Right beneath your earlobe, a little row of kisses from there, around your jaw, and back to your lips. I tug playfully at your bottom lip. You stare...into my eyes with those twinkly amber-brown orbs, and there are no words to be spoken; everything is said in those eyes: fear, longing, trust.You kiss me again. I’ll never grow tired of it, this time your lips stay locked in mine until we are disrobed. First my dress, then yours with a gentle woosh, I’m not wearing a bra, I moan softly when. "Brigadier Stanhope did not look like a cunning, courageous, spy. He had the high domed forehead of an intellectual, and I later learned he was a Classicist who had gained the highest academic honours from Oxford University. His voice was soft and gentle, and I could not imagine him bellowing out orders on some blood soaked battlefield. In fact he looked, and sounded, as if he would be more at home as a don at an ancient seat of learning, or in a monastery, rather than being the Spymaster of. More

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