You expect him to hold you tightly to his chest, with the feeling that the world has finally gone still while you melt in his arms. Have his lips trail down your face and neck while his tongue marks what belongs to him: you.
"Mine," is the word you expect him to say when his lips claim yours. The synchronicity in both your movements: closer and faster, harder and tighter, until you both disappear into each other.
When you are vulnerable, you expect him to say: "You are safe."
When you are scared, you expect the words: "It is going to be okay."
When you are mad, you expect to hear: "I am sorry."
When vows are made, you expect a solemn: "Forever."
You will not find that with me; I only accept the terms of reality.
Fantasy is a luxury only the rich can afford.
