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He whispered her name as if it were a love-word, and his mouth drifted through the tear tracks on her face. They would not yield their secrets. Oh, but love . . . Love was unvoiced and undenied. As they fitted together into one being, each movement was a new discovery, each second an eternity of emotion. Let it last, her heart beseeched the darkness silently. Let it last forever. ↗
What are you doing?" she asked. Grimacing, he considered returning his mouth to hers and kissing her until she forgot the question and his strange behavior, but he had to know the truth. Dammit, he had to know. "Amelia told me that her toes curl when Houston kisses her. I was just trying to see if your toes curl when I kiss you." She turned a lovely shade of rose and rolled her shoulders toward her chin. "My whole body curls when you kiss me." "Your whole body?" She nodded quickly."Every inch." "Well, hell," he said as he settled his mouth greedily over hers with plans to keep her body tightly curled for the remainder of the night. -Dallas and Dee ↗
I haven't had a woman in months," he continued in that same rough whisper, "not since before I married you. I haven't wanted anyone else, and I won't until I've gotten enough of you, whenever the hell that may be. Every night I promise myself you're going to pay for the hours that I've wanted you and gone hungry. By God, I won't go hungry anymore. ↗
The words of his various writing instructors and professional mentors over the years came back to him at times like these, and he found a new understanding in their advice: Writing is rewriting. The rough draft is just that. You can’t polish what you haven’t written. Things that made for a normal life—like a daily routine that followed the sun—took a back seat to times like these, and he exulted in that change because it served as proof that his writing was indeed the most important thing in his life. It wasn’t a conscious choice on his part, like deciding to repaint the bathroom or go buy the groceries, but an overarching reallocation of his existence that was as undeniable as breathing. Day turned into night, breakfast turned into dinner, and the laptop or the writing tablet beckoned even when he was asleep. He would often awake with a new idea—as if he’d merely been on a break and not unconscious—and he would see the empty seat before the desk not as his station in some pointless assembly line, but as the pilot’s seat in a ship that could go anywhere. ↗
(...) you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat... ↗
