He loves everything about her.

He loves how she frowns and her brows crease in
concentration when she knits socks, hats, scarves, sometimes
even gloves, to those she likes to call friends.

He loves the tiny beauty mark on the top of her left breast
and he loves the way her perfect mouth parts with a silent
sigh when he seeks that mark with his demonic tongue.

He loves the way she laughs, the way she tells him right
from wrong and loves the way she says his name, softy with
much care, need and attention to each letter and syllable

He loves her naked knees, but even more, her naked thighs.
He loves it when she pleads with him, no matter what the
reason is.

He loves her love for books and loves her dark brown eyes.
He loves her middle name and the way it sounds when he
whispers it tenderly in her heated ear.

He loves the way her body moves against him when he caresses
her. He loves her moans, her groans, her growls...

He loves everything about her, head to toe; he loves her
nose and every inner organ. He loves the way she says
"Hello" and "Afternoon" and all the other words that come
into her ever-working mind.

He loves the way she loves him; hotly, passionately and
desperately. He loves the way she reads his thoughts, the
way she knows just what he wants and what he needs.

He loves her feet, her hands, he loves her womb. And when
she falls asleep he loves her eyelashes as they flicker
close.

He loves her and when they ask: "What is it that you love
most?"
He shrugs, hands in pockets, smiles sheepishly and says:

"I love everything about her..."