He didn't just kiss, he claimed ownership. Took her mouth with urgency, as if his life depended on his kissing her.

I hammered him with my fists. He just stood and took it. He didn't suffer graciously, he looked pissed off to no end. But he let me hit him. And he didn't hit me back.

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.

Basque and Celt. Criminals and barbarians. I didn't think there could be a more primitive pairing of genes.

Oh, for heaven's sake, she thought with droll exasperation, this certainly explains a lot. It's no wonder I haven't been able to keep my hands off the blasted man since the day I met him. He's an artifact! A Celtic one at that!

Got to love a dude that says things like "kinetic" and "detritus.

Air ye deaf, lass?" I think. He might have called me a hairy jackass