Heavy, drifting flakes skirled down through the air outside -- big, soft, wet flakes that spelled trouble for road crews and power companies. It wasn't coming down hard, but with a steady, implacable pace that told of endless reserves above. Most of it melted as it struck, but already there were a few small accumulations here and there.
Inside, the silence was thick and soft, heavy with promise. He lay on the couch, she curled against him, head on his chest. His hand ran slowly through her curls, stroking, tangling and untangling.
"We don't get much of that stuff where I'm from," she noted quietly.
"Nor here, really," he said. "That's a rare event. It'll probably all be gone in a couple hours." He shifted a bit and she shifted in response, adjusting her fit against him. "But isn't it nice to watch?"
" 'Tis," she agreed. "Cold out there, warm in here. You're like a furnace, you ever hear that before?"
"It may have been mentioned once or twice," he allowed. "I can't help what I am."
"That's all right," she murmured softly. "I like what you are."
His hand moved down her back, along the ridge of her spine. She let out a small sigh and burrowed closer against him, nuzzling against the hollow of his throat. Her tongue darted out and tasted him there, once, twice. He shivered, but not from the cold, and he groaned. His arms tightened around her. She pressed against him ardently, feeling the ridge in his jeans. Her hand slid down between them and gave it a gentle squeeze. His own hand stole down to her ass and squeezed that.
"Here? Now?" she asked dreamily.
She raised up briefly, fumbling. Zippers were drawn down, garments hastily tugged down or aside. A shifting, an exploring, a fitting. Some of the cold crept in but it didn't last long. Heat and wetness met and merged. She raised her hips and settled down on him. He said her name with a soft gasp of wonder, and she sighed his.
She laid her head back down on his chest, eyes fixed on the drifting snow outside. Her hips moved slowly, liquidly. Moist sounds, flesh parting, being parted, accepting and releasing him. His hands moved over her back restlessly, ceaselessly, slow caresses. One hand twined into her hair and tightened there.
They drifted in a sweet haze, all sighs and murmurs and cries of delight, clinging to each other, pushing back the darkness and the cold, a tiny oasis there on his couch, the silence of snowfall enveloping them, enfolding them, holding them close as they made long, languorous, passionate love.