It begins in the dip of the dunes, a hollow from time passing, surrounded by spiky marram fronds tangling in the wind with their pompon flowers and curlicue ends. It is commensurate with our love.
"I hold you in my heart, love" he says.
"And I you."
He palms my cheek and lowers his mouth to mine drinking sage and thyme from my lips. His hands stroke from my neck to my breast as he kisses my throat and I melt into his embrace. I have always been a rose among his thorns and he may yet draw blood but the bitter sweet sadness of our separation melts away as the rhythm of my heart's staccato beat increases and revives us, smelling salts to the memories of times gone by. I am at his mercy, he at mine. The salted ginger and musk of his skin arouse my inner goddess.
"Be mine" he pleads.
"Always" I answer, and he lowers me to the crust of salt-sand at the heart of the dune and we drink from the glorious lovers cup, fermented, sweet as botrytis, a forbidden fruit.
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