She speaks with her hands.
Long, elegant fingers - pulling, twisting, curling.
Soft and strong - an artist's hands; their uses unlimited.
Her hands clasped so intimately with my own - clenching and unclenching; she directs our motion.
Her back arches as I tighten my grip on her thighs and breath in her scent.
She tastes of honey and sunlight and something bitter that is so indefinably her, I never tire of it.
Her hands fist in the sheets and I am gone; yielding completely.
She tells me it's my lips.
She places kisses along my collar bone and trails them down towards my breast and stares up through her bangs to watch my lips.
She tells me there's a silence in my smile that contents her.
Parting my flesh her fingers etch truths into my skin. I am lost in the imagery of her words.
A chorus of sweet nonsense passes between us and I breath it in, allowing it to spur me towards completion.
I feel the harshness of her breath in my ribs and the trembling of her body as we ride out the waves.
She buries her face in my neck and smiles.
I am content, wrapped securely in the silence that creates her.
Our story, written in the sheets - tomorrows laundry.