“She was his and he hers.”

“...He had no breath, no being, but in hers, she was his voice; he did not speak to her. But trembled on her words; She was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw hers, Which colored all his objects-he had crease to live within himself; She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts...”

“Goddess,” he rasped, running his hands over her hips, up her legs.“Lover,” she whispered back, threading the fingers of her right hand through the fingers of his left and moving his hand to her breast. It was heavy and swollen and ripe with desire. He scraped his thumb over her nipple, loving the way she closed her eyes and hummed in appreciation. He loved that she was in charge. He loved how she took pleasure from his body with such confident leisure. He loved how she squeezed her innermost muscles in pulse after deliberate, exquisite pulse as she rode his length. He loved how he was just that to her, her lover, not Nick Blackthorne rock star, but just the man she gave her body, her heart, her soul to. He loved her. Everything about her.”

“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 knew her, he believed. He would teach her that she was not his possession, he would show her she was free, he would see her flash her wings.”

“She was his. He would die for her. He would die without her.”