“What is it?”
Our kiss broke as I reeled out my hand to cup his cheek. My head was tilted—I was trying hard to see the little things his eyes had hidden every time we started to lay down in our bed and drown ourselves in each other’s affection. He brushed away strands of my hair, then pecked my lower lip in a lazy-looking manner before shaking his head.
“Nothing.” His wall clock’s second-hand ticked louder than the usual. One, two, three, four seconds passed. The fifth was then muted by his sultry, yet raspy voice.
“It’s just… I always think of your body as a dead language.” He continued to land several kisses, creating a phantasmal path from my forehead, nose, lips, to my chin. I closed my eyes the moment he pulled me closer to his embrace that immediately dispersed the ticklish feeling in my gut. “I know something about you that anyone else don’t. You’re my mother tongue.”
All along, we both knew. There was a certain excitement in knowing that someone speaks of you as if you were a long forgotten ancient language, rediscovered, and relearned to be completely understood.