I sense his control—his awareness that we’re in my sister’s backyard with over a dozen people just around a row of hedges and through a glass patio door. The fire is banked for now, but I find myself thinking, as he kisses me again and again, what it will be like when there’s no need for that control. When he can love me with his heart and his hands and his body. The anticipation alone is torture. Blissful, exquisite torture.
