Beauty and the Spy Quotes

“It knew things, that smile.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“She charmed and sparkled and said witty things, but she knew very well she was being charming and sparkling and witty while she was doing it, which somehow felt wrong.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Her mind was obsessively playing and replaying his words of five minutes ago. And finally she could contain them no longer.
" 'Was she pretty?' " she mimicked the vicar's creaky tones. " 'Very,' " she answered, in a very good imitation of the viscount's own baritone.
Kit snorted a laugh.
But really, Kit had waxed almost lyrical about Caroline Allston---Caro, no doubt. Susannah wondered of Caro was carved on the viscount's heart the way it was on the oak, scarred and thick with age.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He cupped her buttocks in his hands, lifted her up, and guided her down over his shaft with a long sigh. When he was deeply inside her, their eyes locked.
Susannah's breasts slid against his chest, both of their bodies sweat-sheened, as she rose up again, knowing instinctively what to do. He smiled faintly, guided her down again. Which is when she saw his eyes go black again with desire and she exulted. She loved this power to give and take, this humbling exchange of strength and vulnerability.
"There's a place inside you, Susannah...," he said hoarsely. "Guide me. You'll know it when you feel it. I'll hold on to you."
So she lifted up again... and slid down again... and oh, he was right. There was a place.
She moved up over him again, with a sultry smile, enjoying this new knowledge, feeling that mysterious need escalating... she held it at bay for as long as she could. Which, as it turned out, wasn't very long at all. For her body took over, found the cadence it craved, and she began to ride him in an instinctive rhythm that grew ever swifter, and he held her, his hips thrusting up to meet hers.
The world became the harsh roar of their breathing, incoherent sounds of pleasure, softly groaned words of urging. Susannah could feel her release pushing, pushing at the seams of her, roaring through her veins like a river of stars, until it flooded its banks and burst from her in an exultant cry. The unthinkable pleasure of it rocked her, shook her like a rag; she trembled and trembled from it.
Kit held on to her, his own hoarse cry following, and she could feel his seed filling her as she breathed her exhaustion against his neck. Felt his chest heaving against hers as they clung together.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“When she drew near, the rich musk of him wrapped her again: shaving soap, ale, and that delicious, darker something---him. It might as well have been opium for what it did to the run of her thoughts.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“She most definitely had an instinct for passion, an instinct that matched his own, that had nearly caused him to lose his head. Well, now he knew her skin was petal smooth; he knew the rich wine of her mouth; he knew the feel of that delicate, puckered nipple rubbed against his cheek---”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“The taste of him lingered on her lips; she could smell him on her clothes. It was almost as though he stood there with her still. She put her fingers up to her lips; they felt chafed and tender and thoroughly, properly, used for perhaps the first time ever. A white heat of desire threaded through her veins again; it stole her breath. She closed her eyes.
She knew now what his beautiful mouth could do. It could prod her with sarcasm and truth and wit. It could devastate her with tenderness; it could relentlessly build a storm of pleasure in her. It could own her until that storm broke over her.
Oh, and after that, too. Because she couldn't imagine now ever drinking her fill of him.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He watched her sleep with some complex emotion; it seemed to have tiers and facets, and the moment he managed to get one facet in focus, another one winked into prominence. He'd begun to suspect he was a romantic, despite everything, and the thought irritated him and amused him. It was a tremendously inconvenient thing to be, and not at all what one expected to find lurking in the heart of a spy.
Today... how easy it would have been to slide a hand over the small of her back, pull her forward into his bare chest, and touch his lips at last, at last, to that soft, soft mouth. He was, in fact, dangerously close to needing to know how her mouth would feel against his. He'd watched the pulse beating in her smooth throat, and for an extraordinary moment he'd had every intention of pressing his mouth against it... after he'd tasted her lips, of course.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Susannah, listen to me: Do you want this to be over? Do you want to be safe?"
"No, I rather enjoy dodging for my life, and wondering when you'll next be stabbed or crushed on my behalf."
He smiled again, pleased with her the way he always was when she was sarcastic.
"How can you smile?" she wanted to know, irritated.
"You forget, my dear, that danger has been a way of life for me."
She pondered this. "Wouldn't you rather just be a naturalist?" she said weakly.
