He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount.

With her face tilted up to his, the subtle edge of moonlight touched along the edge of one high cheekbone, the tilted edge of one eye, and those beautiful, enticing lips. Obeying an impulse he couldn’t put into words, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

Your music hurts, the way sunshine hurts when you’ve existed for a long time in darkness.

He cupped her head with both hands. “You’re full of your own kind of magic, and it’s much more rare and beautiful than all the other spells around you. They are commonplace. You are unique.

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” “Unfortunately,” he said as gently as he knew how, “it would appear so.

Giving her a slow, coaxing smile that turned the heat in the room up by a thousand degrees, he stroked her lips with the balls of his thumbs as he murmured, “Can we get back to talking about possibly inviting that werewolf for sex?

Lifting his head, he whispered against her wet, throbbing lips, “Too much?” Wasn’t that sweet, Consider even. But oh, hell no. She gasped, “Not enough.

I can’t get enough of you,” he said against her neck. “When I walk away from you I feel like I’ve cut myself off from breathing.

I want you too, so much,” she whispered. He murmured in her ear, “Then take me.