Naked Without Touch

Velvet Nights

A sensual fiction story

The night poured itself over the city like melted ink—slow, thick, and silent. From the open window, the breeze carried the smell of summer rain and something else—something warm and sweet, like skin just kissed.

She stood by the balcony, one leg half-bent, a silk robe barely clinging to her shoulders. The moonlight played along her collarbone, outlining her like the first stroke of a master artist's brush.

He watched her from the bed. Not lustfully. Reverently. Like watching a prayer being whispered into the dark.

“Come here,” she said, not turning. Her voice was a hush, a velvet murmur. He obeyed without a word, walking to her as if gravity itself had changed its course and he was helpless to resist.

The First Touch

His fingers brushed the fabric of her robe, but it was her skin he was really seeking—skin that felt like candle wax and midnight. She turned slowly to face him. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, nothing existed—no cars outside, no ticking clocks, no space between breath and heart.

She placed a hand on his chest. His pulse betrayed him.

“You’re always so quiet,” she said, “but your body speaks volumes.”

“I’m listening to you,” he replied. “You haven’t stopped speaking since you looked at me.”

Her laugh was soft, but it curled around his senses. She pulled him closer by the waist, her nails grazing his back. Their lips met like old lovers reunited—no hurry, no fear, just memory and longing.

The Slow Burn

Their mouths moved in rhythm, in conversation without words. He tasted wine on her lips. She tasted his hunger. Her hands found his jaw, his shoulders, his spine. She explored him like a map of old roads she had once traveled barefoot.

He kissed her neck, her shoulders, the curve just beneath her ear. She gasped—not because of the touch, but because of the tenderness. So much of the world demanded urgency. But this... this was slow, sacred. The robe slipped.

So did the rest of the world.

Bodies in Poetry

The bed became a canvas, their limbs writing sonnets in sweat and sighs. Her back arched like a crescent moon as he moved across her like starlight. There were no screams. No rushed noises. Just the sound of breath meeting breath and the sheets whispering secrets.

Every inch of her, he memorized like scripture.

Every tremble, every sigh, she gave like a gift.

They were not just making love.

They were undoing each other—softly, skillfully, fully.

Afterglow

Later, she lay across his chest, tracing circles on his skin. The window remained open. The moon watched, patient and pale.

“Do you always make love like that?” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s art.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Only when the muse is real.” She closed her eyes. The night continued outside—cars moved, stars shifted, but here, in this little room, time had folded itself into a cocoon.

And inside that cocoon, two people breathed as one.

Written by:Hasan Alifa