He didn't answer; he just looked at her for a long moment. And then he leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers.
Her lips were obstinate at first, but then they softened beneath his, and her hand went up to cup his face--- he loved it when she did that---and she parted her lips. For a short, dizzying moment, they feasted tenderly on each other. It was incomparably sweet.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Still, there was something he'd wanted to know for some time now, and he found he couldn't deny himself this particular opportunity. Very gently, almost stealthily, he leaned forward and rested the backs of his fingers against Susannah's cheek.
He regretted it instantly. For her skin was every bit as soft as he'd dreamed.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He reached out and drew his finger lightly from her ankle right up the curve of her calf.
When his finger reached the crook of her knee, he stopped. Astonished to see it there.
Silently, a little frantically, he considered excuses: An insect was crawling up your stocking, Susannah. I was checking to see if you were injured, Susannah. I was---
"Don't stop." It was her voice. Husky, abstracted.
And the words roared like a brushfire over his senses.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Just a little, a voice in his head urged him. He could show her just a little of passion, he reasoned; he could show her gently, skillfully, give her just a taste. Because lord knew what would become of her, and what sort of man would ultimately have the taking of her. He was certain he could give her pleasure, and she deserved that.
He was distantly amused, even a little alarmed, at how reason and lust had conspired to make his desire to crawl beneath Susannah Makepeace's skirts seem noble.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“His lips touched hers, just a brush, once, twice, over the full softness of her lovely mouth, discovering what she knew of kissing. With devastating instinct, she echoed him, dragging her lips softly across his, with his, until the desire in him was coiled so tightly his limbs trembled from it.
"Susannah." A ragged whisper. She sighed a warm breath out against his lips and brought her other hand up to hold his face; in her hands he could feel her tension and urgency. And he'd meant to linger over this kiss, to take it deeper with delicacy and finesse, and then to end it, but he found he could not. His desire was suddenly untenable; he was convinced only the taste of her could ease it. He touched an impatient tongue to her lips and coaxed them open. When she parted her mouth he sought her tongue, and discovered, with a low sound in the back of his throat, the hot, silken sweetness inside her mouth. Her tongue tentatively moved, tangled with his. Oh, God.
"Like this?" she whispered.
"God, yes," he breathed.
She smiled against his mouth.
"No smiling," he murmured. "Only kissing."
Their mouths moved languidly over each other at first, nipping, delving deeply, retreating. And gradually it built to urgency. He rose up over her to take his kisses deeper still, to taste the contours of her mouth, teeth clashing against her teeth, and still it never seemed enough. The sensation was like soaring in place; Kit couldn't feel the ground beneath him, or the air above him; he was aware only of the sweetness of the woman joined with him, and distantly he marveled, he'd never felt quite so lost. He tucked his hip in firmly against hers, astounded at how painfully aroused he was.
"Sweet," he murmured, moving his lips from hers to kiss, to nip beneath her chin, to draw his tongue down the cord of her throat. Her breathing was rushed, and with the rise and fall of her chest he could see the tight darkness of her nipples beneath the fine fabric of her dress. "Sweet," he sighed again, moving his mouth to breathe against her breast; he touched his tongue to her nipple through the fabric. She caught her breath at the sensation, arced up a little to meet him. And as she did, his fingers, five feathers, began to stroke the tender skin inside her thigh.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Stockings, but no drawers?" he teased, breathlessly. He nudged the neckline of her gown lower with his teeth, exposing her breast, distracting her as his hand glided farther up her thigh, to come gently to rest against the damp, silken curls at the crook of them.
"Too warm for... drawers... but I liked the... garters..." She gasped out the words, and he gave a short laugh before he took her nipple into his mouth. Puckered velvet, it was, the palest, most delicate pink, like her lips; her breast could fill the palm of his hand. He knew because he skimmed his palm over the other one.
"Kit," she rasped. "God."
"One and the same," he murmured. He heard her gasp something, either a tortured laugh or a word, which may have been "beast," but she stopped abruptly when he took her nipple into his mouth again and drew slow circles around it with his tongue. Her softly sighed, "oh," her back arching up to meet him, her fingers combing over his head, made him wilder than he thought he could bear.
But he would bear it. Today was for her, and today was all there would be.
