She loved . . .

She loved to tease him. Tasting him with her tongue.  She loved to leave a trail of saliva over his body, relishing in the shivers and goosebumps that were created as the cool air hit the heat of his skin.

She loved these moments of closeness and intimacy, ones that followed their wild and passionate times that they had shared only moments before.  She loved to kiss him gently. To kiss him where she had teased him, tormented him, beaten him. Hurt him.

She would stroke him tenderly,  as her lips gently kissed him, hands and lips gently soothing away the pain that had engulfed his body and marked his skin.  She loved to lavish his body with kisses, thanking his body with each kiss for the pain he had suffered for her.  She loved to kiss and wipe away his tears and his hurt.  Hurt and tears that she had brought to him, which fell for her.

She loved to touch him. Stroke him. Hold him. Taking in his taste and his scent, both of which were always embedded in her mind, in her heart, in her soul.  She loved to hear him sigh, to hear his breathing change as he regained some sense of normality.  She loved to hear the release from his body, releasing the tensions as it processes and sets free the pain and the torment that had permeated through to his depths.  She loved to watch him in that space, that moment. That depth. That darkness.  She loved to watch him. She loved him.