. Or even a complete thought.

Over delivery pizza on her living room rug, she said that she'd had a discussion--sex doesn't lead to love.

Later, in her bed, itchy blanket thrown off to reveal soft, polka-dotted sheets, I stopped caring about how good her orgasm would be, and started caring about feeling her everywhere.

Maybe that's what she meant. Maybe love can be felt during sex (not that I felt love for her then and there, or have yet, or will ever), but it's not the sex that leads to it. In fact, it seems the sex dissapears, to make room for... I was starting to be convinced there wasn't anything, because the old bed-mates didn't believe, and so desperately wanted me to be with them(/her specifically) in disbelief, and I just wanted to be happy ...the sex dissapears, to make room for something better.

I laugh with her. We laugh.

I don't have to be smiling at every moment. I didn't know it was forced until she looked at me. My face between her palms, bodies resting together, the light of night in her bedroom, she looked not at my face and the feelings portrayed there.