Title: What Are Words?
Author: Susan Green
Pairing: Weaver/Lewis (although, as my beta pointed out, you can't really tell it's Lewis in the story; she just happens to be who I had in my twisted mind)
Category: PWP, established relationship
WHAT ARE WORDS?
It’s not something we do every day, or even all that frequently. By its very nature it requires relaxation and uninterrupted time, neither of which is something we usually get a lot of. But when there is time, when both of us are calm and in a good space, she will make the suggestion, and my physical reaction to her words never ceases to amaze me.
I was curled up on the couch after dinner, pretending to read a magazine but really just sort of drifting in the pleasant knowledge that I don’t have another shift until Thursday, when Kerry emerged from the kitchen and wordlessly began to rub my shoulders.
“Mmmm,” I murmured. “I’ll give you five years to stop that.”
She chuckled. “Hedonist.”
After a few minutes she leaned down over me, close enough to brush her lips against my ear, and whispered, “You feel pretty relaxed tonight.”
My heartbeat immediately sped up, and suddenly I was hyperaware of every place she touched me. “I am.”
The whispery voice and warm breath came again. “Feeling…open?”
I know she heard my breath catch; I picked up on the satisfied little sound she made. “Yes.” And it was true. After almost a year, my body knows exactly what it has to look forward to when she gets into one of these moods, and its response can be overwhelming. Something shifted deep in my belly, and I felt instantly hot and wet and, yes, open.
“Give me a few minutes,” she puffed into my ear, “then come up.”
It’s a damn long few minutes. When I can’t take it anymore I push myself off the sofa and head upstairs.
For someone who seems so straitlaced and…well, uptight…most of the time, Kerry has an extremely well-developed sense of the erotic. Or, more simply put, she’s a tease. Looking back over the evening, I realize she’d had this up her sleeve all along. From the moment I came in the front door, she’s been on a campaign to relax me as completely as humanly possible—the dinner, the wine, the “I’ll get this dishes, you just have a seat,” the shoulder rub, all of it.
The bedroom, when I reach it, is more of the same. Scented candles—vanilla,
which she knows is my favorite—decorate most of the horizontal surfaces
and bathe the room in soft light. The music she has on is soft without
sleepy, a soothing piano-centered instrumental. The shades are drawn, blocking the harsh glare of the street lights from entering our quiet nest.
Kerry herself is lounging in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb. I don’t have to ask to know she’s not wearing anything under that bathrobe, and the look in her eyes is positively predatory.
“Been waiting long?” I tease, finding my voice. Two can play at this game.
“All day,” she answers, and I am reminded that she is a master of the game. “Come here.” Her tone is far removed from the Chief-of-Emergency-Medicine voice I hear every day at work, but it is no less commanding for its gentleness. I let her undress me, standing at the foot of the bed and swaying slightly, savoring the feel of her hands on my skin. She takes her time, trailing her fingertips over every newly-exposed inch of me as she slowly peels away the layers of clothing that still separate us. “Lie down,” she murmurs when she is finished, and again it is not a request.
I stretch out facedown on the bed and fold my arms underneath my head, letting myself sink into the mattress. Apparently I’m in for the full treatment tonight, and my body is already tingling. I love her in this mood. I love how gentle, how tender, how caring she still is with me, even when she knows she owns me body and soul. I love this anticipation.
The soft, distinctive sound of her robe slipping to the floor warns me a second before she joins me on the bed and stretches her small body along the length of mine, straddling my hips with her legs and propping her weight on her hands. I can’t help arching upward into her when her breasts brush my back. “Mm-mmm,” she murmurs in her most seductive tone. “I’m driving.”
I nod my understanding, and she begins a slow, torturously erotic assault on my senses. One of the first things she discovered about me in bed was how much I love to have the back of my neck bitten. Not just nibbled a little, but really bitten—almost or just barely hard enough to draw blood. But of course, since she knows that’s what I want, she doesn’t give it to me immediately. Instead she brushes my hair up out of her way and begins working her way down from the nape of my neck with soft, nibbling kisses.
Kerry has an excellent sense of rhythm. She’s only touching me with her lips and teeth and tongue, but already my hips are rocking with her. The pattern she sets is maddeningly slow. A brushing kiss, a soft nip, a gentle suckle, then a washing swipe of her tongue, repeated over and over down the length of my spine, moving half an inch at a time. By the time she reaches the small of my back I can barely keep myself from writhing.
Abruptly her mouth leaves me, and I can’t hold back a moan. “Kerry, please…”
“Patience,” comes the soft answer as she leans forward over me, reaching for the nightstand.
Kerry is not a big fan of sex toys. She says she doesn’t see the point of introducing foreign objects when it’s so much more satisfying to be creative with what you’ve got. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that what Kerry’s got are two of the most talented hands on the planet. Lucky me. Two things she does believe in, though, are massage oil and lube, both in such copious quantities that our linens probably keep Tide in business.
It’s the oil she’s reaching for now, pulling the bottle out of the warming bowl and slowly drizzling my hypersensitized back with liquid heat. I know I’m moaning and don’t really care. There’s nothing inherently erotic about the massage she proceeds to give me except that it’s her and those amazing hands touching me. And of course that I’m intimately familiar with the details of Where-we-go-from-here. I know why she needs me relaxed. I am wet with the knowledge.
On the final upstroke of the deep rubdown, she lets her hands slide off my arms to brace on the mattress, and she leans forward and finally, without warning, bites me on the neck. I come. I always come when she does that, and yet somehow it always surprises me. There’s this voice in my head that says, She hasn’t even touched me yet…I can’t be…oh, God…
She’s lying stretched out along my back when my shudders stop. “Jesus, Kerry…”
I feel rather than hear her laughter. “You’re easy, you know that?”
