Oh, how he knows he is no better than the dirt beneath your feet. He is a filthy, filthy, man.

Yet. . .

As his lips gently brush the inside of your knee—one of his hands curled around your calf while the other rests atop your other knee—Soldier Boy feels there is no greater exoneration.

Maybe it's a coping mechanism; to seek a release of his emotions. He doubts it, sometimes.

He's bedded many. Their faces blur together in twists of sheets and midnight passions, but you stick out amongst the rest.

You're not another body. Not to him.

You're sitting at the edge of the bed, looking down at him from your vantage as you lean back, your face flushed and pink.

He kneels before you; your touch is a bastion of everything sacred, your body an altar to be worshipped, your words divine and revered.

Soldier Boy is not a particularly religious man. Is there no god but himself?

But in you, he seeks absolution.

Redemption.

Salvation.

He shouldn't.

He really shouldn't.

What he sees in you is something divine.

Slowly, his lips climb higher, and with each kiss, soft mutterings of praise and worship are mouthed almost inaudibly against your skin.