What We Don't Say

by damnmydooah

Disclaimer: They ain't mine, y'all.

Author's Note: Well. I'm not really sure where to begin. It's been over a year since I wrote a story. I still love Gilmore Girls very much, but for some reason I was not at all inspired to write anything. And what I read on TWoP wasn't exactly making me look forward to the seasons to come, either. But then I read Maria14's "Kiss With Open Eyes", which made me want to watch the s4 finale again, and I got flutters in my stomach all over again. And this morning, a first sentence appeared in my head. And because I'm supposed to be studying really hard for an exam, I opened Word and wrote down that first sentence. And a second one, and a third. And lo and behold, a little over two hours later I had this. It is un-beta-read, but I checked it over many times. Forgive me for mistakes that remain, please.

Thanks to: Everybody who ever read and reviewed my stories. Every once in a while, when I was feeling down and like a bad writer, I would go to my reviews page to read what you had written to me. You guys made me feel like I was on top of the world. Thank you. So much.

Summary: No Kirk, no dialogue.

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WHAT WE DON'T SAY

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Her mind is reeling. She feels a little dizzy and actually wonders if she should touch her lips to see if this is real. But she doesn't have to, because she can taste him on her lips and he is standing right in front of her, isn't he?

But she wants to make sure anyway, so she takes a step forward, reaching for him, and when he asks her what she is doing, she repeats his earlier statement, giggling a little in her head at the fact that she manages to turn even this into a word game. But then her hand reaches up to cup his jaw, to feel the stubble there and she kisses him, just to make sure that it was him she tasted just now.

And it is. The fact that he tastes of Sookie's pot roast isn't really a clue, because everybody had that for dinner tonight, but there is also a faint hint of fruit and herbal tea and she knows she couldn't possibly be kissing anyone else right now.

His arms crush her to him, but she disengages herself again, because she needs oxygen and maybe, maybe she needs some time to think? But she can't think, because her mind is still reeling and she can hear his labored breathing and she realizes that she, too, is panting.

His hand goes to her waist again and she can feel the heat coming off his body. She senses the need, not only in him, but suddenly in her as well, burning, aching.

She has to kiss him again.

So she does. She presses her lips to his and before she knows it, she has opened her mouth and sucked his tongue in. And whereas the two previous kisses were mouth pressed to mouth like those two halves of that ball that horses can't even separate, this is a slow, unhurried, sensual dance. Their lips slip and slide over each other and their tongues mingle until she wonders if maybe she had fruit or herbal tea today.

Her hand is cupping his jaw again, feeling that amazing stubble, holding on for dear life. Can you get razor burn on the palm of your hand? One of his hands is on her hip, the thumb caressing with a gentle, but incessant need that she feels just a little lower. His other hand is in her hair, gripping fiercely, almost painful.

He moans, and she comes to the realization that she's backed into the wall and he is slowly, ever so softly, grinding against her. And that's when she feels the heat inside of herself, pooling, swirling, throbbing.

Oh my God, she thinks, can we? Here, now?

She breaks away from him and looks him in the eye. They are glazed over, but he has this lazy, almost triumphant grin on his face, which almost angers her. But then his hand reaches up to touch her hair and his expression changes, to something between adoration and uncertainty.

And then she realizes that he is not trying to make her into a conquest, that she is not something he will brag about over a couple of beers or write about in his diary or journal, if he even has one. She sees in his eyes that this is real.

That she is real, to him.

So she takes his hand and walks him back inside, up the stairs, to door number seven. Lucky number seven, she thinks, and almost giggles, but catches herself, because this is, for some reason, definitely not a giggling situation.

They stand there, and she looks at him and he looks back, until she raises her eyebrows and he suddenly starts fumbling for the keys in his pocket. He unlocks the door and she walks in, into the room she styled, which is so familiar to her.

He closes the door behind him and walks towards her. She thinks he might kiss her again, so she wets her lips. But he doesn't. Instead, his hands go slowly to the knot that's holding her shirt closed. He looks at her, uncertainly, and she recognizes that he is asking for permission. She looks back at him, with what she hopes is reassurance.

He works at the knot for a couple of seconds, with fumbling, trembling hands. But he manages to undo it, and he slowly separates the two halves. He pushes the shirt off her shoulders, catching it before it can fall to the ground, and puts it on the chair next to him.

He undresses her in silence. Walks around her to undo the zipper of her skirt. Gets down to his knees to take off her shoes. She puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her balance as he first takes off one, then the other. He slides the bra straps off her shoulders, then stands impossibly close to reach around her and undo the clasp. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and slides them down, not even looking at her. She steps out of them.

