He read me like he was reading a book, not just any book, but his favorite, leather-bound, first edition.

He turned my pages when he wanted to pause and enjoy himself -pondering my delights - he folded some corners back, and with his fingers, he smudged my ink.

He read me from cover to cover, really read me, and handled me with devotion.  He marked, or, rather, underlined where he ravaged me in those special places that took his breath away.

But the most beautiful thing was I was never left on a shelf; he carried me with him daily.