He “fancies” himself a Monarch of Mayhem, quick to gloat over spectacular feats of mischief. Brandishing a pompous smirk and cutting wit, he’s made believers of them all. Not me. I’m immune to that spell or maybe I simply have x-ray eyes to what lies beneath his cloak of chaos. He knows I know, and I know he knows I know and he knows it. It excites him, makes him crave, makes him hard, makes him hurt. So he can proclaim himself Prince of the Perverse all he wants, that’s not what he is, not to me. I see more, even if he doesn't want me to.
He’s the mild smile melting away my concern, the polished accent with the smooth lyrical tone that sets me quivering and giggling and puddling like a naïve groupie.
He’s the birth of unabashed and inappropriate laughter, the curse of helpless cries weeping softly to deaf ears.
He’s the eternal flirt and charming contradiction, turning water into wine and toasting our frugality, all the while bathing me in extravagant jewels.
He’s the fashion victim pleading salvation one R. Lauren and J. Bartlett at a time.
He’s the giver of fun, indescribable beauty and unimaginable horror all at once.
He’s the blinding darkness begging light.
He’s the broad hands kneading my shoulders and the manicured nails clawing down my back.
He’s the warm nuzzle to my neck, tickling whiskers and nipping kisses.
He’s the thick, churning fingers coaxing passions to stir with his slightest impulse, impervious to opposition, intent only on satisfaction.
He’s the thrust, the grunt, the moan, the sigh. The uneven breath choked by release and the gasp of relief that follows.
He’s the sincerest apologies spoken with an unrepentant, wicked tongue.
He’s my heart, my mind, my business. But most of all… he is.