He loves me.
He whispered it into my ear again as we sat, curled up under a throw on the sofa in his sitting room with the fire blazing. His lips brushed my ear with every word and his breath was warm on my cheek. I love you. I fell asleep with his words in my ears and his arms around me holding me close.
We were a tangle of limbs in the morning, his chest my pillow and the steady beat of his heart in my ear almost a lullaby lulling me back to sleep. I thought that the morning after would be awkward, worse then if we'd fallen into bed and woke in a tangle of sheets instead, but it wasn't. He brushed my hair out of my face, whispering good morning and asking
( if I had plans for the day. )I want to love him. I want to feel the rush of pleasure when he says my name with the first syllable deep and the last a quiet breath, like I've stolen his voice or other things more cliche. I want to be that pilferer and I want to let him steal through my window and steal mine.
And the sheer amount of how much I want all of this frightens me all the more because I think that it's foolish. That he'd never hurt me, that I trust him not to hurt me. And I do. Right now. Right now he loves me.
It's then that I realise that it's not a matter of trust, it's a matter of time.
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