2 comments/ 9854 views/ 2 favorites Without Words By: pedicur8her To my Love, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. They met by the sea after many years, many miles. Two lovers from times past, both hoping, seeking, dreading, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation of what the other had become, whether there would still be something, anything, or if they were fortunate, everything. As they ate dinner, they spoke about old times and new while each one took in the changes that time had wrought, hair and mustache shot with gray, some gentle laugh lines, each one's eyes searching, watching, for subtle differences only two lovers would know. As the sun sank into the sea, they walked along the beach, listening to the surf, watching the birds and talking about each other's lives, their travels and experiences over the years, how things had changed. The moon rose, full and bright as they reached the villa, where champagne and delicacies await them, all arranged and the staff gone home, the perfect finish to a memorable evening; now they laugh and talk together, remembering, warming to each other, years of separation melting away like a morning mist. Their conversation tapers off as they gaze into each others eyes, searching for the spark each hopes is still there, the little touch of heaven that made their lives so bright, so long ago; yes, it's still there, burning brightly, threatening to consume them from within, as they move closer. On the balcony, they embrace, their eyes, brown and green and wide with passion's light, their bodies, one soft, one hard, press together with desire, a need long unfulfilled. The time for words past, hand-in-hand, they leave the last of the champagne to the ocean and the full moon, eagerly anticipating the fires of past passions and the burning desire to kindle new flames. Rose scented breezes softly stir the sheer curtains, swirling them across the floor and mixing with the faint scent of Egyptian cotton. Golden light flickers warmly from a host of jasmine scented candle pillars, accenting the pale glow of moonlight on the marble tile. Satin shimmers on the carved four-poster bed, as they move together, soft pillows fall, spilling over onto the floor. Eyes boring into each other's souls, hearts pound as fingers move, feather-soft leaving hot traces on familiar curves, smooth skin dimples as delightful shivers precede passion's flowering. Whispers of silk and gentle caresses produce a soft sigh, a languid stretch, as deft fingers release first one foot, and then the other from their confines, lips caressing each softly delicately, increasing the delicious tension. Buttons yield as painted nails glide down to reveal toned muscle, red lips brush soft hair stopping to softly suckle and nip, brown eyes large with approval. Slowly continuing with tender kisses, gentle hands softly caressing, silk brushing silken skin, hard muscle against soft curve, their passion soars, their desire, apparent, straining against confines of silk, and cotton. Gentle strokes smooth golden hair aside, warm lips press softly to cool skin from bare shoulder to neck, finally nuzzling at throat's hollow. Soft murmurs of pleasure follow as hands cup and caress, eliciting a sharp breath, a giggle, and finally a sigh as silk slips softly to the floor. Green eyes flicker, breath halts as sweet memories merge with a sweeter reality, demurely waiting to be loved once again; a hot wave of desire washes away any foolish thoughts of restraint as passion takes them. Red nails twine through silver-shot hair as a tongue swirls and lips purse, drawing sweet softness in; a low moan and arched back accompany an especially favored sensation. Ardent desire, boldly rampant now as hands free and stroke; remembering with each caress, a favored touch, rapid breaths; hot pulses coaxing beads of clear dew from skin stretched taut like satin over steel. A questing hand strokes lower and pauses; then caresses, drawing forth the fragrant spice of a favorite taste, earning sounds of mutual whispered assent. Their bodies shift and slide on the smooth satin, spicy musk flavors smooth skin as lips part to kiss, lick, taste, and enfold. Skillful tongue strokes elicit soft cries muffled by hard flesh; hands grasp and cup, pulling closer, deeper as tongues probe, revisiting favorite places, and savoring tastes fondly remembered. Suddenly, ragged breaths signal an urgent release of pleasure that ends in breathy whispers, skin flushed hot as passion's waves crash and break, the first of many more. Pushing, pulling, rolling over and up, golden hair whips, eyes blaze, as hips move up and over onto delightful impalement, soft flesh engulfing hard, the delicious pain and pleasure of fullness sends fire coursing along nerves. Now joined as one, they gasp, their eyes locked as passions shared long ago flares anew from heart and soul; feelings long repressed burst forth. Ardently they move together; as their pace quickens, hands grasp and caress, hungry mouths seeking to pleasure, sweat beads as the