There was nothing that would ever persuade either one of them to enter into the bedroom they used to share again. Not when it was still coated in her blood. Without removing his lips from hers, Antonin led his wife backwards over to the sofa he'd abused. Needing to feel the warmth of her body, they didn't even bother to remove their clothes. A sharp tug ripped her knickers away and she was only just able to pull his trousers down to his hips before he was insistent that he needed to be inside of her. Not that she minded. Each of his hard thrusts into his wife reminded Antonin that she wasn't dead, that despite the carnage in the next room, she'd lived. With such an intensity of emotions in both of them, they didn't require much time to reach the culmination of their pleasure. He collapsed on top of her, holding her tightly against him. She reveled in the feel of his heavy weight. It reminded her that she wasn't alone. She was weary of being by herself. Maybe she didn't have to be.