Sense
I can sense you.
You hover at the back of my neck, peering over my shoulder, at the desk, where my hands are busily occupied. Sketching, while I quietly talk to our travel agents, booking two flights to Omaha, Nebraska on our next case.
I know your heat, your very essence as I reel off our badge numbers. A distracting, but comforting presence at my back. I lean into it unconsciously, drawing my strength from you. I know you, the way you step into my walls, my personal space, the way you spatially fill this earth. Your gait, your smell, your heat. The heat of existence, of intimacy, of passion. The heat of a man aroused.
I can sense you.
I can sense your aura, imagining the color that would radiate off your persona and suffuse into the air around you. A shimmering, mutable green, the color of life. Full of life. Vigor. Strength. Confidence.
The color of jealousy.
I can sense you.
I can sense your possessiveness, your protectiveness. The little flutters and touches you lay upon my person, the passion and emotion behind them all. I can remember every brush of skin, the electric thrill, the warm contact that only leaves me cold and aching for more.
Your hands caress the air around me, like birds fluttering for a roost while other men sharply assess me. Two jays protecting their nest, their territory. A gentle touch upon my shoulder, the rush to the small of my back, claiming me for your own.
I can sense you.
I can feel you.
I can feel your touch, our way of communicating, our way of communing. You touch me. The heat of your palm sears the small of my back, brands my hide, staining with unmarked fingers myself to you. Your touch. I know what you say when you reach for my waist. You want to reassure yourself that I'm still there, that I'm with you, to reaffirm your hold over me. I know what you say when you touch my shoulder. You're asking me to pay attention, to take your words seriously. I know what you say when you touch me on my lower back, saying its time to leave, a protecting, possessive gesture.
I feel you, the texture of your skin, its curious warmth, the sandpapery rasp of your cheek after a day long done, the softness of your hair. I could spend years mapping out your face tactilely, brushing my sensitive fingertips over your regal brow, strong nose, male cheeks, soft lips, so that my fingers my know you, to have your music within my fingertips. The muscles of your body are like a statue, yet no statue could breathe life like you. The muscles move and ripple under your heated skin, spell passion and power with one motion.
I can feel your touch, small brushes, slight and brief, but meaning a world to me. Small and slight, each time we touch, we establish contact, into our souls. Metaphysically combined. You touch me with the touch of a partner, in the truest sense of the word. Partner, confidante, companion, and friend.
But never as a lover.
I can sense you.
I can see you.
Your walk, your gait, so easily recognizable to me. Your hair, a sable brown, insignificant and ubiquitous in our world; yet I would know you in a crowd of men with tresses of the same hue.
You are a magnificent creature. You are a form composed of beautiful lines, smooth, proportioned, striking. Your head affixed atop a masculine neck, connected in powerful lines to your shoulders, your breadth narrowing in a perfect linear line to your hips; not too exaggerated, yet artistic. I see you through the eyes of an artist. Your legs, though long and lanky are perfectly joined in a pleasing angle to your hips, your hips a perfect triangle in conjunction with your shoulders. Your arms muscular, but not burly, perfect in my eyes, lithe, powerful, masculine.
Your face is a work of art. Your face in masculine lines, strong, angular, but not awkward. Your features composed to create a paragon of manliness. A strong nose, strong jaw, softened by sensual lips. Dark, intellectual eyebrows cutting intelligent lines upon your forehead, shadowing your intense eyes, softened by your sleepy, long lashes.
Your eyes are yours alone. Green, grey, hazel, amber, gold, brown, blue, and every color in between. They render you easily read, easily understood. I know by your eyes, the color your emotion, the hues of your thoughts, the message that its brilliant shades build color by color to present me with a portrait of your soul. Shielded sometimes by glasses, your eyes become foreign, enticing, sending me your messages from behind glass walls, distorted, sexual, sensual, and intellectual. A sexy professor.
You gaze at me often, a piercing, probing look. You appreciate me with your eyes, worship the ground I stand on, beg me, entreat me, and love me. You look at me through the eyes of a friend and trusted intimate. Yet you respectfully keep me clothed with your eyes, only daring to imagine when I look away.
You never looked into mine eyes with the gaze of a lover.
I can sense you.
I can smell you.
You lean down to speak with me, invading my personal space, telling me with pheromones and hormones what you cannot say with your mouth. You smell of musky maleness, spice, and cologne. A delectable blend of sensuality and sexuality.
I long to press my nose at the back of your neck, where the salt of your sweat mingles with the perfume of your shampoo. Where that musk of arousal seems the strongest, mixed with the tang of your skin.
Your skin would smell of the things we've done, and the places we would go. Of cool forests and moist forest loam. Of rain and roses. Of water, fire, wind, and desert. The scent of you clings to your coat, your jacket, your shirts. I wear them whenever I can, to surround myself in Eau de Mulder, your scent as recognizable to me as the musk of a wolf is recognizable to his mate.
