Without Words

As the lift doors close, and the chime sounds, and his stomach -- already fluttery -- feels the pull of gravity, it suddenly strikes him: they haven't really said a word to each other yet.

The lift whisks him higher ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... before slowing, his brain still somewhat shocked by the realisation; he'll have to get over it quickly, as floor 9 and room 912 are approaching quickly, and he doesn't want to be some tongue-tied fool when he gets there.

The doors open, and he steps out.

* * *

Things had all started three days ago, as he and his colleagues had gathered from across the country at this plush hotel for one of those infernal team-building weekends. Since then they'd paintballed, roleplayed, white-water-rafted, problem-solved, survival-skilled and been forced to endure corporate singing sessions until they could take no more. Seventy-two hours of compulsory fun.

And every single game they'd played, or situation they'd been put in, she'd been on the opposite side. Smiling that slightly inscrutable smile. Deftly supplying the right points to the argument. Finding the right angle on a brainteaser. Splatting him from 30 yards at paintball; he'd smarted at that. But still, he couldn't help but be drawn to her.

Whether in a business suit for the most formal parts of the weekend, or a set of combat fatigues in the woods, she was clearly a gorgeous woman; buxom, curvy, exactly the things he thought a woman should be. Her eyes flashed dangerously at him; his first thought about her hair was to wonder what it would be like to run his fingers through it; his second thought was how it would move with her movements.

But the way the weekend had worked out, they'd not actually spoken a word to each other directly. When there had been breaks, whatever teams they were in had tended to separate; apparently the company didn't want them all to get too cosy, but to preserve some competitive spirit at all costs.

* * *

The carpet in the hall is plush, deadening the sound of his brogues as he lopes toward room 912. Somehow everything is very hyper-real, the colours brighter than they were just a minute ago in the foyer. He is suddenly conscious of his blood racing around his body, he can hear his heart thudding away, he is aware of how his clothes shift on his body as he walks.

910 ... 911 ... there it is. 912. It looks the same as all the other doors in this hotel. Unassuming. The same functional handle, the little green light next to the card reader.

He knocks.

* * *

It had been during the mock takeover negotiations that their eyes had locked over the table. The scenario involved billions of pounds and it all felt remarkably intense -- and then her eyes had met his. And held them. For what seemed like a very long time. He'd liked looking into her eyes.

And then she'd looked away again. But there seemed to be a hint of a smile. A hint that she was pleased at his regard.

The next day had been ... interesting. He'd taken part, played the game, but his eyes were drawn to hers more and more. He'd made sure he'd been well-turned out that morning, he always was, but this morning more than usual. And she'd stared back boldly at him; and then at the crucial moment she'd felled him with a single yellow pellet, a crack shot, and he'd felt -- what? -- a curious bittersweet mix. With an almost torrential undercurrent of desire.

And then at the end of the final day, as they'd stood and shook hands with each other, and swapped cards, before the next morning's planned departure, when they would scatter to their various parts of the country. He'd shaken her hand. And he'd taken her card. And they'd looked for just a second longer than necessary at each other.

* * *

And that had been just a couple of hours ago. He'd been in the bar, getting a drink. The sweet smell of the whisky in his nostrils -- and the feeling he just couldn't shake about her.

He'd opened his wallet, pulled out the card, reached for his Blackberry, intending to drop her an email, something that just let her know he was thinking of her, something innocent but not. And as he'd looked for her email address, he'd seen the handwritten message at the top of the card. Neat, well-formed.

"Room 912. After 9."

He'd looked at his watch. 9.25. And he'd finished his drink.

* * *

The door opens. He opens his mouth to say something.

But her eyes speak to him. And say, how he does not know, but he understands: no words.

He steps forward, takes her in his arms, marvels at how that feels, that first embrace, the first time imagination takes form. Their eyes lock again, but now the tension is physical, the sparks flying between them only too real, not imagined.

He kisses her, softly the first time, shifting his lips slightly then settling again, his hand moving up to realise his thought about what it would feel like; finding his wilder thoughts that it would feel like silk confirmed, it flowing between his fingers, his kiss growing harder as the sensation floods in.

She kisses back, her mouth gently opening, her tongue darting forth, catching his bottom lip between hers, feeling the heat building under her lips. The first whisper of a moan from her; an answering groan from him.

They do that strange dance towards the bed, not wanting to separate for an instant; his lips moving to her neck, that electrifying spot that sends arcs of pleasure shooting through her, the nerves suddenly blasted with an overload of sensory data.

They hit the bed together, collapsed onto it, still locked as one, her hands now moving to pull his tie away, his starting to roam over her breasts, wanting to feel their weight, feel them spill over his fingers. Their kisses growing hotter and deeper, tongues now dancing together.

Suddenly something breaks between them; they can't hold off. Hands become frantic, urgent. She rips at his shirt, he at her skirt; the language they are speaking now is one of need, of hunger.

Almost shockingly quickly, they are naked, hands moving swiftly; hers circling his cock, stroking, kneading, rubbing, moving to cup; his on her breasts, moving over her curvy stomach, down, finding her thighs opening for him, seeking her heat. Finding her slippery already, slick, bringing his fingers up to taste before going back down to skitter over her clit, her back arching as he does so.

She scoots down the bed; he kneels and she takes him in her mouth, looking up at him, those deep eyes communicating her desire -- still not a word spoken -- and from somewhere inside him a groan is unleashed that drives her to take him deeper, her tongue circling over the tip of his cock, her hand working his shaft. He basks in it, looks down at her through soft eyes that wonder at her.

Without quite knowing how it happened, their roles are reversed, and he is kissing up her thighs, feeling her excitement under his lips, before he buries his tongue in her cunt, hungry for the taste, wanting to feel her excitement build under his mouth. He breathes her in, wanting to be enveloped in her. There is only her; there is only him.

The urgency builds again, and she wants him inside her and he wants her around him, and his cock nudges between her thighs, then finds the spot and drives home and she is shockingly hot and wet, and he is hard as iron and filling her suddenly.

They move together, and still the only sounds that pass between them are those of breath and passion, deep growls and moans, whimpers and sighs. Nothing approximating words, but filled with a meaning that both of them understand, hardwired into their brains since the start of time.

Now there is little left but lust and fucking and hands clenching on each other, his arms stretched over hers, her legs around him, her cries louder as his strokes become faster, deeper, harder.

And then it is their bodies shouting their pleasure, her cunt contracting around him, his cock swelling and balls tightening; and throughout them the flood of sensation is too much, too much, there are no words for this anyway, it's when reality slip-slides away and there is nothing but pleasure.

Afterwards they lie together, their heartbeats the only sound, breathing slowing, and they fit together, his arm around her, hers on his chest, their movements signifying to each other that they just need companionship now.

There will be words. But not right now.