“You lay your hand against his skin and just rib his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will sourround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray.(how to calm a crying baby)”

“Love you, Tabby." Oh yes. I pressed the insides of my thighs to his hips, wrapped my arms tight around him, and whispered in his ear, "Love you too, Shy." His mouth moved below my ear and he murmured against my skin, "Everything to me.”

“Harry's blood quickened as lurid images filled his mind...her against him, beneath him. That smiling mouth, his alone, her whispers curling into his ear. Her skin, soft and ivory pale in the darkness. Skin heated by skin, sensation emerging as he touched her.She was worth anything, he thought, even giving up the last remnants of his soul.”

“For a moment, I pretended. Not that we weren't two different species, because I didn't see him that way, but that we actually liked each other. And then he shifted and rolled. I was on my back, and he was still on the move. His face burrowed into the space between my neck and shoulder, nuzzling. Sweet baby Jesus...Warm breath danced over my skin, sending shivers down my body. His arm was heavy against my stomach, his leg between mine, pushing up and up. Scorched air fled my lungs. Daemon murmured in a language I couldn't understand. Whatever it was, it sounded beautiful and soft. Magical. Unearthly. I could've woken him up but for some reason I didn't. The thrill of him touching me was far stronger than anything else. His hand was on the edge of the borrowed shirt, his long fingers on the strip of exposed flesh between the hem on the shirt and the band of the worn pajama bottoms. And his hand inched up under the shirt, across my stomach, where it dipped slightly. My pulse went into cardiac territory. The tips of his fingers brushed my ribs. His body moved, his knee pressed against me. I gasped. Daemon stilled. No one moved. The clock on the wall ticked. And I cringed.”

“Grabbing her hand, he pressed it gently to his chest. His skin was warm to the touch, and she could slightly feel his pulse pounding against her palm.“Do you feel that? I’m not going anywhere, Haven. This is yours.”

“There were a few spots on every child that only a mother knows or cares about. One is the small indentation at the base of their neck where you press your nose when they're babies and you want to wrap yourself in their smell. Another is the tiny crease behind their ear, where you plant whispers like "I love you" or "Sleep tight" as they drift off at night, bum in the air and arms akimbo. These are the spots a mother is immediately drawn to whenever her child is sick, after she presses her face against his to feel for a fever, silently praying it's just a cold.”