She loves the way his hand rests on the small of her back, a small sign of support on his part. She loves the way he allows her to hold his hand in public—a sign of unity and equality. She loves the way his fingers gently twirl her blonde curls to show affection.
She shivers when his hands hold hers against the headboard, bites her lips when she hears him rip her dress from her body, moans when his free hand both gently and roughly caresses her body.
She loves the feel of his hands on her—craves it, really—but it always stings too. He has this way of leaving invisible marks on her skin so that, long after he's left her bed, she can feel him lingering on her skin, burning and freezing in equal measure.
And then he's gentle again, wiping tears from her cheeks, placing kisses down her neck, holding her gently in his arms and she trembles because she knows what will soon follow.