He's running his hands over and over the smooth, exposed flesh before him. It feels so soft, so... there were really no words, not even the cliches sounded right. Not silk, silk was artificially smooth and not nearly as pliant as the giving expanse beneath his fingertips. Not velvet, not nearly the depth and direction of that soft pile; his skin was all surface and nothing you could catch and sink your fingertips into. Just.. skin. It feels like nothing else, really, and here he is with handfuls of it, feeling it slide under his palms, against his own bare skin. Feeling the sweat start to prickle and dampen it as the soft susurration of his lover's breathing changes, picks up pace and takes on a harsher, ragged edge.

The catch-slide of his fingers over the slowly slickening skin makes his own breath quicken. He hadn't expected this tonight, hadn't known that in this hazy too-late dimness they could find this thing that had been eluding him. This passion, not the bright sparkling fire it was the first or second or seventh time, but a slow burn that built from the inside out and left him wanting to stay like this forever; wanting to skip straight to having his lover inside him. Wanting to just be more of what they are at this very moment.

Memory unfolds like night-blooming jasmine, filling the air with sweetness as he suddenly understands what he'd forgotten. Remembers why they used to do this every chance they got, spend every second of every day teasing and touching and oh god, tasting. His tongue flicks out like furtive mouse, gathering droplets of sweat and retreating back into the refuge of his mouth before he even knows what's happened. Feels the taste bursting on his tongue, that salt tang that he'd been addicted to for weeks. Months.

His tongue goes out again and he's more like a cat this time, licking broad, quick strokes. Tasting the changes as he maps all the places of his lover's body. Bitterness of cologne at the neck. Musky and dark near the armpits. Bright coppery tang of the nipples, and a bonus moan from the darkness above him. Suddenly he wants to taste it all, and he's flipping them over effortlessly. Licking his way more purposefully down the taut, fluttering planes of chest and stomach. Burying his face in the juncture of thigh and groin, suckling at the petal-soft skin there. Flower petals were the closest he'd ever come to finding something that felt like skin. They crumpled and grew damp, but tore far too easily. Real skin, live skin like the feast beneath him was resilient. He left a love-bite at the spot he'd been suckling as proof.

Licking balls, now, and there was just no way to say that that didn't sound dirty. Obscene. He feels his face distorting as he works them both together into his wide, generous mouth. Careful with his teeth, tongue caressing as he applies just the tiniest bit of suction. Just enough to make the moaning turn to pleas. The sound reaches his ears like he's underwater; he's so busy concentrating on touch and taste and smell that in those other two senses, sight and hearing, have been relegated to second best.

Sometimes he wonders if everyone is like this during sex. Even the most distracting moments filled with endless thought. He's heard about mind-blowing sex, heard that guys are supposed to think of nothing but. That their brains are supposed to just short out as soon as their cocks come into play, but not him. He's constantly thinking of things, remembering and fantasizing and wondering and even sometimes worrying. Planning his next move, making sure his caresses are neither too soft nor too rough, trying to force himself to stop thinking for five seconds and just feel.

His lover's balls are almost flavorless by now, the spit-slick surface of them washed of sweat and musk, and he wants to move on. Up, down, just to somewhere different. He realizes he's probably being a tease but he can't seem to stop himself from this exploration as he licks his way down the strong, lean thigh. Finds the softness at the back of his lover's knee and spends some time there licking away the gathered flavors. Farther down still, to suck at the Achilles tendon, nibble under the sensitive anklebones.

A new flavor here, mustier but faint. His lover would never present himself as less than pristine, so there's none of the day's accumulated dirt, and sometimes he misses that opportunity. Suddenly his mind is planning an ambush, later, to try and lick all those dirty places clean before they can be washed with boring soap and water. As much to bring his own brain back to the present as anything else, he bites not-gently on the arch of the foot. Nibbles an apology there, and moves to suck on the wriggling toes. Sharp little toenails against the roof of his mouth, and he decides to save the test of just how many he can get in at once for another day.

It's just good to know that there's something to look forward to. He switches feet, starting this time with toes too startled to resist, and it's like his ears pop and suddenly the sound is there, all around him. His lover's harsh breathing, panting, begging. Neither of them has been this hot in a long time, though, and he's not going to let a little thing like begging get in the way of this. Whatever this is.

Cat-licks to the underside of the foot. Nibbles to the top, a bite right exactly between the two ankle bones. More bites travelling up the shin to suck on the huge knob of his kneecap, then folding the leg carefully so he can fuck the soft folds of the knee-pit with his tongue. A single long lick up the back of the thigh as he rolls his lover over and begins worshipping that gorgeous ass. Taut skin, high white globes that glow a little in the not-light coming in from the windows.

