stl: snow patrol, 'run'
His movements drove her mad.
Every easy stroke, every whisper along her skin sent wave after wave of painfully beautiful electricity through her. She wrapped her smooth legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside. Flagrant emotions roiled within, coiling around her heart, squeezing until it was unbearable. Even after all this time, all of these years by his side, he was still able to pull from her forgotten words of love, gentle memories she had unintentionally cast aside in favor of the heat of the moment. She wanted to cry from the shame of her lapses in memory, the sheer ecstasy of having him so close, the feel of how he made love to her.
This is what no book, no movie in history could get quite right.
The masters of ink and film failed to encompass the delicate caramel-flavored kisses, the lazy, lusted eyes, the shivering, the internal wailing for more, harder, closer, now. They did no justice to the gasping, hungry mouths and deep red hatch marks across backs. It was hardly fair to blame them-- there were no words in any language that could compare, that could be translated from the moans, the trailing fingertip touches, the stares. None of their shortcomings mattered to her, however. He had been the one to teach her this foreign dialect while she was still a human, trembling under his tongue, his palm, him.
She had been deaf, but she knew this language the instant his lips touched hers.
And still, the recognition of his body on hers, in hers, thrilled her to the core. His fingers dug into her hips and she could feel the release building, not from her belly like the books would have you believe, but from every point along her skin, every muscle tensed with the sensation before her mind became consumed by it. She cried out in wordless prose.
He smiled down at her, understanding the poetry perfectly.