Different. Special. Unique.
Just a few words to describe them, and the many people like them. The elite. A sector of society set so apart from the rest.
That's how they met. There were so few of them now. Their paths were bound to cross sooner or later.
She had a very specific skill set. His technique was much coveted. Each was talented in their select fields.
So it really didn't come as any surprise when they started seeing each other. Neither did it come as a shock to anyone when they split up. She was temperamental at best, he was indifferent at worst, and it was just too troublesome.
She missed fucking him, she said. Or maybe it was just being fucked that she missed, she didn't know. So he didn't ask, not when she was kissing him that way and looking at him like that and making those sounds that made him go instantly hard.
It was a blur of hands and lips and the noises she made as he fucked her.
Harder, she cried, faster. Her nails digging in his back prompting him deeper. It was never more than sex, just a casual romp in the hay that meant nothing to either of them, or that's what he told himself.
They didn't waste their breath on empty words, choosing to communicate instead in shared looks and caresses, never a touch more or a glance less.
She was cold, her eyes blank, her words biting. But she was feverish under his ministrations, warmth seeping into every crevice in her body. And it was this warmth that spurred her actions, the thrill of living drove her to the point of reckless abandon.
It took them thousands of miles and many years but there they lay: her head on his shoulder, her breath on his neck, the fatigue thick inside them both. And they are more than they ever hoped to be. Happy.