Love me like Saturday night, like three glasses of champagne, like the room is spinning, like you're drunk on my love.

Lips that have tasted the salt of tears always give the sweetest kiss.

He kisses me like he misses me, even before I have to go.

He didn't pick her; you don't choose who you fall in love with any more than you choose the shape of your bones.

I would rather be destroyed by you than loved by anyone else.

She was the wish of his life. He didn’t know how else to say it. He didn’t even know that he could really explain, just that every time he saw her he felt his bones might break under the weight of his wanting. His longing for her.

It is more than love, barely less than madness. It’s never close enough.

I’m jealous of the cherries that have been in your mouth,” he said, “that they get to make your lips so red.” He kissed her softly, teasing her tongue with his, a lustful wet caress, and Austen was suspended in air. “I’m jealous of every single day before today that I didn’t get to spend with you.

I love you to the moon and bed.