Velvet

She had a velvet coat. It was black, with a dark blue lining on the inside. It was also warm, so she would let me borrow it when it was cold in the city, and then I could wrap myself up in it. Then when we arrived back home I would lift it to my nose and inhale the scent of smoke and chocolate and sandalwood perfume and close my eyes. 

She had velvet hair. It was blacker than the night, and soft, even when she just woke up. She would often let me run my fingers through it, then proceed bury my face in it, feeling the ends tickling my skin. She would giggle and casually play with it, eyes gleaming. Sometimes I would take her hair tie out at home, and it would come out smoothly with no resistance, and then I would throw it on the side and bury my hands in dark locks. 

She had velvet skin. Dark and warm, it was comfier than any blanket. When I brushed my skin against hers I could feel every bump and ridge, every mole and spot and indentation, and each feather-light touch would feel like heaven.

She had velvet lips. They would fit against mine perfectly, more delicate than leaves and sometimes rougher than riptides. 

She had a velvet voice, warm with laughter always, unless you managed to get it to rise until it burned with anger. And when she was murmuring faint words against my ear, it was as strong and steady as a bonfire.

She was made of velvet, but unlike the cold, lifeless material, she pulsed and thrived, always in motion, a beating heart, a fire barely contained. And I was the one who was allowed to experience all this, to feel it all until I became a part of it too. But always, the contact would withdraw and she'd be so tantalizingly close, the memory of her fire sticking to my skin until we could next be together. She would be there again, and then the rest of the night would be spent in a velvet embrace, against velvet sheets, in her priceless presence and it would be bliss.