My right hand is still gently massaging your perfect breast, my hand gliding over the material, stopping to play with the hard nub of your nipple. I k...ss the short hairs on the back of your neck, making swirls on your skin with the tip of my tongue. I feel you quiver as my left hand pops the button of your jeans and travels further down to cup your sex through the silky material that separates them, the material feels damp but that does not surprise me, it’s the warmth from between your legs. And she’d blamed herself, decided she must have come across as too needy, too clingy, when all along, he had sent her letters too. Admittedly, not as many, she’d written twenty-one to his twelve, and where hers often ran to four sides of notepaper, his had barely covered two. Though she knew that if she’d received them, she wouldn’t have cared a jot. She would have treasured every word. His early letters were mostly filled with details of rugby matches and his increasing frustration at being. More

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