He’s six feet of shadow,

long dark hair,

eyes like midnight,

a gaze that burrows deep,

seeing all, saying little.

A beard dark as night,

hiding a grin that cuts—

naughty, knowing,

the kind that makes laughter

a sin worth confessing.

His hands—large, certain—

know the language of pressure,

of safety and surrender,

of bruised lips that beg for more,

of a throat encircled in trust.

He is a gentleman stitched with shadows,

a Daddy who claims with quiet desire,

turning me into his baby girl,

with kisses that linger like chains,

and a calm that storms in silence.

An observer of everything,

a listener who holds your words

as carefully as he holds your body.

He waits, he watches,

and when he moves—

you become his canvas,

painted in marks you’ll never forget.