There was something about the way he spoke, words soft, lilting as they caught on each upward inflection. His voice was colour: rich as burnt umber when he would whisper softly in her ear. The warming tones would reverberate through her very soul.
But he did not know.
There was something about the way he laughed. A gentle rumble of vibrato that echoed the space around him. His voice was texture: rough at times when he tried to hide his thoughts and feelings. But it could be smooth too. A velvet that rubbed the senses and tickled her right through.
But he did not know.
There was something about the way he said nothing at all. When silence reigned and all she could hear was him and the sounds he did not know he made. An intake of breath, a groan of frustration, a moan bred of relentless intrigue. She felt them all.
And when he sighed. Deeply and soundly, the very hum of it made her breath catch. Her pulse. Beat. Her vision. Fray. Her longing. Endless.
And he would never know.
There was something about the scent of her skin, clean and sweet like the first bloom of freesias in spring. It drew him in, drew him close so that he longed most fervently to feel its texture. To rub away the stains of ink that constantly marred its milky whiteness.
But she could never know.
There was something about the way her lips would curl in triumph, in righteous vindication whenever she was right. They were red. Swollen. It was the persistent rubbing of her tongue against their pillowed shape. An unconscious gesture, which made his breath catch and his legs quake.
But she could never know.
There was something about the way she smiled at her friends, at him, unlikeliest of them all, which made him want to keep her. Possess her. Hold her warm and safe and separate from the world. Some days he thought he would.
And when she looked at him, it caused his heart to splutter; it made the blood sing in his veins. Her gaze would rise and fall around him, through him, within him.
Could she somehow know?
There was something about the way he seemed to accidentally touched her arm when they were talking, the sizzling sensation of which seared the blood beneath her skin. His words said sorry but his eyes showed intent. They watched her: deep and clear and probing.
And she had never known.
There was something about the way he kissed her, lips warm and dizzying, which caused her throat to purr. When his breath tickled her swollen mouth, and his tongue curled in teasing, taunting strokes; it made her knees buckle. Her heart was not her own.
And she had never known.
There was something about the way he took her: urgently and deep, then slow and sure and thorough, which made her spill his name. Again. Again. It fell from her lips in soft cries, desperate cries: cries that made her pray for nightfall and fear the morning light.
And when he held her snugly in the nook, heart to heart and skin to skin, it seemed to spell forever. A whispered oath, three promised words.
How had she never known?
-fin-