exquisite pressure mounts. A second wave crests, then breaks, intense; arching, head thrown back, mouth open in a soundless cry, to fall, sobbing for breath; softness covering strength with a soft golden veil. Arms hold and gentle hands soothe with tender caresses, sweat cools on trembling, fevered skin; as one, they savor sweet bliss. Desire undimmed; golden tresses fan on satin as they slide and roll as one, their loins and mouths entwined, as steel now presses down deep into a clasping velvet embrace. Sobbing as they mesh and lock, trembling; joined now in an embrace of both body and soul, transcending mere flesh, they clasp each other as they drown together in raw emotion, feelings undimmed by time. As their fire builds, they move in exquisite passion to a private rhythm, known to them alone, both sharing secrets uniquely theirs; at this moment, the world could end without their notice. Together, they ride waves of passion, each new surge building in intensity until, at long last, they cry out as one, tears flowing with the long overdue consummation of their love. Entwined in the sweetest of all embraces, they bask in the golden light of their shared joy; pleasantly drained, the afterglow of their exertions drying in the cool breezes, essences combined in lover's sweet wine. They share each other gently, tenderly kissing and caressing, holding each other closely, speaking volumes to each other, without words. Without Words The first thing that Mark noticed when he opened the door was the scent of his wife's perfume, his favorite scent in the world wafted in the air. The lights were dimmed. Actually the lights were off the flickering glow in the house was the result of dozens of candles lit around the room and seemingly through the house. Something drew his eyes down to the floor where a collection of rose petals formed a path. The first place the flowers led him was into the kitchen where to glasses sat waiting on a silver platter behind it was a bottle of merlot waiting in a bucket of ice. There were no instructions but the idea was clear enough. Mark poured the two glasses with the red wine and followed the trail farther through the kitchen and into the yard. Even in the pale moonlight it was easy enough to follow the large petals but that wasn't what he was following that point. Mark was following the trail of clothing that started with a pair of high heel shoes and ended with a slinky black dress he'd bought for her birthday pointing the way to their gazebo. There was a note resting on the small table in the yard. It only had a single word on it. Strip. It was a simple enough command and Mark eagerly obeyed stripping off his clothing and leaving them in a heap before entering the gazebo. Again his senses were nearly overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. His eyes immediately went to her though. A combination of bubbles and rose petals concealed everything but her face from view but that was enough for him. Her hair was twisted into a bun with just a few strands of loose hair framing Michelle's face. Her eyes were half hooded at the moment, and though she was more Caucasian than anything else here eyes still hinted at her Asian blood as did her jet black hair. One hand rose out of the water and beckoned her husband forward with a crooked finger. It may as well been an actual magnet as strongly as it pulled him forward to glide into the deliciously warm water. Michelle whispered leaning over and taking her glass of wine and bringing it to her lips. She smiled and then slowly leaned closer to him until her lips met his. He could taste the wine lingering on her lips as they kissed. Her tongue wandered into his mouth caressing his own and for a moment the world simply melted away and she was the only thing in the world. Just Michelle and nothing else mattered at all. Then she leaned back. Mark was still unable to speak as he stared at his wife of three years. She'd always been beautiful but right now she was almost glowing as she smiled at him. She smiled and got out of the Jacuzzi rose petals miraculously letting her keep her modesty as they clung to her glistening wet body. She leaned over briefly kissing him again and then she was gone. It only took her a moment to return, a moment that briefly flashed in Mark's head that any of his neighbors might have seen her cross the yard. It was only a few feet from the house and even that was partially covered from prying eyes but. Whatever came next in that thought faded as she walked back into the gazebo with a single plate covered with a collection of sushi and slipped back into the water. The two ate and fed each other in near silence other than the occasional gasp as a finger was captured between naughty lips. Which happened more than once during their delicious meal. Michelle's eyes met Mark's after the last piece of sushi and leaned forward to kiss him again. This time as their tongues slipped together so did their bodies interlocking as only lovers can do. Hands explored the two bodies remembering familiar places