You would smell of sex, the pungent aroma of love satisfied, but only if you let me satiate your need. No, now you only smell of constant arousal, of repressed pheromones.
For you never smell of the afterglow of love.
I can sense you.
I can hear you.
Your voice as it rumbles through the thin motel walls. Monotonous at times, wisecracking, serving as a medium for which you express your wit and charm. You can woo a woman with your voice, the slight rasp and huskiness suggesting of so much more.
The way you say my name. Each nuance of your voice as powerful as the different shades of your eyes. The insistent "Scully" when you clamor for my attention. "Scully" as it catches on your lips when you tease me. A plaintive cry when you need my help, my love, my care. Or a caress in itself, how gently you sound my name. But I've never heard it screamed from your lips at the height of desire or uttered with the low heat of lust.
For you never call me with the voice of a lover.
I can sense you.
I can sense you in every way possible. Touch, sight, smell, hearing, and even a tinge of the sixth sense.
But I've never tasted you.
For you've never kissed me.
So your taste I can only leave up to the imagination, of smoky savors, velvet smoothness, your sweetness and bitterness I can only desire. The slow, wet, and lazy strokes your tongue upon mine circles draw, the rich fullness of your kiss upon my lips.
I sense you.
You stand behind me. I sense your tension, your indecision. Of what, I can only guess…and hope. I wait, my breaths shallow, pondering upon your next move while I finish booking our flight. Your aura at my back.
I sense you.
I feel your warm hand around mine and the words dry up upon my lips. You guide my hand to set the phone back upon its receiver, ending my conversation with a simple touch.
I sense you.
I see your eyes never leaving mine, glowing with a heat I've never seen before. You look at me with a fire in your eyes, illuminating them from within, burnished copper, glints of emerald.
"Scully."
I sense you.
I hear the strange energy in your voice, my name spoken through the depths of desire, lust, and need such that you've never spoken to me before, yet each time you've breathed my name the promise of this had lain within. My name quivers from your lips, a name as intimate to me as a any term of endearment a man hath bestowed, and more so for you utter it.
I can sense you.
I smell your musk, your arousal, as you boldly invade my personal space, your hand never leaving mine, your eyes growing closer. Your breath puffs light against my face, sending to me an aroma of you, your life, respiration as it expires from your being. Your life becoming my life, as the inevitable descent follows.
I sense you.
I taste you.
I can sense you.
You hover at the back of my neck, peering over my shoulder, at the desk, where my hands are busily occupied. Sketching, while I quietly talk to our travel agents, booking two flights to Omaha, Nebraska on our next case.
I know your heat, your very essence as I reel off our badge numbers. A distracting, but comforting presence at my back. I lean into it unconsciously, drawing my strength from you. I know you, the way you step into my walls, my personal space, the way you spatially fill this earth. Your gait, your smell, your heat. The heat of existence, of intimacy, of passion. The heat of a man aroused.
I can sense you.
I can sense your aura, imagining the color that would radiate off your persona and suffuse into the air around you. A shimmering, mutable green, the color of life. Full of life. Vigor. Strength. Confidence.
The color of jealousy.
I can sense you.
I can sense your possessiveness, your protectiveness. The little flutters and touches you lay upon my person, the passion and emotion behind them all. I can remember every brush of skin, the electric thrill, the warm contact that only leaves me cold and aching for more.
Your hands caress the air around me, like birds fluttering for a roost while other men sharply assess me. Two jays protecting their nest, their territory. A gentle touch upon my shoulder, the rush to the small of my back, claiming me for your own.
I can sense you.
I can feel you.
I can feel your touch, our way of communicating, our way of communing. You touch me. The heat of your palm sears the small of my back, brands my hide, staining with unmarked fingers myself to you. Your touch. I know what you say when you reach for my waist. You want to reassure yourself that I'm still there, that I'm with you, to reaffirm your hold over me. I know what you say when you touch my shoulder. You're asking me to pay attention, to take your words seriously. I know what you say when you touch me on my lower back, saying its time to leave, a protecting, possessive gesture.
I feel you, the texture of your skin, its curious warmth, the sandpapery rasp of your cheek after a day long done, the softness of your hair. I could spend years mapping out your face tactilely, brushing my sensitive fingertips over your regal brow, strong nose, male cheeks, soft lips, so that my fingers my know you, to have your music within my fingertips. The muscles of your body are like a statue, yet no statue could breathe life like you. The muscles move and ripple under your heated skin, spell passion and power with one motion.
I can feel your touch, small brushes, slight and brief, but meaning a world to me. Small and slight, each time we touch, we establish contact, into our souls. Metaphysically combined. You touch me with the touch of a partner, in the truest sense of the word. Partner, confidante, companion, and friend.
But never as a lover.
I can sense you.