He settled for tucking his hips closer to her, his aching erection brushing against her. His fingers stroked lightly over the curls between her legs, twining in them. And then he returned his lips to hers, gently, because he wanted to watch her eyes when he slid a finger lightly along her cleft.
He felt her body go taut when he did; she drew in a sharp breath.
His hand stilled. "No?" he said softly.
"Yes," she disagreed on a whisper, touching his face.
He kissed her softly, as his finger slid lightly again, and then again, and at last her legs slipped open wider still, inviting him in. Desire clawed him, a great bird of prey clinging to his back, he could scarcely breathe. With his fingers, he circled her gently, slowly at first, and then insistently, listening to the pulse of her breath, to her soft murmurs, to learn the rhythm she wanted, until her desire drenched his fingers. He touched nearly chaste kisses to her mouth as his fingers played over her, and watched, triumphant, as her pupils grew large, her beautiful, complicated eyes opaque, her breathing become a quiet storm.
"Kit?" she whispered urgently. "I---it's---"
"I know," he sympathized hoarsely. "Move with me now."
And she began to move her hips in time with his knowing fingers, colluding with him in her own pleasure, and he moved his own hips against her, craving his own release even as he knew he must deny it. He covered her moth with a kiss, a deep kiss, tangling his tongue with hers, and oh the taste of her: honey and velvet, rich as plums. He moved his fingers in time with his tongue, knew by her escalating breathing, the rhythm of her hips, that it would be soon.
She took her lips from his, her head thrashed to one side. "Please..."
"Hold on to me, Susannah." She was utterly focused on her journey now, and God, how he wanted to go there with her.
At last, her fingers dug into his arms and she bowed up with a soft cry, pulsing against his hand.
And somehow, this seemed nearly as precious as the beat of her heart, and the pleasure he took in her release was so acute it might well have been his own.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“For so long now, part of the pleasure in making love to a woman had been the mechanics of seduction. He'd always been the master of each step of it, and this, too, had been part of the pleasure for him.
But... this pleasure was different. It was in Susannah's breath, warm against his neck in the aftermath of her release. The flush in her cheeks and creamy throat. In the scent of her hair. In her lovely eyes going opaque from desire, her hands in his hair. In---
"Did we just make love?" Susannah wanted to know.
In questions like that.
He smiled faintly. "Very nearly.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He slipped his fingers inside her dress, touched her skin very gently and exhaled a soft shaky sigh, almost of relief. He combed his fingers over her shoulder blades, down either side of her spine, the rough pads of his fingertips and the exquisite lightness of his touch turning every cell of her skin to glowing cinders, her legs to liquid. Susannah closed her eyes, wanting only to feel, wanting to heighten the pure exquisite pleasure of his hands on her skin.
And then his mouth was warm against her ear. "Susannah," he breathed there, her own name as sensual as his fingers. It traveled along the fuse of her nerve endings and lit a furnace inside her. Her lungs labored to breathe. She flattened her hands against his chest, savoring, at last, at last, the warm strong beauty of it. His skin was satiny over the rigid plane of his muscle, and again, this softness juxtaposed with strength... this was Kit.
"I like that," he murmured against her throat, where his mouth had traveled from her ear. He opened his lips against the soft skin there, put a hot kiss there. "Touch me anywhere you please."
"If you insist," she said. She was trying for insouciance, but the words were a squeak.
And he laughed, bloody man.
She indulged all of her weeks of stored longings and dragged one finger around the contours of his muscled chest, tracing a broad figure eight, then drew it down between his ribs, down the pale line of hair that led to the bulge of his trousers, stopping short of it, and was rewarded when he sucked in his breath. She opened her hands then and clasped them around his slim waist, let them wander down to cup his firm buttocks through his trousers. He mumbled some unintelligibly pleasured sound.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“She took in a long, unsteadying breath and pushed the bodice of her dress with her hands until it drooped to her waist.
She watched his eyes slowly drop from her eyes to her lips... to her...
"God,"he murmured with reverent enthusiasm.
She almost laughed, but he found her mouth again with his, and then his warm hands were on her bare waist, on her ribs, gliding up, up, up with torturous leisure, until his hands filled with her breasts, and his touch, his lips, became tender beyond words. She nearly sank to her knees. His thumbs traced her nipples into peaks, until at last she needed to take her lips from his and lean her head forward to touch his chest, shivering with helpless pleasure.
