Michiru has the most beautiful hair I've ever seen in my entire life. It is soft, long down to the middle of her back, and wavy. It is aqua-blue, but she has hidden strands where the hair is darker. I love her hair. I love the way she flics it to the side when she is working on her paintings. I love the way she pulls it up into a ponytail when it is hot outside. I adore the way it sprawls out underneath her like a blue halo; how it looks like when I am above her. I love the way it touches my skin when she is on top of me, how it caresses my body when she kisses my lips, my neck, my chest, my stomach. I always get so excited when I see her looking at me with those cobalt eyes, with that mischievous grin. I always feel butterflies in my stomach when she moves to me while pulling her hair up.

Her hands are always soft, but I am obsessed with how her hair feels on me.

I am always enthralled when she talks to me and pushes a strand behind her ear. I am fascinated when she combs it after coming out of the shower.

It takes her a long time to make it look like the waves of the ocean, but I would wait a millennium to see those waves if it means I could gaze at her for only one second.

At night, after we make love after we are both tired and consumed by the fire of our passion, she always lays her head on my chest, and I always comb her head with my fingers. She loves that.

It has grown to be a ritual, our aftercare. I brush Michiru's hair with my hand; I untangle it, remembering how it became tangled moments ago.

When I am behind her, filling her, possessing her, she always wants me to pull on her hair, and I do. I can't deny her anything she asks. I thread my fingers through her mane, pul her scalp, and watch how she closes her eyes, parts her lips, and lets out a silent whimper of desire, of pleasure.

I love to have her at my fingertips.

I love running my hands through her aqua-blue mane as I hold her in place when she licks from my core. I love how she never pulls away, although, when we cannot control ourselves— when I can't control myself— I pull at her harshly. When I kiss her when I taste myself in my mouth, when her lips touch mine, I hold her gratingly. Yet, she has never told me to stop. She has never denied herself to me. We always give each other what the other asks.

I love this woman more than anything…

Sometimes, on Sunday mornings, after we shower and clean off the aftermath of our frenzy, she lets me comb her hair. I usually take that moment to pull her to my chest, to kiss her still damp nape, to take in the smell of her skin. She smells so good; her hair smells so good. She uses coconut and honey-based shampoos and conditioners; that, mixed with her natural scent, makes me want to take her again. To spread her underneath me, to have her grasp my short blonde hair…

But I don't.

Instead, I take pleasure in brushing her hair. I try to be careful, but I am anxious and nervous to pull too hard when untangling the knots. She never protests when I think I've pulled too hard.

No.

She always sighs in contentment, begging me to continue. I know this brings her pleasure, and I have decided that I will do anything she wants, especially if it makes her feel good.

After I am done combing her hair, she always turns to me with a sheepish smile. I sneer back, wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in.

I love Michiru. I love Michiru's hair, and I want nothing more than to see it sprawled on my pillow, again and again, every night, every day for as long as I live.