I lied. Don't hate me, okay? I'm going to start at your hair.

Long or short, brown, black, blonde; red, white, or blue, I adore running my hands through it. You know that moment, right when I'm in you and my breath catches and my legs tense and my hands curl into your hair and give an urgent pull? That's the least of it. When your eyes flit up to mine as your tongue unfurls along my shaft, I love to brush it from your face, just to keep watching you at work. When sweat cools on our bodies, our limbs tangled together, your hair's my blanket, my curtain, a soft brush on my chest or the prickle of shaved scalp resting on my shoulder. And it's you. And I love it.

Your eyes- hell, they're... I'm a sucker for eyes, you know I am. Locking them, glancing, when they flash and spark, flit and flutter closed just as my tongue sweeps up into where you're wet... a silly little joke shared in a quiet moment can make them bloom bright with laughter, or a playful remark to turn them to a rolling smolder.

It's silly, but... I sometimes try to fall asleep with the last thing I think about being what you look like when you look at me.

The less said about your lips, the better, for my sake- I still need to stand sometimes, you know. Kissable, soft, warm, lively in a smile and stealing the words from my own when you bite one, that look on your face. See, even thinking about it makes me want to give you that look of my own.

Down along the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, everything I like to kiss on my slow explorations. You might not be sculpted from marble or as soft as silk, but that matters. Yeah, it matters, because you're you, every line of your face something I'd like to burn into my brain and live forever in my mind. Your neck, with the line of your pulse and the way it's bared when I draw your head back, or the quiver of your throat in a moan...

Hnnnngggh.

That's all I've got to say about that.

Your shoulders, your back- As much as I like the way you look when we're gazing into each other's eyes, you're just as lovely from behind, from the way your shoulders work when you're beneath me to the smooth arch of your back when you sit up, silhouetted in the moonlight with a smile. Every inch between, of course, enough to kiss and massage, to caress and clutch onto when we ride out our passions, and the way you fit into my embrace when we hug damn near makes my heart smile.

I lied again, it does make my heart smile.

And, well, I probably ought to not neglect your breasts. I mean, every time your bra falls away, it's like a little extra dose of wow delivered straight to my heart. Big, small, slim or full, round or curved in the most delightful ways... I don't care the shape, the size, but you're going to feel my hands on them. Cupping, caressing, squeezing and bouncing with a playful grin on my lips. And my lips... well, you're going to feel those too, kissing and teasing and taking each tip in against my tongue, my teeth dancing lightly to tease out gasps and sighs... I know sometimes I suck. At describing how fun you are to love, mainly, but you'll get a more literal side of that, too.

Your stomach, your hips... Oh, fuck. Hips. Yeah... I'm gonna need to sit down just thinking about it. Grabbing them, lifting you into my lap, or just playfully spinning you into my arms is always nice, but just to see them sway when you walk, the curve of them, the way your stomach arcs back when your back does, the flutter of tension when I rest my cheeks against your thighs, well, that's pretty great too.

The whole toes-to-stomach region is perfect. Really. Your legs? Long, short, thick or slim, they're made for my hands, it seems, or my knees to nudge apart while I pin you lovingly to the bed. Maybe you're not fond of them, but I am, from the tips of your toes, from your calves, all the way up to the gorgeous melt into your hips. Enough to hold and love, to walk beside. To part and push back against your chest, to sling over my own and tangle in the afterglow.

Confession time: I'm an ass man, mostly, and you're enough to make anyone who's not reconsider. Sometimes when I see you, even when it's something stupid, bending over to pick up a dropped scrap of paper or fishing your glasses out from the couch, my hands just feel... empty. Aching to play, to squeeze and spread and cup, to let you feel the sting of my palm that only feels better when we're in the heat of things together, to pull each luscious cheek apart and sink in between. Yeah, I said it- your ass is perfect, inside and out. And lovely all the time- at work, in the shower, in bed...

Have I ever mentioned that I love the way you walk? Or talk? Or smile, or sing, even when it's bad, or dance or just that thing you do with your shoulders, that you swear isn't really a thing, when you're stressed. I love every inch of it.

There's a part of you I haven't really mentioned yet, isn't there? I've extolled your virtues and proclaimed my love and lust and fascination about, well, everything else. Lovely words, and all of them true, but some things... well, I'm about out of words.

I'll just have to make you feel, then, how I feel about you there.