“After a long time, one small hand moved, slowly, tentatively, tracing the feathers falling around her, stroking the black slashes along one huge wing. She didn't ask where he'd gotten them, didn't ask why they mimicked the marks on his shoulder. She didn't ask, just kept running her soft fingers through the down, along the spines…"How long will they last?""A few hours," he said hoarsely. He should tell her, he thought, that the feathers weren't just a projection. That for the moment for however long the Irin's essence held out, they were an innate, physical part of him. And that her fingers stroking along the marks felt just like they once had, moving over his scars. He ought to tell her, ought to ask her to stop. It's what a gentleman would do, he knew that. But then he was half demon. And tonight, he thought maybe he'd just go with that. "They're nice," she murmured, pulling one around her. "Yes." One hand tightened in her thick soft hair. "Yes.”

“Come here into the warmth," he said easily. He reached for her, taking her hand and pulling her toward him. "I've been waiting for you." He stroked her hair, shifting a bit to let the light fall on her. "For a very long time."She, too, reached for him, following a line in the air along the length of the forming scar that marred his chest. A corona flared around him until she moved past the point where the sunlight hit her eyes. She stared at his chest, at the gashed and ill-healed flesh, and he, seeing her attention, took her hand and brought her fingers to his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath, the pressure of his lips, soft and warm. "I wish you had never been wounded," she said. "Even though it brought you home to me.”

“Parting her sex, he stroked her clitoris with the tip of his forefinger. She moaned and twisted, but he held her in place with one hand on her hip as he penetrated her deep and slow. Over and over he stroked her clit, finding the rhythm she liked, and soon she was riding him hard and wanton, just as he hoped she would.”

“He twirled one coppery lock around his finger, and that seemed to rouse her from her stunned silence."Stop that," she whispered, a troubled expression crossing her face."Why?" he smoothed her hair down over one shoulder, thinking that she had the creamiest skin he'd ever seen, skin that was just begging to be touched. She gasped when he stroked one finger up along the curved contours of her neck. "It's not..proper," she said.That made him smile. "Proper? We crossed the line from proper to improper right after you left the Chastity. You're on a pirate ship, remember? You're alone in a cabin with a notorious pirate captain..you've lost your proper little cap..and I'm about to kiss you."As soon as he'd said the words, he knew they were a mistake-and not because of the outrage that filled her face. It would be dangerous to kiss her. She wasn't the woman for him.But he had to taste her once, just a little taste. So before a protest could even leave her lips, he brought his mouth down to hers.”

“The sight made her ache. How can I not touch you? she thought hopelessly, and then she was doing it, her fingers on his wrist. He didn't jump or even look at her, just stopped writing. Neither one of them moved, nothing moved, and the whole thing lasted three or four seconds at most, but when Pen took her hand away and started to breathe again, her chest hurt, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.”

“He kissed her temple, nuzzling her skin, and murmured again that she was the most beautiful lass in the world. They weren't just words he offered. Platitudes he didn't mean. He cared not about the scar that marred her face. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful lass he'd ever known and nothing would change that. Not a scar. Not circumstances. She was his, and he didn't give one damn what others thought.”