As a note, the writing style I used in this is, while not entirely grammatically correct, intentional. Consider it a partially stream-of-consciousness piece of fiction
--
She loves the way he touches her.
The feeling of his fingertips sliding across her skin, his lips against her eyelids, softness and heat and moisture all melding into one sensation until she can't tell what she's feeling anymore. She only knows that they're here again, and that there's no one else in the world besides the two of them right now. Her eyelashes flutter as he nips at her collarbone, teeth and tongue moving together in a way that isn't at all unpleasant. She can't think; all she can do is feel.
So much is unspoken. So many silent words hang in the air between them. All the looks, the touches, the quiet acceptance and denial and unexplainable magnetism; none of them matter now. Now, they need no words. Now, their bodies speak for them, more than anything said aloud ever could.
A thrill runs through her body as his fingers hit a sensitive spot, and her back arches a little as she tenses. He doesn't stop, though; he never stops. He knows her body better than anyone, maybe even better than she herself does. Now he's leaning over her again, kissing her, at first gently, no more than little feather touches brushing against her lips; then, when she can't stand it and is about to push up and kiss him the way she wants, he's pressed against her and she can't tell where he begins and she ends. Fingers running down her sides, to her hips, her thighs, always moving, never, ever halting. She's starving for the touch, and he knows it. She tilts her head back as he sucks on the hollow of her neck, and then as he moves his head down further, trailing kisses down her chest and stomach. And when he hits there, she sucks in a breath as liquid fire courses through her veins, flooding her every sense. It's intoxicating, and she knows she can't break free even if she wanted to.
Now it seems like he's everywhere, everywhere that feels good, all at once, and oh, God, she can't breathe, can barely cry out his name as her nails claw at his back. Nothing in her life has ever been like this, felt like this; she hadn't known anything could feel like this. She's kissing his hair, his hands, anything that comes close enough for her to reach, and her breath finally returns, but in short gasps as she grips at the blank white sheets, because now he's touching further, and her vision is fading from the undiluted ecstasy. Skin against skin, one pressing against another. Touch. Sensation. Reaction. Emotion.
Confusion.
Because now it's coming again. The same thing that happens every time. The little murmurs, the whispers she simultaneously dreads and anticipates, thrumming against her skin as he breathes the words against her throat, her cheeks, her hair. Whispering that he loves her. Again and again. The words she wants so badly to return, so much that it aches, but that she can never manage to force out. They catch in the back of her throat, sticking like a sweet residue that she can neither swallow nor spit out, so that all she can ever manage in reply is to choke out his name. If he notices, though, he never says anything; he never stops. She knows he wants this as much as she does.
Her breathing is shallow again; her head is beginning to spin from pleasure. She falls back, panting, and he slows, moving up so that they're kissing again, less frenziedly this time; sweeter, gentler. She hooks her arms around his neck and wishes that these moments would never end. Wishes that they didn't have to go back out into that world, which seems at times like these to be cold, harsh, unrelenting, full of chaos. When it's just them lying together, everything is so simple, so warm. Full of light and life that has never been anywhere else, a happiness she could never achieve with even the greatest medical discovery, or that he could never feel even if he found the proof he wanted so badly. She only knows that right now, everything is right, and as she sighs, her breath hot against his skin, the only thing missing is what she still can't admit.
Later, when it's over, the dawning light shining blue into the room through the hazy curtains, she lies awake, body turned towards him as he sprawls fast asleep, breathing heavily like a child. She watches him, not knowing or caring for how long, eyes traveling across the outlines of his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, capturing them to memory and filing them away in the neat storeroom of her mind. Her eyes close once, then open, and she reaches out to touch his face; gently, so gently, fingertips barely even brushing against his skin, so as not to wake him. His lips are soft, his cheeks slightly scratchy; she can feel his eyes moving as he dreams when she traces his eyelids. She leans over to kiss him lightly; a faint brushing of her lips against his, no more. Draping one arm across his side, she pulls herself closer and closes her eyes as she feels herself start to drift off to sleep. Her lips part in a last attempt to complete what she wants so badly to finish, but, as always, only a soft sigh escapes. She swallows instead and blinks the inevitable sting away, and thinks that maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe the words will finally slip out unhindered, and she can tell him what she's wanted to for so long. Maybe then will this weight on her chest lift, this pain in her throat and heart and body fade.
Maybe tomorrow she can finally tell him that she loves him.