and trying to express an emotion to raw and beautiful for clumsy flesh to properly articulate. I love you. They were both thinking it though neither of them spoke at all. Michelle realized as she twisted around so her back was to him and his lips were freed to wander her neck and shoulders that he'd never expressed that emotion quite the way it was right then. There was something unique about his mouth on her body, his hands caressing her breasts something unique that she'd never had before and would never have again because some moments in life are unique. Her mouth parted and a sigh escaped. Mark was lost in his wife. A slight pang of regret echoed when he realized that he would inevitably find himself again. It was so wonderful to be lost in Michelle, she was warmth, and love and happiness. The very definition of heaven. A lot of people have never been so lost in another that the world completely fades out but Michelle could do it to him and she had. If Mark had his way he'd never be found, he'd live the rest of his life in this bliss but then a second thought hit. This was Heaven and it was better that he only visited from time to time because he never ever wanted to take it for granted. This should remain sacred and like anything that holy it should be a treat to experience it not something that happens every single night, it he should enjoy it to it's fullest while he was in the moment because too soon it would be lost. Then it happened for both of them. They crashed into each other so fully and intimately that their hearts were as one, like their bodies and souls. They didn't fight the wave of euphoria as it lifted them up cresting in some incredible place before inevitably breaking against reality where it left the two smiling and satisfied. Without Words As the lift doors close, and the chime sounds, and his stomach -- already fluttery -- feels the pull of gravity, it suddenly strikes him: they haven't really said a word to each other yet. The lift whisks him higher ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... before slowing, his brain still somewhat shocked by the realisation; he'll have to get over it quickly, as floor 9 and room 912 are approaching quickly, and he doesn't want to be some tongue-tied fool when he gets there. The doors open, and he steps out. * * * Things had all started three days ago, as he and his colleagues had gathered from across the country at this plush hotel for one of those infernal team-building weekends. Since then they'd paintballed, roleplayed, white-water-rafted, problem-solved, survival-skilled and been forced to endure corporate singing sessions until they could take no more. Seventy-two hours of compulsory fun. And every single game they'd played, or situation they'd been put in, she'd been on the opposite side. Smiling that slightly inscrutable smile. Deftly supplying the right points to the argument. Finding the right angle on a brainteaser. Splatting him from 30 yards at paintball; he'd smarted at that. But still, he couldn't help but be drawn to her. Whether in a business suit for the most formal parts of the weekend, or a set of combat fatigues in the woods, she was clearly a gorgeous woman; buxom, curvy, exactly the things he thought a woman should be. Her eyes flashed dangerously at him; his first thought about her hair was to wonder what it would be like to run his fingers through it; his second thought was how it would move with her movements. But the way the weekend had worked out, they'd not actually spoken a word to each other directly. When there had been breaks, whatever teams they were in had tended to separate; apparently the company didn't want them all to get too cosy, but to preserve some competitive spirit at all costs. * * * The carpet in the hall is plush, deadening the sound of his brogues as he lopes toward room 912. Somehow everything is very hyper-real, the colours brighter than they were just a minute ago in the foyer. He is suddenly conscious of his blood racing around his body, he can hear his heart thudding away, he is aware of how his clothes shift on his body as he walks. 910 ... 911 ... there it is. 912. It looks the same as all the other doors in this hotel. Unassuming. The same functional handle, the little green light next to the card reader. He knocks. * * * It had been during the mock takeover negotiations that their eyes had locked over the table. The scenario involved billions of pounds and it all felt remarkably intense -- and then her eyes had met his. And held them. For what seemed like a very long time. He'd liked looking into her eyes. And then she'd looked away again. But there seemed to be a hint of a smile. A hint that she was pleased at his regard. The next day had been ... interesting. He'd taken part, played the game, but his eyes were drawn to hers more and more. He'd made sure he'd been well-turned out that morning, he always was, but this morning more than usual. And she'd stared back boldly at him; and then at the crucial moment she'd felled him with a single yellow pellet, a