His hand moved to cup the back of her head there, so he could once more take a kiss as deeply as he could, his other hand pressed against the small of her back, bringing her into the heat of his chest. The sensation of his skin against the hard tips of her breasts was unlike anything she was sure heaven had to offer. She moved her hands down, felt the hard, thick length of his arousal beneath his trousers, dragged her hands over it. He muttered something like "mmm," which she took to mean to do it again. So she did it again, and again, until his hands went down to cup her buttocks and roughly pushed her up against him. She looped her arms around his neck and pushed herself closer still.
She wanted desperately to crawl inside him.
"Making love to you, Susannah," Kit murmured against her lips, as his hips moved against hers, "would be a rare honor and pleasure."
"I want you to make love to me." Her voice was shaking now.
"Do you know what that truly means?" His hands had slipped lower now inside her dress, and his finger had found the crease of her buttocks to delicately trace. He looked intently down into her eyes.
"Yes."
"You do know? You know that I will be inside you..." He kissed her, this one languid, thorough, incinerating. "And that I will move inside you..." He kissed her again, the same way, until her thoughts were glittering fragments. "... Until we are both mad from pleasure?"
"I want you inside me." She was nearly weeping with the truth of that.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“His hands, deliberate now, on a mission not to reassure but to arouse, roamed her body with shocking skill; his fingers knew where to stroke and linger, how to tease soft moans from her, to make her beg. He found and savored the curves of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, cupped and explored the warmth between her legs, until she was supple and boneless, clinging to him. And then wantonly nearly climbing him.
Time dropped away. They sank together to their knees, mouths joined, his fingers twisting in her hair and plucking out pins as it loosened; he pulled her head back to take his kisses deeper, his fingers roving her hair. Her hands on him were careful, tender, over the bruises of his chest, over his arm where the knife had slashed him. Kit closed his eyes when she touched him, as though he could hardly believe the wonder of it, and then folded his arms around her and pulled her down over him, lowering himself to his back.
"Now," he urged on a soft rasp against her mouth. "I need you, Susannah. Please let it be now."
"Yes." A breath of a word.
He rolled over with her in his arms, covering her. She cradled him with her thighs, pulling him closer, and he lifted his torso up, fitted himself to her, slid into her waiting heat. There was a quick bite of pain; Susannah took her lower lip in her teeth to stifle a gasp. But then came the extraordinary feel of him filling her, and in so doing somehow touching her body everywhere. She watched Kit's eyes close when he was deeply seated; the intensity of his pleasure seemed akin to pain.
He was still, hovering over her; for a moment they savored together the miracle of being joined at last. He opened his eyes. So blue. Smiled down at her, crookedly, with quiet, rueful amazement. Pulled back, and thrust forward again, dipped to touch his lips to hers.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He sighed then, and began to move in her, his cadence even, purposeful. She arched to meet each stroke, taking him as deeply into her body as she could; reveling in the pleasure she was giving, in the dark desire she saw in his eyes. And she reveled, too, when control was lost to him. He turned his head away from her when the rhythm of his need took him over, escalated, drummed through her body, his hips quick and fierce. When he turned toward her again, she saw the singular mission in his eyes, the unconscious total pleasure, and from the rush of his breathing knew instinctively it would be soon for him. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding him fast.
"Oh, God, Susannah. Oh, God."
His long body went still; she felt his release shudder through him.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He sat up suddenly, swept her into his lap so that she sat across his thighs, and breathed into her ear, touched his tongue there, traced the whorls of it. A silver-hot shiver of sensation coursed through her body.
"Do you like that?" he murmured.
"I don't know," she half-gasped. "It rather takes... everything over."
He dragged a single finger down her throat, over the fine bones of her chest, touched it to the stiff peak of her nipple. "Proof that you most definitely like it," he confirmed in a sultry whisper. She laughed a little, then stopped abruptly, because she needed all of her faculties to enjoy what he'd begun doing to her breasts with his hands.
