When I close my eyes I can see her lying there, smooth curvatures of her body, her skin wrapped in alabastrine satin. How can any man take for granted the pleasure of a woman's existence at this level? How does a man move in haste when offered this rarity? This incredible meld of art and physics that churns through my mind deserves to be savored like an epicurean feast. I want to examine her, like a masterpiece and feel the intoxication each time I grasp a faint scent of her perfume.

I want to slowly run my finger over the brim of her ear, wondering if roman sculptors see what I see, feel what I feel. I want to explore every beauty mark on her body and imagine one after another was freshly painted by the hands of an artisan, details on fine porcelain, still wet to the touch, so that I can gently blow on each before consuming with my lips.... thus, moving to the next, just to repeat again.

I want to spread her hair across the pillow and marvel while each caramel strand filters through my fingers, pretending she is a princess and I am her valet. I want to take each one of her fingers and caress them individually, devour them separately, sending lust through her veins. I want to study her hands and wonder how many keys of a piano she touched or how many ornaments she's crafted.

I want to sense my amazement when the heat from her sensuality warms my lips as they glide the length of her body. I want to straddle her, restrain her playfully, touch my lips to hers slightly, without motion, until I feel her nails dig into me demanding more. I want to know what she feels before I give her what she desires!

She wonders if passion is gone, if it has a pulse strictly in the pages of a novel or can exist for real. If his words alone move her, then has he not already made love to her? And if he expects nothing in return other than to see the pleasure in her eyes, has he not received a gift from her just as priceless?