I am going to love you now, slow and sweet, but when you come, I'm going to f*** you the way I need to. The way I've been dreaming about since the moment I saw you.

I was a twenty-two-year-old single white female alone in a strange country where my sister had been killed.

Then her eyes narrowed. The sun was spilling in the window behind her and Dageus's eyes were golden, dappled with darker flecks. Smoky and sensual, fringed by thick dark lashes, but gold nonetheless. "What is with your eyes?" she exclaimed. "Is it part of being a Druid?" "What color are they?" he asked warily. "Gold." He flashed her another unguarded smile. It was like basking in the sun, she thought, tracing her fingers over his beard-shadowed jaw, smiling helplessly back.

He closes his hand around mine and I hold on. I like his hand. It's big and holds easy but sure. It's the kind of hold that says, I got you if you want me, but I'll let you go if you feel like running for a while.

You need me as much as I need you. That makes us equal partners in my book. Well, your book is just wrong.

No way. I'm not going in there. I draw the line at grave-robbing, Barrons. It's not your pen.

That part of his body was simply uncontrollable, apparently functioning in accordance to a single law of nature: She existed--he got a hard-on.