Casey

“I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.”
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Cerulean Sins

“Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,” he said, “That from the nunnery, Of they chaste breast and quiet mind.”
I looked up at him, and said the next line, “To war and arms I fly.”
“True, a new mistress now I chase,” he said.
“The first foe in the field,” I said, and let him draw me closer.
“And with a stronger faith embrace,” he said.
“A sword, a horse, a shield.” And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.
“Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore,” he whispered against my hair.
I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.”
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Incubus Dreams

“Who would have guessed that four minutes could change everything?”
― Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

“Auggie said you were too sentimental for your own good sometimes."
Out loud he said, "Perhaps, but you have taught me that sentiment is not always a bad thing."
I stared up at that impossibly beautiful face, and felt love swell up inside me like a physical force. It filled my body, swelling upward until it made my chest ache, my throat tighten, and my eyes burn. It sounded so stupid. But I loved him. Loved all of him, but loved him more because loving me had made him better. That he would say that I had taught him about being sentimental made me want to cry. Richard reminded me at every turn that I was bloodthirsty and cold. If that were true, then I couldn't have taught Jean-Claude about sentimentality. You can't learn, if you don't have it to teach.
He kissed me. He kissed me softly, with one hand lost in the hair to the side of my face. He drew back and whispered, "I never thought to see that look upon your face, not for me."
"I love you," I said, and touched his hand where it lay against my face.”
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Danse Macabre