“except when he kissed her, when he touched her, he devoured her as if he could never-even if he lived a thousand lifetimes-get enough!”

“He kissed her as if he couldn't get enough of her.”

“When he saw her, he wanted to be with her; when he was with her, he ached to touch her; when he touched even her hand, he wanted to embrace her. He wanted to feel her against him the way he had in the attic. He wanted to know the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair. He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to sit and listen to her talk about books until his ears fell off. But all these were things he could not want, because they were things he could not have, and wanting what you could not have led to misery and madness.”

“Touching his hair, she leaned hesitantly forward, and he folded his arms around her, sinking into sensation again as they kissed--the slight weight of her on his lap, the smell of her. He glided his hands up the warm dip of her spine, felt her shiver and press closer. He could never get enough of this. Never.”

“Can you tell me why," he breathed into her neck, "when I'm holding you like this," he drew her closer, wrapping her snuggly against him, "and I'm kissing you like this," he devoured the tender spot along her jaw, brazenly making his way to the corner of her lips, "it's still never enough?”

“Kissing meant he had to touch. Touching meant he wanted to crush her under him. Getting her under him meant he had to be inside her, and when he got there the only thing that kept him from losing it and going all caveman on her was the knowledge that he’d scare her to death if he did.”