Lips

Their silence called to him, and his focus narrowed. Concentrated.

Her lips.

Glistening, silvery. Lips that understood wordless comfort. A shiver, and he imagined those lips grazing across his skin. He could feel them forming a seal around his earlobe and tugging gently. Her tongue gliding along the secret tunnels of his hearing. The tingling traveled down to his toes.

Cooing. Her lips nibbling at the nape of his neck, cosseting, like a kitten snuggles. Tickling. Whispers barely brushing against his ears. Her lips formed each syllable of his name beautifully, slowly, precisely and privately. They studied his throat by Braille.

Teasing. Tempting. There had been those who tried to pry open the chambers of his heart, only to discover the key was in his possession. He was his own heart's host; it was his prerogative to welcome a visitor. And how welcome her lips would be, feathering across his chest.

He did not break his gaze; after intense study, he believed that their lips would fit together so naturally that practice would not be necessary. That they would practice anyway, practicing perfection. Her lips would hum across his shoulders and his whole body would thrumm, vibrating in tune to hers.

He could count her pulse through the touch of those pink pillowy lips, quite distinguished from any intellectual process. Her Lips gamboled down the path of his spine, merrily enticing his every nerve to sing and

"So, Mr. Kuryakin, kindly give Miss Barclay your analysis of the situation," Waverly directed.

finis. Alas.