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Lovely piece of writing, very descriptive- that's probably your style?
Yes, I always say I'm an emotional story-teller. I like the reader to feel the story when the read it.
Honestly my favorite thing to write is dialogue. Here's a bit of that from later on in the story. In this scene, he's married to a girl named Anne who he's fallen in love with but for complicated reasons they haven't consummated it. Needless to say, that's causing problems. He's a good guy, but honestly, I did torture him a bit in this story.

All of this is before, he begins to quote Gaelic.
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He grasped her head, his hands clutching her cheeks, and pressed his mouth to hers. Crushing, bruising her lips, he parted her teeth, his desperation clawing at her, his body a lead weight. She squirmed. He hurt her, and she shoved at his chest. But his hands took hold of her wrists, and still he pressed on. She gave a cry.
When he jerked his head away, sparks flew from his eyes. “That answer your question?” he growled.
Pale and shaken, she rubbed at her wounded wrists. “Why did you do that?” she asked. Where does all the hatred come from?
“God!” he screamed. “Are you still so green?”
And her temper flared. “Green? You think I’m stupid? Maybe instead you are the one in denial. There is more between us than that! Tell me, Michael. Tell me. What. Happened. In. New York.” The last words faltered in her speech, and exhausted, she gasped for breath.
He stepped up to her face, and she chilled at the look in his eyes. What did he mean to do now? But he only stared, his glance rippling over her skin, undulating, swelling, and receding. The light went out, and she held back a sob.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strangely controlled. He touched a finger to her lips and drew it across. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Tears stung her eyes. But you have.
“I am not the man you think I am, and I cannot live up to that image.” He clenched his teeth and worked his jaw. “You don’t know me, Anne. You don’t know me at all.”