“He remembered the gracefulness with which she moved in battle—like liquid flesh. There was no one quite like his wife, and he never felt more triumphant and free than when he was in her company.”

“He felt a momentary pang of regret that he had not spent more time with his beloved wife. But it passed when he remembered that the reason he’d gone to sea in the first place was that he had never really liked his beloved wife.”

“He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage.”

“She was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. She was his soul mate and his wife, and all he wanted was to bring her joy. He was consumed by his adoration of her.”

“He who stands like a pilar dies in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!”

“I’m sorry, I have to move. I have to. You’re so bloody tight. So good,” he groaned, his face distorted with need. He started to pump into her, long, powerful thrusts, the slap of flesh on flesh and the wet rush of their bodies moving together mingling with their ragged breathing. Everywhere she touched him he was hard as granite, as though every muscle in his body was straining toward completion. She’d never felt more desired, more wanted, more wanton or sexy in her life and she felt her own desire rising higher with every stroke.”