When Love Crosses the Line
He pressed his lips gently to her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender that always clung to her.
“No matter what happens tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice low and raw, “you are my last first love. Nothing can change that.”
The words broke her. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and insistent. She turned in his arms, searching his face, desperate to believe that love could stand against the storm bearing down on them. His eyes, stormy grey, laced with exhaustion yet burning with fierce devotion, held her captive.
Her lips pressed to his with a desperation that matched his own. The kiss was not gentle; it was fierce, unyielding, as if both feared it might be their last. She clung to him, her hands
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