He was fantasy.
His eyes were a dark brown, almost black, circle set in contrast against a clear white pool. They shone bright with intelligence, danced with mischief, lowered lazily to strip me of flimsy clothes, and pierced sharply to read the depths of my heart.
His voice was caramel nuts and rum on a starstruck night; deep, dark, full, textured, layered, irresistible… breaking with delicious emotions. He was whispering something I could not hear because goosebumps on my skin had my mind foxed, as did the melting honey weakening my knees someplace south.
His gait was temptation. Strong, it hinted at determined ambition and, lazy, it incited yearnings for evening strolls with the wind kissing hair tousled. Both ways it was muscled, and told of paces to orgasmic heavens.
His lips twitched, a slight teasing movement that drew me forward. I was going to touch, taste, elicit a groan, and maybe fevered beseeching; but he was a wisp of imagined desires.
He was fantasy. The protagonist of the novel that had my heart thumping a racy beat.