The first thing she ever said to describe him was that he had a voice to destroy her. It was deep, measured, and cut through the night’s fuzz with a gentleness she felt drip from her heart to her crotch. Then, on one of their first nights together, he told her that he felt alive and aroused every time she spoke. They were half-naked and not yet into that hot, wet thrust of release. He said the way she spoke was deliberate and quiet,
‘I love that it’s smoky because, in the silence of a bedroom all you need is a whisper’
That was when she first thought that she loved him. She smiled, bit her lip to restrain it, then, showing near-perfect and wine stained teeth, felt her eyes heat up and her throat tighten. I love you… Who are you? She thought. Then she told him she loved his voice, ‘it’s sexy and warm and I love it – keep talking to me’
He laughed, said no, and kissed her. As he did, he felt warm. The skin on his shoulders lit up, and then he lost all sense of equilibrium. They began to kiss each other’s necks, breathing wetly as they did and making inarticulate sounds. Neither opened their eyes. He was rock hard, and she was painfully wet.
I was too quick to say I loved him. When you are nineteen you are always too quick to say everything, because you are greedy, and you have no idea how much time there actually is. And to think, I moved to London for that stupid, cheap, Italian bastard.