Enamoured.

Delia watched completely entranced as his beauty dismantled before her.  If there was ever such a thing as love it it was somewhere in the depths of those radiant, iridescent blue orbs that were Gaspard's eyes.  When he spoke, the concept of time became irrelevant, frivolous even, as his full pink lips perfected every nuance of every French word that graced his tongue.  His lips yielded the most romantic, most melodic rendition of language adding effortlessly to the surreal illusion he crafted.  His lustrous brown hair slowly swindled onto his fair visage.  And with one fluid gesture, every movement calculated, and deliberate, and perfect, he removed the distraction from his angelic countenance.  But only to recover those blue orbs, piercing her soul, lulling her into consciousness.  He was expecting something from her, she knew it.  She had hung upon every syllable of every word of his lovely speech, and yet somehow she had forgotten it all.  She must have lost it somewhere in those eyes... She felt herself surrender every inch of every fiber of her being into those hypnotic orbs ad she was consumed by an inundating affinity for his flawlessness.