Clean, clean, clean and then suddenly not quite so clean as he finds the small of his lover's back where the sweat has gathered, pooled and waited for him to find it. Salty-sweet and the tang and musk that grows more and more pronounced as he makes his way down the cleft and finally finds the target that he realizes he'd been really going for all along. Impossibly smooth skin everywhere but here, and his tongue loves the rough texture of the pucker.

The startling heat at the center is beckoning him, trying to draw him in prematurely, but he resists and instead uses his neglected hands to spread those cheeks wide and lick everything clean until he's once again left with nothing but his own spit except for that tantalizing nexus. More teasing circles, cat-licks over the pucker and he really can't get enough of the texture but after a moment he plunges his tongue inside anyway.

Wrinkles giving way to silky smoothness and a taste he can't even begin to describe. His mind tells him that he should think this is gross, but it's his lover's body and he just can't reconcile the two, so instead he opens his ears to those pleading moans and concentrates on getting as much of his tongue inside as he possibly can. He's always surprised at how tiring this is, but god it's always worth it even though he'll barely be able to talk afterwards without tripping over the instrument that's bringing his lover such pleasure now.

Seemingly endless time when his tongue thrusts and thrusts, and his hands discover they aren't needed where they are anymore and go exploring without him. Back to channeling that skin-feeling straight to his brain and sound and sight and even taste and smell fade out until he's all about the touching, the twitch of his lover's asshole around his tongue, the feel of the rough ring as it touches his open lips, the skittering of his fingers over all the places he can reach.

He has a weird urge to just jack his lover off and go to sleep like this, tongue buried inside, but he knows it's impractical and hates himself for even thinking that word at a time like this. Instead he pulls out, licks around the hole a few more times for good measure and brings his own forgotten cock up to it. He knows his lover prefers lube, but sometimes you just have to go with the flow and he's surprised to find that at some point during all of this, that had been taken care of. Can't think of the last moment when his cock was within arm's reach of his lover, and just shrugs and goes with it.

Slides himself inside and feels the heat that he's been exploring, feels it so much more, so much hotter on his cock than with his mouth. Develops a weird urge to compare the normal skin temperature of his tongue with other places and shoves that thought aside ruthlessly. Instead occupies his brain trying to turn his lover over again, without losing that point of contact, and feels absurdly proud of himself when he manages to capture those lips in a kiss.

A wealth of textures here, and he's almost distracted from what his cock is doing by the feeling against his mouth. It's been really more of an oral adventure here anyway, and his brain is reluctant to let go of that and get on with the proceedings. Slow, languid thrusting and much more frantic kissing for another interminable time, and just when he thinks he might actually be getting the hang of this not-thinking thing, another idea pops into his head. Upon consideration, though, this isn't a bad idea, and it does work well with the whole oral theme of the evening.

It takes a lot of stretching on his part, and he's pretty sure this is actually the closest he's come to finding a physical limitation as he finally manages to just lick the head of the cock in his hand. Tongue-tip barely touching and he's trying so hard to stretch that little bit more, burying himself as deeply as he can in his lover's ass and god, yes, there. He's achieved the impossible-seeming position he'd seen on some porn site somewhere, and now all the sensation is coming back in a rush and he really hopes that his lover's somewhere close to coming because he's gone from 0 to 60 in about the time it took his brain to process yet another set of flavors and textures.

He sucks hard on the head, pumping his hips and his hand in time, and tries to get this too-much-thinking thing to work for him for once. But, as usual, once the time comes all his brain can do is comment on how wonderful the friction feels against his cock, on the slightly bitter edge to the taste on his tongue. The pulse of his lover's heartbeat in his hand, that turns fluidly into the pulse of come into his waiting mouth.

That wash of bittersweet ocean flavor, the texture like nothing else he's ever found; it's just enough, and he feels himself shattering. It's a whiteout effect that always makes him think of the scene transitions in movies and he comes to wondering why the tableau hasn't changed. He uncurls from the amazingly uncomfortable position to find that his eyes have finally adjusted to this darkness and he's got this glowing alabaster angel beneath him, giving him a look so full of love that his brain actually does disengage for long moments while he stares, then kisses, then stares some more.

A few minutes later he realizes he's going soft and the skin under his hands is cooling rapidly, and the real world crashes back in. But there's love now, they've found it again. He didn't know where it had been hiding these last few millennia, but right now he was just grateful it hadn't gone for good. Moonlight limned everything in a silvery glow, and cleanup seemed pretty overrated, so he wriggled them back under the blankets and curled himself around his sleepy lover, falling asleep to the feel of skin against skin.