Harry lay next to Lady Smock not snoring, the sheet pulled up to his chin, his mouth a crevasse. Inside, hot air collected, rolled under his upper palate, bounced between his teeth, gathering momentum. Any second it would squeeze out of that crack and stutter into a tatterdemalion snore. Waiting for it to happen was almost as bad as trying to sleep under the last embers of this blazing day.
She felt like a lemon meringue pie, oozing sticky beads that clung to her nighty. The perspiring night air plastered her with misery and when she rolled over she heard herself squish against the bottom sheet. Peeling off her nightgown she flopped naked in the hot, damp imprint of her body, waiting, sweating. Harry snuffled. He whistled through his nose hairs. He twitched. She waited.
Finally, the growing puddle that collected between her breasts threatened to swamp her and she heaved out of bed to the shower. Gradually she turned down the flow of warm water and stood under a downpour of penetrating cold. Goose-pimples stippled her body and she began to shake. Relieved at last, she stepped out of the shower and went back to bed, cold, dripping wet, and covered in gooseflesh.
She fell asleep shivering listening to Harry snore at last. Thunder and release.