He lifted his hand and let my hair fall slowly from his fingers, brushing my face, skimming my lips, floating soft and heavy on my neck and shoulders, lying like feathers at the tops of my breasts. “Mo nighean donn,” he whispered, “mo chridhe. My brown lass, my heart.” “Come to me. Cover me. Shelter me, a bhean, heal me . Burn with me, as I burn for you.”
Sigh . . . Diana Gabaldon is a genius with words.
— Jan 05, 2015 05:21PM
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