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.

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.