crack shot, and he'd felt -- what? -- a curious bittersweet mix. With an almost torrential undercurrent of desire. And then at the end of the final day, as they'd stood and shook hands with each other, and swapped cards, before the next morning's planned departure, when they would scatter to their various parts of the country. He'd shaken her hand. And he'd taken her card. And they'd looked for just a second longer than necessary at each other. * * * And that had been just a couple of hours ago. He'd been in the bar, getting a drink. The sweet smell of the whisky in his nostrils -- and the feeling he just couldn't shake about her. He'd opened his wallet, pulled out the card, reached for his Blackberry, intending to drop her an email, something that just let her know he was thinking of her, something innocent but not. And as he'd looked for her email address, he'd seen the handwritten message at the top of the card. Neat, well-formed. "Room 912. After 9." He'd looked at his watch. 9.25. And he'd finished his drink. * * * The door opens. He opens his mouth to say something. But her eyes speak to him. And say, how he does not know, but he understands: no words. He steps forward, takes her in his arms, marvels at how that feels, that first embrace, the first time imagination takes form. Their eyes lock again, but now the tension is physical, the sparks flying between them only too real, not imagined. He kisses her, softly the first time, shifting his lips slightly then settling again, his hand moving up to realise his thought about what it would feel like; finding his wilder thoughts that it would feel like silk confirmed, it flowing between his fingers, his kiss growing harder as the sensation floods in. She kisses back, her mouth gently opening, her tongue darting forth, catching his bottom lip between hers, feeling the heat building under her lips. The first whisper of a moan from her; an answering groan from him. They do that strange dance towards the bed, not wanting to separate for an instant; his lips moving to her neck, that electrifying spot that sends arcs of pleasure shooting through her, the nerves suddenly blasted with an overload of sensory data. They hit the bed together, collapsed onto it, still locked as one, her hands now moving to pull his tie away, his starting to roam over her breasts, wanting to feel their weight, feel them spill over his fingers. Their kisses growing hotter and deeper, tongues now dancing together. Suddenly something breaks between them; they can't hold off. Hands become frantic, urgent. She rips at his shirt, he at her skirt; the language they are speaking now is one of need, of hunger. Almost shockingly quickly, they are naked, hands moving swiftly; hers circling his cock, stroking, kneading, rubbing, moving to cup; his on her breasts, moving over her curvy stomach, down, finding her thighs opening for him, seeking her heat. Finding her slippery already, slick, bringing his fingers up to taste before going back down to skitter over her clit, her back arching as he does so. She scoots down the bed; he kneels and she takes him in her mouth, looking up at him, those deep eyes communicating her desire -- still not a word spoken -- and from somewhere inside him a groan is unleashed that drives her to take him deeper, her tongue circling over the tip of his cock, her hand working his shaft. He basks in it, looks down at her through soft eyes that wonder at her. Without quite knowing how it happened, their roles are reversed, and he is kissing up her thighs, feeling her excitement under his lips, before he buries his tongue in her cunt, hungry for the taste, wanting to feel her excitement build under his mouth. He breathes her in, wanting to be enveloped in her. There is only her; there is only him. The urgency builds again, and she wants him inside her and he wants her around him, and his cock nudges between her thighs, then finds the spot and drives home and she is shockingly hot and wet, and he is hard as iron and filling her suddenly. They move together, and still the only sounds that pass between them are those of breath and passion, deep growls and moans, whimpers and sighs. Nothing approximating words, but filled with a meaning that both of them understand, hardwired into their brains since the start of time. Now there is little left but lust and fucking and hands clenching on each other, his arms stretched over hers, her legs around him, her cries louder as his strokes become faster, deeper, harder. And then it is their bodies shouting their pleasure, her cunt contracting around him, his cock swelling and balls tightening; and throughout them the flood of sensation is too much, too much, there are no words for this anyway, it's when reality slip-slides away and there is nothing but pleasure. Afterwards they lie together, their heartbeats the only sound, breathing slowing, and they fit together, his arm around her, hers on his chest, their movements signifying to each other that they just need companionship now. There will be words. But not right now.