He walked up the stairs on his way to bed. It had been another long day. As he entered the bedroom, he saw her, seated at the mirror, brushing her long dark hair. His breath caught in his throat, even after all this time the mere sight of her still left him dizzy. He watched for a few moments, with a slight grin on his face, before she looked up and their eyes met in the mirror. She smiled at him, and his grin remained. "What?" she asked. He slowly shook his head, the grin never leaving his lips. She rolled her eyes and went back to the brushing. He walked slowly across the room until he was behind her at the mirror. "Let me" he said. She closed her eyes, sighed, and shuddered. She loved it when he brushed her hair. He took the brush from her limp hand and began to run it through her hair. He knew she had been at it for some time, her hair was like silk.

He brushed for several minutes as she sat with her eyes closed and shivered occasionally. She opened her eyes and they met his in the mirror. His grin had grown wider. "What?" she asked, he slowly shook his head. She smiled herself. She was beginning to recognize this little game. They had played it before. She closed her eyes again and lost herself to the simple pleasure of the brush running through her hair, again and again, building a charge in her like static electricity. She felt herself growing warmer. He kept on for some time, his fatigue forgotten, no thoughts of the morning alarm intruding on his reverie or her feelings of contentment.

"Stand up" he tells her as he lays down her brush. Her hair shines in the dim light from the bedside lamp. She rises from her seat and he pushes it aside. She is wearing a nightgown, plain white cotton with spaghetti straps. It's one of her favorites. A vee of lace at the neckline offers a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage as she rises. He moves close behind her and his arms encircle her waist. He presses his face into her hair and inhales deeply, she can feel him tight against her. This is one of his favorite things; to hold her close, smell her hair, and luxuriate in her femininity. His hands leave her waist and slide up over her stomach. Caressing as he moves. He loves her little belly, she thinks it's a flaw, but he loves it because it's part of her. He loves all the little things she considers flaws. They don't detract from her beauty, they enhance it, make her more real, more attractive. He cares nothing for the plastic Barbie cover girl lookso popular in the media. He secretly believes those women are stamped out on an assembly line somewhere in Iowa, and shipped off to California and New York to lead shallow empty lives. He prefers a woman who has lived and loved and has the body to prove it.

His hands move back from her belly and slide up her sides, achingly slow. She feels goose bumps rise on her arms. He reaches the sides of her breasts and begins the slow trip back down to her hips. She feels her nipples stiffen, and feels flushed and hot. He knows all of her special places, all the things that drive her wild. As his hands slide over her hips he pauses for a moment, then continues downward. She feels a flutter in her stomach. She knows he just realized she's naked under her gown. His hands continue to slowly fall until he reaches her upper thighs, just above the hemline of her gown. There he pauses, and the suspense causes a delicious shiver to course through her. His hands begin the return journey up over her hips, only this time they press harder and the gown rises with them. She is breathing hard now, anxious for his hands to move faster, yet delighting in his sensuous pace. His hands and the gown finally rise above her hips, his eyes in the mirror are riveted to her. As the slow ascent begins to reveal her she feels him throb against her bottom, where he presses against her. She looks up to the mirror and sees his eyes have shifted to hers. The left side of his mouth is turned up in a half smile. "What?" she asks, again he slowly shakes his head. Her response is cut off as his hands move up her ribs, bringing another shudder. The hands and her gown continue their journey upward. As he reaches her breasts she raises her arms, to allow him to remove her now useless sleepwear. The appearance of her breasts in the mirror elicits a moan from him. So beautiful, firm, and full. Not large, not small, perfect... hers.

As he raises the gown over her head and upraised arms he pauses again. He absolutely loves this moment. Her face is covered by the white cotton, but the rest of her is exposed to his gaze. He can let all of his lust for her shine through his eyes, knowing she can't see him adds a thrill to this private vision. The pause is brief, she hardly notices, but to him it will last hours as he replays it in his head in the days and weeks to come. Finally the gown clears her head and travels up her arms revealing again her beautiful face. The face he sees as he awakes, and again every night when he closes his eyes. His sun and his moon, the face of his love. He reverently drops the gown on the chair he pushed aside, and his hands return to her still upraised arms to begin the journey back down. It's the first time he has touched her bare skin since he entered the room, and it's texture brings a shiver to his body. Her skin is like silk, and his rough hands bring back her goosebumps. She loves the masculine feel of his hands on her. So sure, and strong, yet so gentle. His hands slide down to her breasts and he cups them tenderly. Tonight is about sweet and slow, hard and fast will be some other time. His hands move up and stroke her nipples and they grow even harder. As hard as he is, still pressing into her from behind. After moments of this feather touch his hands leave her breasts and travel down her stomach. They both know the destination, and neither can wait for his hands to get there, but he maintains the pace, drawing out the anticipation. After what seems like days to them both, finally his hands have reached her most special place. He slides his fingers through the fine hair there, still slowly moving down, teasing them both. Finally he touches her there. Where she's been aching to be touched. He finds her open and wet, the slow seduction has done it's job. He caresses her, gently, not to bring her closer, but to further arouse her. To her it feels like butterflies, and she briefly wishes to be touched more firmly, to find the release of the passion building so steadily in her. She pushes the thought away. Patience is it's own reward, when the release comes it will be that much sweeter for having been delayed. She can't wait any longer, she turns in his arms, breaking the contact with his feather light fingers.