He wants to hold her close; wants to feel the rise of her chest against his skin. He wants to press her to him, wants to whisper endearments in her ear and have her return them. Soft breath against his cheek. Breathing in himself, wants to draw her scent into him, intoxicating, beautiful scent, one like no other, one he'd–
He wants to kiss her lips. Lips red like blood pooling into flushed cheeks when she blushes. Delicious delicious shades of red. She tastes like nothing else in the world. There's no way to describe something so perfect except to use the words heaven, angels, and 'closer to God.' He wants to kiss her kiss her kiss her with his teeth only.
He loves the feel of her hands entwined through his hair. Her own is brown, dark dark brown, and thick. Full and lustrous and soft. He wants, everyday forever to twist the locks around his fingers, curls that lead to spirals that lead to coils to circles to loops of the most overpowering scent in the world. He wants to grab her by the hair and–
He wants to pull her near, lights like fire above, shadows like demons below, wants to dance with her in his arms. If the music keeps playing then so will he. It's filling, but better than the rhythm is the pulse in her veins. He can hear it loud above the sounds when he puts his head on her chest. He hears rattling lungs, swallowing throat, beating heart beating heart beating heart.
He wants too much from her. And most of it he can never have. The angels are watching.
He wants to feel her beneath him as he's kissing her, hands on her waist, stomach on stomach, lips on her neck. He wants to hear his name from her lips on the cusp of pleasure. He wants to make her his, one hundred percent, in so many ways. He wants to see her in her wedding dress, white, satin, ivory, whatever, red.
He wants to spend forever with her. He wants happiness. Her happiness. He wants to love her.
He wants to fucking tear her apart.