o be my husband. This... guy. This kind soul. What could I have possibly done to make God bless me in such abundance? I

and delicate, it seems to flow, and almost glides under my trembling touch. Just like it always had. The scars from his childhood catch the moonlight,

ough my hair. For a few seconds he concentrates on what he's do

all through the night, under the stars, in the meadow we've met at every day for the past eight years, and for a moment the heartache is gone. He continues to bury himself deeper into me w

o my forehead. I wrap my arms around his neck and he helps me to a sitting position. My body is sore in all the right places and I look at it, the evidence of our love making doesn't sho

of hours," I say. I don't know why, but I feel

ce is dead when he says, "Yay, Afghanistan here I come."

ftness in his eyes is ove

me back then, tenderly at first until the passion stifles, wrapping us in a war of lovers. I touch his face, brushing it softly with my fingers. He pulls back and kisses my cheek, my jawline, I feel his quick breath travelling down my neck, fingers digging into my hips. I smile. E

e to me,"

to blink his face is claiming the space between them. The space between my t

He lapses at me like a dehydrated man would to water. And I take every bit he dishes out greedily. This is it. That defining moment. And this is when I cry. The precise moment I realise that there is no going back for me. That Daniel is it. The sensation that I could only ever want h

er in winter, Christmas trees on Easter, a room full of ch

impatient to be released. The tension builds higher, ripples, inflames me.