Caramel was the same in English and French, but he thought it in French, the deeper vowels and the rise and fall of the word that was sweet and thick, a mouthful of buttery richness that flowed in sating, ample curves beneath his tongue, his hands. It was an indulgence.

Need was English, but such base things went back to the mother tongue, and there was something about the word that grasped and keened, that carried the same sound as please and easy at its core. It moaned.

Saeta was Latin, supposedly the language of scholarship, but it sounded exotic and dusky, the only word for the jet-black silk cascading down her back, twisting in his fingers, falling over her face so that only a single khol-rimmed eye smoldered at him from beneath. It whispered, it tossed, soft as down and luxurious as cashmere.

Eao was Greek, barely a word, a collection of sounds spoken low and deep in the throat, something you could still utter when everything else was too much, when you were lost in the taste of salt and the thrum of your own pulse and your skin had taken on a mind of its own and your mind had stepped back to allow your body to take over everything. It was abandon.

Velours was French, and it was soft enough, delicate enough to capture the incredible texture, yet rich enough to have substance and weight, the only word that fit what he cupped in his hands, what he skimmed against his lips, what pressed against his chest with every gasp and thrust. It breathed.

Aisthisi was Greek, and it stuttered over a broken breath, the shiver up his spine, the gooseflesh down his arms, the tightness of his skin that suddenly registered everything as if it had never before known that it was meant to feel.

Fuck was raw Anglo-Saxon, a word so old that no one knew where it had really come from, though everyone had their own ideas for something so primal, something that pounded on the instincts deeper than all language and pulled a boy and a girl into a dark nook while their elders chose how they would die, tearing at clothes and groping at flesh and casting aside weeks and months of careful flirting and subtle innuendo in a terror so pure it had to be ground out in something even more base. It was the word for all the sounds that had no words of their own, for the whimpers, the cries, the things muffled against shoulders and hands and thighs because they only had minutes, there might not be a tomorrow, and then it was pulling together clothing and smoothing hair and hurrying back as if nothing had happened, but something had, something more than a frantic coupling that made perfect sense despite making none at all.

Terry's eyes said he knew, but there was no resentment there, even though he was an officer and couldn't step away, no matter how briefly. One eyebrow raised, and though he said nothing, his voice came inside Michael's head in loving familiarity. What was that all about?

His reply was a smile and a single unspoken word. Vidi.