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Jack had never in his life felt the slightest urge to fuck Robin Blyth, but it was enough to make him briefly wonder if he was missing out on something.
“Because this,” said Ross, lifting the book, “is safe.” “I’ll remind you of that if you’re ever arrested for obscenity.” “Safer than the alternative. Or perhaps you think I’d come to no harm at all, risk nothing, if I were to go in search of rough-handed soldiers and cruel dukes and tell them that what I really fancied was being tied up and fucked and pretending that I didn’t want it.”
“Ask me if I’ve been paid for it.” “Ask? I only have to look at you. Men would bankrupt themselves.”
He wanted to crack open his rib cage and place Alan Ross inside it, the better to warm him with Jack’s own blood.
Jack Alston might not have magic, but he was moving through the world again, and had people relying on him again, and it was blood rushing back into the numb flesh of his feelings. Forcing him to live.
“I would take your heart between my ribs and guard it like my own. Is there any way I could make you believe it?”
“I want to kiss you until your mouth forgets it exists for any reason but to let me taste it. I want to kiss you so well, and so long, that every narrator in your books will crawl off their pages and die from sheer jealousy.”
I would write you into immortality. I would trap you in ink and wear the pages next to my skin until they fell apart. Kiss me until I know you. Kiss me until you know me, and unmake me, and love me anyway.