I can see you.
Your walk, your gait, so easily recognizable to me. Your hair, a sable brown, insignificant and ubiquitous in our world; yet I would know you in a crowd of men with tresses of the same hue.
You are a magnificent creature. You are a form composed of beautiful lines, smooth, proportioned, striking. Your head affixed atop a masculine neck, connected in powerful lines to your shoulders, your breadth narrowing in a perfect linear line to your hips; not too exaggerated, yet artistic. I see you through the eyes of an artist. Your legs, though long and lanky are perfectly joined in a pleasing angle to your hips, your hips a perfect triangle in conjunction with your shoulders. Your arms muscular, but not burly, perfect in my eyes, lithe, powerful, masculine.
Your face is a work of art. Your face in masculine lines, strong, angular, but not awkward. Your features composed to create a paragon of manliness. A strong nose, strong jaw, softened by sensual lips. Dark, intellectual eyebrows cutting intelligent lines upon your forehead, shadowing your intense eyes, softened by your sleepy, long lashes.
Your eyes are yours alone. Green, grey, hazel, amber, gold, brown, blue, and every color in between. They render you easily read, easily understood. I know by your eyes, the color your emotion, the hues of your thoughts, the message that its brilliant shades build color by color to present me with a portrait of your soul. Shielded sometimes by glasses, your eyes become foreign, enticing, sending me your messages from behind glass walls, distorted, sexual, sensual, and intellectual. A sexy professor.
You gaze at me often, a piercing, probing look. You appreciate me with your eyes, worship the ground I stand on, beg me, entreat me, and love me. You look at me through the eyes of a friend and trusted intimate. Yet you respectfully keep me clothed with your eyes, only daring to imagine when I look away.
You never looked into mine eyes with the gaze of a lover.
I can sense you.
I can smell you.
You lean down to speak with me, invading my personal space, telling me with pheromones and hormones what you cannot say with your mouth. You smell of musky maleness, spice, and cologne. A delectable blend of sensuality and sexuality.
I long to press my nose at the back of your neck, where the salt of your sweat mingles with the perfume of your shampoo. Where that musk of arousal seems the strongest, mixed with the tang of your skin.
Your skin would smell of the things we've done, and the places we would go. Of cool forests and moist forest loam. Of rain and roses. Of water, fire, wind, and desert. The scent of you clings to your coat, your jacket, your shirts. I wear them whenever I can, to surround myself in Eau de Mulder, your scent as recognizable to me as the musk of a wolf is recognizable to his mate.
You would smell of sex, the pungent aroma of love satisfied, but only if you let me satiate your need. No, now you only smell of constant arousal, of repressed pheromones.
For you never smell of the afterglow of love.
I can sense you.
I can hear you.
Your voice as it rumbles through the thin motel walls. Monotonous at times, wisecracking, serving as a medium for which you express your wit and charm. You can woo a woman with your voice, the slight rasp and huskiness suggesting of so much more.
The way you say my name. Each nuance of your voice as powerful as the different shades of your eyes. The insistent "Scully" when you clamor for my attention. "Scully" as it catches on your lips when you tease me. A plaintive cry when you need my help, my love, my care. Or a caress in itself, how gently you sound my name. But I've never heard it screamed from your lips at the height of desire or uttered with the low heat of lust.
For you never call me with the voice of a lover.
I can sense you.
I can sense you in every way possible. Touch, sight, smell, hearing, and even a tinge of the sixth sense.
But I've never tasted you.
For you've never kissed me.
So your taste I can only leave up to the imagination, of smoky savors, velvet smoothness, your sweetness and bitterness I can only desire. The slow, wet, and lazy strokes your tongue upon mine circles draw, the rich fullness of your kiss upon my lips.
I sense you.
You stand behind me. I sense your tension, your indecision. Of what, I can only guess…and hope. I wait, my breaths shallow, pondering upon your next move while I finish booking our flight. Your aura at my back.
I sense you.
I feel your warm hand around mine and the words dry up upon my lips. You guide my hand to set the phone back upon its receiver, ending my conversation with a simple touch.
I sense you.
I see your eyes never leaving mine, glowing with a heat I've never seen before. You look at me with a fire in your eyes, illuminating them from within, burnished copper, glints of emerald.
"Scully."
I sense you.
I hear the strange energy in your voice, my name spoken through the depths of desire, lust, and need such that you've never spoken to me before, yet each time you've breathed my name the promise of this had lain within. My name quivers from your lips, a name as intimate to me as a any term of endearment a man hath bestowed, and more so for you utter it.
I can sense you.
I smell your musk, your arousal, as you boldly invade my personal space, your hand never leaving mine, your eyes growing closer. Your breath puffs light against my face, sending to me an aroma of you, your life, respiration as it expires from your being. Your life becoming my life, as the inevitable descent follows.
I sense you.
I taste you.