They would have sex everywhere: on the queen-size bed, on the carpet where the famished pillowcases scatter, in the bathroom that reeks of lavender and pink tulips, on the beautifully-laid wood parquets on the floor. They would have sex wherever and how they like it: she would bend over on the edge of the queen-size bed, allowing him an entry; she would rest her legs on his shoulders as he protrudes, pillowcases underneath his sweaty and wobbly knees; she would face the nicely fumed bathroom wall as he enters her from behind; she would ride him in hysteria, his butt clasping against the delicately-chiseled parquets.
They would make out everywhere and how they like it: in the cinemas where it's pitch-black and no one would notice him fondling her clitoris and caressing her breasts, in the back seats of a bus where she could give him a hand job, in the smelly restrooms of diners where he could sneak her in for a blow job, under the table of a fine-dining restaurant where he could eat her tender vagina in a muffled noise and no one would say that it's not a silver-platter meal.
They would have the craziest sex everywhere and how they want it. And everywhere they would have multiple orgasms, and everywhere, too, flowers would always bloom. Honey or nectar would erupt from his swollen and pulsating penis as red, fat roses would flourish from her three-lip, crimson cunt.