Lyndon Newman
TRUE-LIFE
As I took the spaghetti off the hob, my boyfriend Lyndon, then 20, came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist.
‘What’s cooking, good looking?’ he said, nuzzling my neck.
It was 2007 and we’d met at a local pub, where he was a doorman.
Tall, tanned and cheeky, an ex-professional boxer – he was so big and strong and I fancied him like mad.
Things had moved quickly between us.
Just a few months on, he’d moved in and I was swept up in our romantic whirlwind.
Lyndon made me feel so appreciated.
Like now, as he complimented the spag bol I’d made and told
