What I Love About Him

Ah, love.

It should be celebrated every single day because no day is promised. But I also understand the need to have a specific day to celebrate it in a special way, too.

Normally, I’m the eye-rolling, long-suffering person who’s simply waiting for February 15 so I can get chocolate at a discount. For the past few years, though, I’ve had a good reason to enjoy Valentine’s Day. I don’t need a specific date on the calendar to share my feelings about John Brownstone, but this is a perfect time of year for it.

What do I love about him? It’s easy to say everything but what does that really mean?

I love his sparkly blue eyes, especially when he smiles.

I love his beard and mustache, all salt and peppery.

I love his curly hair, even when he needs a haircut.

I love his bright smile, his real one – not the fake one he uses for photographs.

I love his laugh, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, the kiss of his lips.

I love his quiet Dominance and his fierce primal side, too.

I love the firmness of his grip, the gentleness of his touch, and the warmth that emanates from him at all times.

I love his support, his guidance, and his comfort.

I love his shoulder to cry on, his lap to cuddle in, and his knee to bend over.

I love the sound of his voice when he’s growling dirty things in my ear, soothing me at the end of a scene, or telling me about his day.

I love the muscles in his thighs and arms from years of working outside and years of riding his loud, rumbly motorcycle.

I love that he rides me with as much ease as he does the bike.

I love the gasp he makes when I kneel without provocation or warning.

I love the rumbly noise he makes when he sees my bare ass wiggling in the air demanding attention.

I love that he loves my boys enough to be hard on them and firm with them.

I love that he lets me sleep in on the weekends.

I love that he thanks me for the meals I cook and a clean house.

I love that he picks up after himself and cooks, too.

I love that he understands my need to write and work and that sometimes means we’re having cereal for dinner.

I love how he listens to my emotional ramblings and then finds a way to sooth and calm, even if it’s a sharp smack to bare skin.

I love that he smacks my ass in public and at home.

I love the tugs on my hair to get my attention.

I love the way he pinches my butt as we walk upstairs.

I love the sound of his voice when he says, “Cum for me, girl.”

I love that he has several names for me, but one is a secret, just between us.

I love that he is proud to call me his and proud to be mine.

I love that he is John Brownstone and Southern Sir. I love when he is not.

I love everything about that man, even the normal, typical stuff of relationships. The belches, farts, bathroom smells, dirty socks, oil-covered rags (but the bike is clean!), the muddy shoes, the plethora of stuff that a keeper of things collects.

I love him.

Yeah, I know, I run the risk of being dubbed “cute.” Whatever. It’s that time of year and there’s no better time to make a declaration of all that I love about him – and damn I know I left something out, I’m sure.