Day 2--1325 words.
I'm actually starting at the beginning.

I only had a couple of hours today. Tomorrow I should be able to boost the word count. Everytime I start out on one of these, I have to learn all over again to throttle the internal editor and let the monkey-nancy ape out all over the page for now. Maybe the outlining at this stage wasn't the best idea (monkeys aren't into outlines--hey, put down that thesaurus!). I'm going for overwrought and in that, I'm succeeding.

Her lips closed over the gash. Thorn's energy ebbed from him through a single concentrated void about which his entire being revolved. He could hear the incongruously delicate sound of her throat working, swallowing his life force. He struggled to fend off the black shadows that swam across his vision. Then, like a slow explosion erupting from the core of the pain at his throat, pleasure seeped into his limbs. Arousal contended with his waning strength. It was all he could do breathe, to keep from losing consciousness. His hands plucked feebly at her hair, at the grip that held him inexorably to her.
The room spun. The arched doorways, the canopy-draped bedposts, the wall-mounted tapestry of Atalanta's race, the rosette carved in a solar burst on the ceiling, the glossy tendrils of her hair all whirled in a vortex of delicious, rose-warm agony.
“Too much,” he choked. Beloved...
Pressed firmly against her, he could feel her heart drumming against his chest, her fierce pulse matching the panicked racing of his own. It filled his ears. His knees buckles, and he sagged against her, surrendering to her power. She rode him to the floor. All the directions were wrong; the angles of the familiar room seemed skewed. Blackness reasserted itself with the promise of release, and he let himself drift with it.

See?
heh heh
I'd originally had this one envisioned through the camera lens and so it's been an awkward transition (keep slipping into present tense stage directions).

Tomorrow: high melodrama