She is naked. She stands before him, completely naked, feeling the weight of her breasts, the breeze of the air conditioning in her pubic hair.

He stands, and looks at her, letting out a slow, almost imperceptible breath. And then she steps up to him, taking a hold of the bottom of his sweater as he raises his arms. She slowly peels it off him and then crouches down, undoing the laces on his shoes. She helps him step out of them as he did her earlier and then straightens, reaching for his belt buckle.

She undresses him like he did her, in silence. Undoes his pants, takes off his socks. Slides his boxers down his hips. His clothes join hers on the chair, draped almost neatly.

They stand, naked, facing each other. He is beautiful. And she knows he thinks she is beautiful, too.

They are the only two people in the world as he steps towards her again and slides a hand down her arm, shakily runs his fingers over her naked thighs and up over her stomach, caressing the undersides of her breasts.

She shivers, and reaches up to trace the line of his shoulders, over his collarbones, following the path of his chest hair down to where she cups him, weighing him in her hand. He lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. She grips him more firmly and strokes him. He almost bucks against her hand, but then his eyes fly open and she sees the pain in them, the trouble he has restraining himself.

So she lets go, cups his jaw again and runs her thumb over his lower lip. Kisses him a couple of times while his hands grip her shoulders. And then she leads him over to the bed where she sits him down with his back against the headboard as she settles herself in his lap. He scoots away from the headboard a bit to allow her to put his legs around him.

They are touching, but he is not inside of her yet as they kiss again, languidly, openmouthed. She holds on to his shoulders as his hands roam her back. He holds her steady as one hand goes to cup her breast and caress her nipple, and then his fingers are dancing down her stomach, fluttering through her curls and suddenly one of them is inside of her and his thumb is pressing down on her, swirling, slipping, over and over again. She arches into him, throwing her head back and gasping.

His fingers are nimble and he dances inside of her, setting every nerve ending on fire. Within seconds she has no idea where she is, her mind focused only on his hand between her legs and the one on her back, holding her up. She flies over the edge in surprising silence, shaking, trembling, gasping his name.

He brings her back by kissing her neck, suckling on her pulse point as she holds on to the back of his head. She brings his face up to hers, kissing his mouth, his nose, his closed eyes. She steadies herself on his shoulders as she settles over him, slowly sinking down. He groans deep in his stomach, gripping her sides with an almost bruising force. She sighs as he fills her, tightening her legs around him and pushing her fingertips in the flesh of his back.

They move in a slow, unhurried rhythm, pushing and pulling, giving and taking. She grips him around the shoulders with one hand and cups his head with the other, as he kisses and suckles at her collarbone. His hands have moved to her hips, where they help her steady herself.

Time stands still as they move against each other. She has never made love this silently before, with nothing but sighs and gasps that are barely audible. They are in awe of each other as they touch and caress, reaching everywhere their hands are capable.

Finally, she senses he cannot take it anymore. She kisses his earlobe, giving him silent permission. He picks up the pace, pushing harder and deeper. He draws up his knees and she falls back against his legs, putting her feet flat on the mattress to gain leverage. His fingers are digging into her hips.

His head falls back and he closes his eyes, giving one last, desperate thrust. He groans something unintelligible which might be her name as his hands grip her hips so fiercely she gasps out in almost-pain. She feels him inside of her, liquid, hot, filling.

He falls still, releasing the grip on her hips. They lie, panting, sated, until he picks up his head, slides his hands up over her arms and hugs her to him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, mumbling the same words over and over against her skin. She clasps his head, combs her fingers through his hair and holds him still.

His shoulders shake and she wonders if maybe he is crying, but she feels no wetness on her skin. She pulls his head back to look at him and he reaches for her, kissing her hard. They slide away from each other, sweat-slicked skin over sweat-slicked skin and lie on their sides, facing each other. His head is propped up on his hand as she rests hers on her outstretched arm. He reaches for the comforter at the foot of the bed, drawing it up over them, then scoots closer to her as she slings a leg over his hip. He pushes the hair away from her face, kisses her ear and caresses her back, resting his hand on her hip.

They lie as close as they possible can, and their mouths find each other again. They kiss and kiss and kiss until she settles herself against his chest and he puts his arms around her. She runs her fingers over his chest hair as he kisses the top of her head and she closes her eyes, smiling.

The last thing she hears is her own voice, repeating his words.

THE END