And then they were quiet, and with a tacit sort of agreement, everything was soft as breath, delicate. With lips, and fingertips light as air, with breath itself, she caressed him, and he caressed her. She breathed into his ear, tasted the cord of his neck while his fingers gently, maddeningly, softly, played along her spine, her waist, her belly, the nest of curls between her legs, her throat, her breasts, as though he was bringing music from the most delicate of harps. Until every cell of her vibrated with desperate need. His breath was hot, then cool, in her ear. She finally gave up exploring him and submitted, hooking her arms loosely around his neck, selfishly wanting just to take the pleasure he could give.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“And this is how he made love to her: The overwhelming, aching tenderness, the desire and reverence, in his every touch, more eloquent, more profound, than words could ever hope to be. Susannah closed her eyes and only once murmured his name, floating in the center of a bliss that had edges of flame. His hands, his mouth, seemed everywhere, everywhere, from her shoulders, to her breasts, to the round curve of her belly, relentlessly knowing, sure and delicate, setting slow fire to every cell of her until she arched and rippled beneath his touch, until she was nothing but a creature made to be touched.
And then his mouth moved between her legs, and he parted her knees so he could taste the silkiest, most sensitive part of her. Her fingers gripped the coverlet as his tongue dipped, and circled, and savored, loving her, until her blood roared in her ears, until she was nearly sobbing from the pleasure of it, until she splintered into light and sensation.
Then, at last, off came his clothes, which he did as deftly as he did everything else, and his beautiful body hovered an instant over her. She surrounded him with her thighs, pulled him to her with her arms, took him into her body. This joining always seemed never to last quite long enough to Susannah, because she could never fully be part of him, but the finite nature of it made it all the more sweeter. And this was slow, slow, too, and his eyes never left hers; he burned his love into her with his eyes. He moved, inexorably to his own release, which came for him with a sigh of her name.
He kissed her. He turned over gently, with her in his arms. They held each other, face to face.
"That's how much I love you, Susannah," he whispered.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Her heart began to pound a little harder with the boldness of what she was about to say. "You'll sleep badly in the chair, Kit. Would you like to sleep next to me? I promise not to thrash about."
She tried to make her words light. Tried to make them sound like a practical suggestion, and less like the wanton invitation they disguised.
There was a long quiet so thick Susannah could have grabbed fistfuls of it.
"No, Susannah. I will sleep even more badly next to you."
His voice was night itself: ironic, dense with meaning, a little dangerous. He might as well have slipped a hand beneath her nightdress for how it made her feel.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He could see her breasts lift and fall gently with her breathing. She'd thrown off her blanket. He watched now. Feeling like an adolescent. Just as ridiculous, just as enthralled.
He imagined going to her, lying next to her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, waiting for her to stir awake. He imagined the feel of the fine, fragile fabric of the night rail against his hands---it would be warm, fragrant from her--- and the whisper of sound it would make as it slid over her body when he lifted it from her. He imagined his hands gliding over the curve of her shoulders and hips; over the petal skin of her breasts, and her softer-still nipples. He imagined her lithe body rippling beneath his touch as he discovered her again, and thoroughly this time, he imagined his mouth finding, tasting every bit of her, the hollow of her belly, the musk between her legs, her soft cries of pleasure as he did. He imagined the slow final taking of her, moving inside her as she clung to him---
Oh, God.
He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Your armpit is very handsome."
This made him laugh. "Only an artist would think an armpit is handsome."
"But it is... the line of it is, anyhow. The muscles and shadows and hair..." She traced the muscles and shadows and hair with her finger as she said the words, and her voice drifted.
She sat up suddenly and reached for her sketchbook and quickly rendered him, that arm stretched over his head, his bare chest, and long legs, his lolling, spent manhood resting in curling hair, his wonderful face reflecting smug satisfaction, easy intimacy.
"You're a very good model," she told him approvingly. "You hold cooperatively still."
"I don't think I could move if you pointed a gun at me," he murmured.
She kissed the birthmark in the shape of a gull on his outstretched wrist, then leaned down and kissed his nipple, tracing it with her tongue, tasting it the way he'd tasted hers. His hand trailed down her back, she saw unmistakable signs of stirring below.
"You're moving now," she teased.
He gave a short, very distracted laugh. "Siren," he said absently. Clearly enjoying the run of her tongue over his chest.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“It's as though I can stop being me for just a moment, and I feel what it feels like... to be a vole. Or a rose. Or---"
She was going to say, "or you."
