“It was better to talk, which would be a helluva lot easier if he would just talk back a little. Damn it, it was like pulling a teeth to get him to say anything.Like right now. He'd gone completely silent on her again, leaving the ball in her court, where the ball had been for the last half an hour.”

“It worried him. Like him, she had to be exhausted. She smelled like gasoline; her clothes were torn. She had a small white bandage on her forehead where the EMT had cleaned her cut. Dirt smudged her face, her arms, her legs. He knew she still didn't have any underwear, and for the first time, he felt bad about it. Real bad. He wanted to protect her, make her feel secure, keep her from harm—and all he'd done was lose her underwear and practically get her blown up.”

“How could she not know he was thinking about sex? he wondered. It was all he'd been thinking about for the last eighteen hours, give or take a few minutes spent thinking about keeping them both alive. Oh, yeah, and twice he'd thought about food, once about her mother, and once he'd checked to make sure he had an extra mag for his Glock.”

“Do you still have Ms. Dekker?"Have her, had her, going to have her again-at least he'd planned on it until the troops had arrived.”

“He'd kissed her, and she'd been poleaxed, frozen in place, because his mouth had felt like coming home. The taste of him, the smell of him, the sound of his breath-the slow slide of his tongue over and around and down the lenght of hers, it had all said, "Here's your place,girl,here with me.”

“He'd wanted to take her dirty and take her sweet, take her any way he could get her and every way he could dream up”

“He wanted to paddle her himself, then shake her, then sit her down in a chair and explain to her why she must never, ever get herself in a situation where she could be shot at again—and then throw himself at her feet.”