Gil's hands become softer with age. His whole body, his skin, softens. His gaze, his lips, his touch... everything about him is more tender now. Everything but our love-making.

One would think age calms our temper, and that years weaken us and make us more peaceful, but not us. Not him.

I wonder if he's aware of the strength of his grip on my breast or the violence of his thrusts. I wonder if he has noticed that his love bites lasts for days instead of hours now. Could it be me who's getting softer?

I've always enjoyed the most savage side of our relationship, the passion we built up for years and that still bursts in our chests when we touch, but sometimes, that's just not enough. I feel I can't get enough.

When I feel I can't love him anymore without fearing I'd dissolve in him is when I realize things change. I like the wild side that nature brings out in our relationship, I like to close my eyes and just let it go, being just touch, taste, thirst: Instinct. But sometimes, I need to remember what makes this different. Why making love with him is special.

If sex had always been the fun and exciting part of all my previous relationships, now it's so much more. I had never before felt that my body should explain of other than my need, my desire, my insatiable thirst for contact till I found him.

With him, I discovered myself sharing my soul in every kiss, giving my heart with every touch. It was him who taught me how to make love.

Now, when I feel his concentration vanish in the red pleasure fog, when I sense his mind submerged in the hard task of controlling his body - breath, push, feel - I need to get him back.

A soft touch to make him look at me.

A tender kiss to make him see me, writhing underneath his warm body. And a whispered "I love you" to bring him back to me. Back to us.

Gil's hands get softer with age, but his passion for me gets more and more desperate. Or perhaps it's me: Could it be that knowing he's mine forever, has made me stop loving him as if it was the last time, every time?