His eyes focused on what his fingers were doing, caressing her neck and cheek, willing her to understand the depth of feeling he had for her. Wishing ...e could transfer to her how much he loved her. Change. What is love? he considers now. Loving another means being willing to change those things within and without ourselves, to accept love over pain. For Her he was willing to change. Poetry was the smoke-filled air that made his chest ache, velvet were the sheets that could not house enough. “Mine!” he swore as he released the death grip on my hair to flip me onto my back and yank my legs up so I was folded nearly double. His thrusts were full, hard, ruthless. I pushed to meet him, striving for the golden moment, the instant of no return, the onset of ecstasy. “Dirty girl,” he snarled through clenched teeth, his face contorted and pinched as his cock crescendoed. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and felt the muscles of his back quiver under my fingers. With a final tortured. More

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