Almost silent. Even with my mouth covering his, so that I capture his breath and muffle his voice, still he makes sounds. Little moans, quiet sobs, a word or two. Please. Yes. More. The only words my mouth allows him.

This way, I am able to concentrate more on learning about his body. The feel of his hair in my hand, my fingers pressed to his skull, holding him in place. The taste of his mouth, hot and moist, unexpectedly soft. I take it all, as is my right, having captured it. I savor his lips, capture his tongue, kissing him deeply and thoroughly and demanding control of him, inside and out. Whatever resistance he might have made is gone, and it was mostly surprise. He never expected me to move on him, to interrupt him in the middle of some mindless ramble and steal him away into this intoxicating sensual place we stand in. Him there, under my hands, his eyes -- beautiful eyes -- closed in bliss; me, holding him -- possessing him --

He begins to fall, hanging onto me grimly, but never letting go of my lips, and I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt, the pressure of his legs against mine. There are so many things I want to do in that moment; take him against the wall, brand him with the signet of my touch, say the kinds of things that lovers say -- instead, I murmur his name against his hot, swollen mouth, my own voice dry and unexpectedly hoarse.

"Duo."

I am there, in his eyes, when he opens them.