“Only for you.”
That wins me a gentle full-body hug before she rolls off me. “Roll over.”
I do, and as I arch into a stretch before settling down on my back, our eyes meet. She has such incredible eyes. When she’s angry, they can all but melt steel. When she’s hurting, they can close off and wall out the world. And when she’s with me like this, they are truly windows to her soul. “I love you,” I whisper. I have no choice. I have to say it. The words well up and out of me without my conscious permission. Kerry knows this.
“I love you, too, baby.” She kisses me softly for a moment, then rolls to straddle me again. “Talk to me,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers across my chest and down over my belly. “Tell me what you want.” She’s like a goddess kneeling there over me, eyes deep and dark with passion, skin glowing in the soft candlelight, hair falling slightly into her face, giving her a vulnerable look even in her current position of power.
“Everything you want to give me,” I answer, arching helplessly into that touch.
Her lips curve into a dangerous smile. “Everything?”
She rewards me with another kiss. “Close your eyes.”
I do, and instantly my other senses pick up the slack. I can hear her breathing, light and fast in her arousal, and I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. When she captures my lips I can taste the tang of the wine from earlier mingled with the familiar flavor that is hers alone. And when her hands begin to explore the hollows of my collarbones and the plane of my upper chest, I can feel every detail of the way she touches me—now the fingernails, now the tips of her fingers, now the back of her hand.
By the time her fingers reach my breasts I’m arching into her again, desperate for some kind of friction to take the edge off. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t oblige; I’d be almost disappointed if she did. A hot mouth envelops my nipple, and I call her name, bringing my hands down to tangle in her hair. She doesn’t like to be tugged on or directed, but she does like to be touched. And talked to. “Kerry…Kerry…yes…” Her hand trails down my body at last, and I buck against her in earnest. “Please…please…Kerry…”
“Mmmm,” she purrs in my ear, and her voice sears me like fire. “I love how wet you are for me. What do you want?”
“You,” I gasp as she finds my clit and brushes it with slick fingertips.
“You’ve got me, baby. What do you want?”
“Inside,” I manage, straining toward her.
Oh, God, Kerry, don’t torture me like this! “Your hand.”
“I thought so,” she whispers…and her hand withdraws.
My eyes fly open in spite of my best efforts, and I am nearly undone by the sight of her leaned up over me once again, reaching this time for the lube. I doubt we really need it tonight—I am already running with wetness—but there is something powerfully erotic about watching Kerry coat her hand with it. She sits back with the bottle and smiles down at me, that predatory look returned in full force.
“Close your eyes again, baby.”
A moment later her lube-slick fingers find my clit again, and she quickly sets up a rhythm she knows will take me over the edge. The teasing has ended, and I rock shamelessly against her hand, knowing she knows what she’s doing, trusting her to finish the job so that she can begin it again. When I am impossibly close to release, every muscle in my body trembling and straining with the nearness of it, her fingers are abruptly replaced by her mouth, and she drives two fingers deep inside me to give me something to contract around, and I come apart.
She coaxes every ounce of response I’m capable of out of me, and only
when I am helplessly limp and sated beneath her, my breathing slowly gearing
down from panting to something resembling normal, does she begin swirling
fingers purposefully inside me. Even if I felt like closing around her, I couldn’t—the spasms of my orgasm have left me totally spent. I struggle back toward consciousness enough to open my eyes and watch her.
The first time she ever did this with me I told her I was afraid, and she swore to me she’d never hurt me. She never has. Her concentration while she’s entering me is absolute. My body is naturally tight, and sometimes it rebels at the entrance of even her small hand, but she always takes me through it. Tonight I am completely relaxed, loose and ready for her, but even now she leans forward over me, bracing her arm alongside my head, and talks to me, telling me how much she loves me, how much she needs me, what a gift my trust is to her.
Right this moment, our connection is complete. Our gazes are locked, her voice surrounds me, and she is bearing into me with slow, steady, even pressure. For all her tenderness, she is relentless. Once we’ve begun, she will not stop until we have what we both want. If I asked her to stop, she wouldn’t. We do not have a safeword. She offered, and I refused. I told her the truth—I’m in some sort of altered state when we do this, and I trust her more than I trust myself to know if it’s too much, if she’s hurting me, if we need to stop.
There is the briefest flash of something that might or might not be pain, and then she is inside me, and it is no less incredible now than it was that first time.
Abby asked me once, because she’s Abby and will ask me almost anything, whether I’d ever done this and what it felt like. I couldn’t answer her. What she wanted was a description of the physical feeling, I think, and that’s the least of what this is.
This is total intimacy. This is complete trust. This is me inviting the woman I love more than my own life to place a part of herself inside me, and in more than just the obvious sense. During this time we entrust ourselves entirely to one another’s care. How could I ever explain that?
Not that Kerry isn’t gifted at the physical part of this. She is. She turns her hand over inside me and twists her knuckles upward in a strong, slow rhythm, and I have an orgasm that goes on for miles. I’ve lost consciousness before from what she does to me while she’s inside me.
But she understands—because I have told her—that the coming, as beautiful and powerful as it is, isn’t the point. I told her after the first time that this is for her alone, that there is no one else I could ever allow this deeply into the private spaces of my soul. She cried.
She often cries. We both do. Nothing else can fully release the power of the emotion. Probably when I return to myself tonight Kerry will be lying on my chest with tears streaming down her cheeks. I will tug her closer to me, and we will burrow together and fall asleep in silence. After this, what are words?