This comes from an anthology of noir-style gangster and crime-themed erotica stories. Instead of classic film noir though, I found my inspiration in John Woo's Hong Kong cinema...

Johnny Kwan tried to lie still in the dark, but the bed moved like a ship at rough seas as his partner rocked above him. He felt the droplets of her sweat hit his chest, tap tap, but no coolness, just wet upon wet. Overhead a fan turned, he knew by the creak of it since he could neither see it in the dark nor feel any breeze. All that he could see was the shining outline of her damp cheek, her damp shoulder, her damp breast, in the light from the street that came in the open window. A flash of her blond hair, limp with sweat. The fan creaked, the bed springs protested, and the sounds of traffic and street Chinese crowded into his ears. His partner braced herself against him with her hands on his shoulders and added her voice to the orchestra, an inarticulate moan as she moved to new heights of pleasure. Johnny Kwan did not move, except to clench his jaw. Even when she sighed she had a foreign sound to her voice, something in the vowels that could be British or American but was certainly not Hongkongese. Holding still wasn't working anymore. She began to say things in her low, brassy tone that he didn't understand, and he could not stop what was coming any more than he could stop the British from giving up the place. He bucked once, twice, and came into her, his dark hands sliding across her white breasts in the window light as he sank down deeper and deeper into darkness.