Many thanks to Zack, my Writing Assistant

-----------------

She steps out of the car, and he surveys her with an artists' eye. She's lines and angles, here and there a broad sweep of arc, a few graceful curves linking all these together. The movement of her hair across her forehead is captivating, the way her fingers arch loosely fascinating. Walking towards him, the swing of her hips and the twisting motion of her abdomen hypnotize him, and he can't tear his eyes away from her.

They study each other; he watching every detail of her movements, she attempting to interpret the expression on his face. More than anything in the world, he would like to grasp her by that seductive line of her neck, throw her on the table behind him, press himself against her and take her. He's dying to feel her warmth against his body, but he stays at a respectful distance. If for no other reason than to cut off the urges that he's not sure he can resist much longer.

She's angry, though. He can feel it radiating from her, even in the arch of her back. It's subtle, something only a former lover can truly understand, but he's always been able to read her. He meets her eyes finally, sees the rage in her eyes and senses that the storm is about to break.

"The fuck did you think you were doing?" she asks, her eyes narrowing, her voice still low, but hard like granite. Like her body, he thinks, with a flash of remembrance of her flat abdomen stretched across his, firm like marble but innately sensual. He wakens to his own anger suddenly, as if memory of what he's lost has spurred him into rage at the one who took it away.

"I thought I could save you," he says spitefully, tearing his gaze away and avoiding her gaze. "Didn't need saving, did you? My mistake, Your Highness," he spits. The force of their rage meets in the center of the room, clashing so powerfully as to almost be audible.

Yet instantly, he remembers the sweet, subtle scent of her. Jasmine and sandalwood, and lying next to her in moments after their closest intimacy, when his arms would encircle her and his fingers would intimately entwine in her thick hair, he could sense a delicate hint of sweat. He would bury his face into her neck, her hair tousled and languorous and smelling of the shampoo that he rubs into her thick hair every morning.

He loved nothing more than watching her undress and prepare for her shower. He'd sit on her counter, shirt off and wearing nothing more than boxers, and she'd slip slowly out of her shirt. The careless flick of her wrist, and the shirt would drop away from her. He'd smile, sliding off the counter and pulling away the drawstrings of her pants, the texture of the strings grinding together under his fingers. He would study the curve of her abdomen, his fingers just brushing a ripple of her muscle. The pants would fall from her hips, and he'd take her in his arms, his bare chest contacting hers. Smiling, he'd pull away and unhook the bra and they'd both shed the last of their garments. He'd rotate her so her back would face him, and walk her slowly to the shower. They'd stand just like that, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, letting the hot water beat down onto their heads. Eventually he'd turn her again, and she'd lay her half-asleep head against his shoulder, allowing him to wash her hair. He enjoyed it – the slow cleansing, the feel of her hair between his fingers. She'd wake up gradually to his touch, and they'd kiss gently again.

Every day had been an adventure, but they'd fit each other like old lovers. They'd stayed together for almost a year; a year full of intense emotion and passionate love. He had learned her intimately, something that had interested him to no end. He'd discovered her carefully – he had learned to gage her reactions, and each movement that he would make was purposefully chosen to please her. In return, she'd learned him just as intimately. Her fingers knew his body just as well as her eyes knew his face, and she'd taught herself a thousand ways to make his skin crawl with desire. Every night they'd fallen asleep in each others arms, her head resting on his chest and his arm curled possessively around her neck.

He's pulled back to the present time by the veiled anguish on her face. Again, he knows that no one except him would have seen it, but the subtle line above her left eye and the slight downturn of her lip gives it away instantly. Angry, yes. But also deeply saddened. He wants her back now, more than ever before. They know each other too well, have learned each idiosyncrasy and quirk. The last thing he wants is to throw all that away now.

"Love," he whispers, using the sweet name that he knows she was fond of, "hear me out." He watches the line of her back release slightly as she half turns away from him. His eyes travel the curve of her hip, and can't help but allow a tiny smile to curl the corner of his lips. He draws himself back, meets her eyes for a moment before she glances away.

"Love, you and I have more and better than most couples ever will. I know you, better than I even know myself. And I want you, more than I've ever wanted any woman before." He hears his voice go smoky, heavy with desire for her. "You and I have been together too long to be separate. I have no desire to find another woman, one that will never satisfy me and fascinate me the way you do."

"Do you remember the first time we met, when our eyes sparked across the room and we felt that instant connection?" One step closer, his voice growing harder and a little more intense. One step closer.

"Do you remember the first time we kissed, when you felt something inside you turn and catch and our first kiss became the most passionate and intense thing that you'd felt up to that point?" One step closer, one step. His voice hardening.

"Do you remember the first time we fell into bed, and you whispered my name with each breath, and it was so amazing that the world stopped turning for an instant as we lay there?" One step closer, he's almost yelling at her. He's leaning forward aggressively, wanting to take her and shake her and beg her to see what he's saying.

"Do you remember the first time I said I loved you, and your eyes filled up with the passion that I've found to be the most amazing drug?" One step closer, only one left. Only one more chance to drive his point home. His voice is softening as he speaks of love.

"Do you remember every time you've fallen asleep with your head on my chest and your legs still tangled with mine, my name still on your lips, and my fingers still curled in your hair?" His last step brings him so close that he can feel her breath, ragged and harsh, against his neck. Their eyes lock, his full of the intensity of his emotion, hers still tight from pain.

"Darling, I love you," he whispers. His breath flutters the soft hair at her temples. He senses the cold melting around her, and she reaches for him at the instant that he gives in to those intense desires. She falls into his arms, her body melting against his and her lips devouring him. For all his talk of remembering, he'd honestly forgotten the feel of her, the hard tangibility of her body against his.

Moments later, with her bare leg bent by his waist and her back pressed flat against the kitchen floor, he concentrates on the skin by the meeting of her neck and her shoulder. Here, he searches for a certain spot, knowing her and knowing that she hadn't changed since he had last touched her so. He finds it, and she gasps softly from between half-parted lips.

"Yes," she hisses into his ear, holding onto the word like a lifeline. She arches underneath him and pressures his head further against her neck. His hunger for her begins to press him further, devouring her skin while her breathing increases steadily. Her fingers tighten spasmodically in his curly hair – the pressure on his scalp ripples the skin down his back. He feels the tightness in his lower abdomen, and he knows that her skin is tingling as well. Each contact is electric.

His hand grips the back of her thigh, he presses towards her . . . her lips at his ear, his face buried in the thick hair by the crevice of her neck, he feels her hard breathing against his curls . . . her heel digs into the small of his back, and her thighs tighten on him . . . he grasps the back of her neck, drawing her closer into him, and is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath underneath him . . . her fingers dragging at the skin across his back, and he can feel every inch of her acutely . . . from her heels, dug into his back . . . her abdomen, arched to meet his . . . her lips, half parted and breathing rapidly by his ear . . .

They've always been very quiet lovers. Not for lack of passion, or for pleasure, as both have learned to please the other in such perfect ways that previous experiences have become just shades of memory. Naturally, though, their climax was no louder than a murmur of the others' name. The way she whispered his name, soft and seductive and holding on to every single syllable, her voice husky and breathy and still tense, was enough in itself to make him adore her. His own expression was simply the tightening of his arm against her head, and he felt some sort of comfort radiate from her as his bicep would flex, his flushed cheek pressed against hers, burrowing silently into her neck and inhaling her scent deeply.