She likes the way he looks in "normal" clothes. She's used to seeing him in collared shirts and ties, slacks all pretty much black or brown or khaki. She likes how he wiggles his toes in sandals, the way he tugs at t-shirt collars.
She likes that when he stretches his shirt shows off a little stretch of soft skin, pale and taut, between the hem and the waistband of his shorts. (Shorts! He has girly calves, but he always denies it. She threatens to shave his legs.)
Mostly, though, she likes the sight of the length of him stretched out behind her on the couch as they nod off while watching crappy movies on TNT.
sound
He likes his iPod, she's noticed. He hasn't cracked it out in a while
She loves his soundtracks, though. All sorts of wordless arrangements evocative of long scopes of cinema, of far-off places like France or Africa or China.
She takes an earbud away from him and presses it to her ear, closing her eyes and sighing.
"Music hog." His voice vibrates through his chest and into hers and she finds herself smiling.
"What?" He asks, catching her expression.
"Nothing," she replies, and covers his hand on the device.
touch
It's so easy to lace his fingers with hers. His hands are so much bigger than hers (she knows, she's compared) but somehow either hers are bigger or his are smaller when they twine, because everything fits, and she likes that.
She presses soft charcoal between her fingers and closes her eyes. Line, line, shadow, curve, and quietly there appears two hands touching, almost holding but not quite.
She feels him behind her before his arms encircle her waist and he rests his chin on the crown of her head. "Whatcha working on?"
The charcoal drops into the dish with a click and her hands come to clasp around his neck. "Something for my next art show. You coming this time?"
He nods vigorously. "Duh. Unless you don't want me--" He catches the smile on her face. (She does that more, now. Smiling. It's strange for her, but she likes it.)
"I'm thinking of calling it 'Honesty'."
smell
He smells like skin and warmth and sweat and cologne and something strikingly him. A spicy undertone, warm and inviting. It reminds her of days spent pranking Dwight, him bent over the desk in too-close proximity.
She reaches up and touches his collarbone lightly, tracing the line (the line, the shadow, the curve, the depth) it makes in his skin before pressing her face against the planes of his chest and breathes.
Her skin smells like him, that same strikingly-Jim smell. It's like a blanket, comforting and warm, and she snuggles closer and sighs.
His hand, large and broad, comes up to rest on the dip of her waist, his chin touching the top of her head.
taste
To her, he tastes perfect.
Mint and wine, grilled cheese and night air, summertime and sunshine and memories. (Not all at once, of course.) It'll linger on her tongue after he kisses her, haunt her like the aftertaste of chocolate. It leaves her craving and wanting and needing him in a way she's never expected.
She likes it. She likes being able to kiss him when she wants to, likes the freedom that comes with that, to hold his hand and taste him again and again and again.
She never tires of it.
