Intimate Expression

Grateful thanks to Rumple for his help.

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So you asked me what it was like. With that small smile hovering around your lips and those eyes sweeping my face, loath to miss even the smallest expression that crossed it. It was an innocent enough question. I could have asked you what you meant, even though I knew, but that would have just broken the spell. Instead, I lowered my gaze and considered....

In the scant minutes that remained of the time we had together, how could I answer you? How could I tell you with you looking at me so intimately, and that hotness creeping up my neck then tipping over ever so slowly into my face?

So I bought some time. Licking my lips with the tip of my tongue... uh-oh, mistake. The eyes focused on me, narrowed almost imperceptibly and that look I had come to recognize over the weekend appeared in the black depths. I moved back a bit and crossed my arms over my midriff, hugging myself. Some of the loneliness of that gesture must have communicated itself to you for you abruptly started fussing around with your bags because you couldn't do anything about leaving me and going back. You had to go. But now I wonder. Did you think I was being defensive and closed yourself up to me?

I put my hand on your arm, securing your attention and promised to e-mail you and answer the question. You smiled and nodded, then bent to give me a quick peck on the top of my head as the last announcement boomed over the speaker and you had to board.

And here it is, the answer.

You asked me what it was like. How can I answer you even with all the words and all the time in the world at my expense? How can I tell you, with you being miles away but your touch still imprinted on me, renewed with every brush of the fabric of my dress against my tender flesh? How do I begin?

At the beginning, I suppose. When I knew you were coming, I didn't know what we had or were going to share, would be so beautiful. I never knew I could feel so bereft and that my existence would be filled with snatches of memories from the two days we spent together. How can memories built in a couple of days stretch to fill in so many days, weeks? I never knew that was possible.

The sweet apprehension or the tense expectation cannot be put into words. It's enough to know I was in a trance from the moment you told me you were coming. Knots in my stomach turned into butterflies and then into a fluttering in my pulse and impulsive grins. I had come to accept them as precursors of how you would make me feel. But really, such naïveté that was. To think they could match in any way, what foolishness! To think I was prepared, absolute idiocy...

You can see I'm having difficulty in writing this. It's just so free and elusive that binding it into words is proving to be impossible. But I promised.

The first memory that stands out, though it is unfair to mark them in terms of chronology or importance, is the first time you took my hand into yours. I wonder if I noticed the touch then or am building it up now; but how would I be able to build it up if it hadn't even been stored somewhere in my subconscious?

Touch. That is the most vivid sensation I can think of when trying to describe the intimacy we shared. The roughness of your shirts or the crispiness of your jeans, tight against your thighs. Your stubbled cheek against my shoulder as you slept, with my fingers gently hovering over the nape of your neck, trying to familiarize themselves with parts of you. The weight of your leg thrown over mine and your warm breath trailing over my breast. The softness of your hair as I trailed my fingers through them or the hardness of your arms as you smiled down at me. It's as though my tactile senses, after a lifetime of numbness, had suddenly come alive and were striving to fill up the emptiness of years with every minute sensation. The soft, springy mattress and your firm body, the small, coarse hair on your abdomen against my lower stomach and the rasp of your sole as you rubbed your leg up mine, your hands on my waist and your tongue on my skin... I could go on and on and it would never be enough. And now, even after you've gone, your touch remains. In the tiny frissons that tremble up within me with certain movements, it remains.

The taste. I know this will amuse you as it will remind you of the way you teased my obvious enjoyment of the liberally butteredaloo paratha the morning we had breakfast in bed. Too sensual, you called it, with your soft chuckle, as my blushing face dipped under the covers. Well, yes, sensual it was, I suppose. Taste is one of the five senses after all. And if absolute abandonment of your feelings as the taste transports you to new heights is being sensual, well, it sure is. Your own acidic saltiness and our syrupy kisses haunt me. The explosion of different tastes in those two days was overwhelming.

The words... they still have the power to make my insides melt every time I relive your whispering them into my ears. The sounds... the rich laughter as it rumbled out of you, your whispery caresses and little moans of pleasure when I did things just right. The timbre of your voice that is now buried so deep within me that I just need a word to know you from others. Is that possible in only a weekend? It is. I know. I still hear you. I still hear those risqué suggestions and naughty words that you whispered to me. I hear your voice becoming heavy with need as your desire became too much and threatened to burn us. I remember the intensity in your voice as you requested my hand there, my lips just here and my back arched just so that I could fill your palm. I felt the need when you asked me to take you in my hands, my mouth, to engulf you and to take you in so that you could move against me, within me, until the pleasure-pain became too much. I remember your taking my name on a broken whisper at the height of ecstasy.

I need to tell you I loved watching you. The way you moved, in slow, supple movements. Unhurried, taking your time. The softness of your hair, the crinkling at the corner of your eyes, the indentation running down from your throat, down your firm chest to your navel... I can't stop the images. That one time you allowed me to look at your naked form while you lay with your eyes closed. I feasted my eyes upon your body, leaving lingering touches all over. And the way you looked at me. That particular glint in your eyes that I came to know so well. Remember the time when we had gone out to eat and I knew you wanted to go back just because you looked at me? Yes, I was embarrassed. Wasn't it too soon for that kind of intimate connection between us? But then, maybe what we have is something very special.

I've written so much. I've written it all, but still, perhaps I can never tell you completely how it was. I've told you about bits and pieces as I see them while I'm writing this, but what about all those times when totally different images, feelings and memories flood my senses? Can what I tell you ever be complete? I haven't yet told you about so many things... about how my hand felt in yours or about how your finger felt along my moist centre. We did so much in just a weekend, made so many memories and there's such exquisite detail in each one. Each one quite separate, yet blending into one another, overlapping, existing alone and at the same time together; flowing to form one weekend, or stringing along second by split second to be viewed in microscopic portions if I so choose. I could do this indefinitely, love, and surely never stop until I make myself stop.

So did I manage to answer your question? You know, I could have answered it with just an 'incredible' or an 'awesome', but that would just not be enough. I wonder if this is enough. Is it?

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Author's note: Votes, comments and feedback always appreciated. I like hearing from readers so please do write. Every email with a return address will receive a reply. :)