“Boys everywhere. All seven of them plus their dad, running and laughing and shoving each other around on the front lawn, engaged in what appeared to be a full-contact, tackle version of ultimate Frizbee. They were playing shirts and skins. Shirts and might-fine-lookin' skins.”

“She lifted the tails of his elegant silk evening shirt. “Some that don’t reach my knees?”He cleared his throat. He liked her wrapped in his shirt, surrounded by him. “Well, actually, as Joshua knows, that is one of your annoying habits. You like to run around in my shirts. You think they are much more comfortable than your own clothes.”Alexandria regarded him with wide blue eyes. “Oh, I do, do I? I take it you grumble about it.”“Often, to Josh. We laugh together about the idiosyncrasies of women. He thinks you look cute in my shirts.”“And what would give a little boy an idea like that?”He looked unrepentant. “I might have mentioned it a time or two.”His golden eyes slid over her body, making her aware of her bare skin beneath his shirt, of every curve of her body, of the fact that they were completely alone in some secret chamber of his home.“It is true, after all. You do look cute in my shirt.”

“He stilled at her laughter. It was rich and sexy, dark and playful. Something he’d never heard out of her mouth. His vision blurred for a second when she dragged his shirt up enough for their skin to touch. Then she gave up on getting the shirt off and latched on to his mouth again. He groaned as the heat of her skin blazed against his.”

“But these weren't the kind of monsters that had tentacles and rotting skin, the kind a seven-year-old might be able to wrap his mind around--they were monsters with human faces, in crisp uniforms, marching in lockstep, so banal you don't recognize them for what they are until it's too late.”

“The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.”

“Rosie laughs. She reaches around Silas’s neck—he looks taller, older than normal—and twirls the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers. His arms circle her waist protectively, one hand half hidden beneath her silk shirt as it rests on the tiny, smooth small of her back. Everything about them is silky and gleaming, all smooth skin and shiny hair and languid voices.”