She wouldn't presume to know what it felt like to be him. But she thought of him on the pier, gloriously nude, stretching his arms toward the sky... and it had been as though his own pleasure in the moment had become her own pleasure. As if every bit of his pleasure, his abandon, his beauty, had infused her drawing.
"No," he said suddenly. Softly but firmly. As though he'd just had a revelation of his own.
"No?" She was crushed. And here she'd really given it some thought.
"No, I don't think you ever stop being you when you draw, Miss Makepeace... not even for a moment. I suspect you are entirely yourself when you draw.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“His torso was a perfect "V" of golden skin and muscle; his slim hips, whiter than the rest of him, tapered to thighs and calves that could have been turned on a lathe, and these were dusted all over with fair hair that glinted in the low sunlight. The hair on his head was cropped short and beacon-bright, but the features of his face were nearly indistinct from where she watched. Given the glory of the rest of him, they scarcely seemed to matter. The man's beauty was, in fact, an assault, and a peculiar tangle of shock and delight and yearning began to beat inside her like a secret, second heart.
And then the man stretched his arms upward, arching his back indolently; exposing the dark fluffs under his arms, and this, somehow, seemed more erotic and intimate than the rest of his naked body combined. Susannah had seen paintings and statues of naked men, for heaven's sake, but none of them had ever sported fluffy hair beneath their arms. In fact, the sheer easiness with which this man wore all his raw beauty frightened her a little. He was like someone too casually wielding a weapon.
She fumbled her sketchbook open.
Quickly, roughly, she sketched him: the upraised arms, the curves of his biceps and legs and the planes of his chest, and when he turned, the darker hair that curled between his legs and narrowed up to a frayed silvery-blond line over his flat stomach. Nestled right between his legs were, of course, his... male parts...which looked entirely benign at the moment, really, at least from this distance. She sketched those, too, as she intended to be thorough, hardly thinking of them as anything other than part of her drawing.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“The man finally pulled himself from the water onto the pier again. Dazzled, she watched water run in clean rivulets down the muscles of his back and buttocks. He shook himself like a great cheerful animal, diamond droplets flying from him, exhaled a satisfied-sounding, "Ahhhh!" and then strode off the pier and vanished from her sight.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“And then a masculine voice drawled virtually into her scalp, fluttering her hair and causing gooseflesh to sweep up her arms. "Do you think it's fair that you have seen every inch of me, and I have seen none of you?"
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Her heart had recovered. It was now drilling away inside her chest like a woodpecker.
The warmth of the man's body behind her was as penetrating as a sunbeam, though not one bit of him actually touched her---she pressed herself closer to the oak tree, to make bloody sure of that. But his scent immobilized her as surely as a net: sun-heated skin and the faintest tang of sweat, and something else, something rich and complicated and fundamental that started a primal buzz of recognition in her blood and made her peculiarly aware of how very female she happened to be.
This wasn't the groomed-for-a-ball brew of starch and soap with which she was familiar. This was stripped-to-the-essence male.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Kit smiled a little as he bent to retrieve the abandoned sketchbook; the irony of a spy being spied upon didn't escape him. He leafed through it idly.
Imagine that... she'd not only been spying... she'd been documenting her findings.
He bit back a laugh when he saw himself, arms stretched skyward, penis dangling modestly---he had been swimming, after all. But it was a beautiful drawing. She'd roughed in the pier beneath him and the trees behind it, too, and she'd caught him perfectly, the mindless contentment of the moment, the strength and confidence of his body, a hint of pleased-with-himself arrogance in the arch of his back. There was nothing tentative or missish about the drawing; it was, above all things, honest and surprisingly accomplished. He was flattered, but he felt oddly exposed, which had nothing to do with the fact that he was naked in the sketch. She'd captured something essential about him.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Who was the artist? The line of her body was slim and softly feminine in a way that spoke to every one of his senses. Her hair, a rich mahogany had smelled wonderful, though he'd be hard-pressed to describe just exactly what it smelled like... fresh, he would have said, Or clean. Or sweet. But none of those words really seemed to apply, precisely. How he loved discovering the unique smell of a woman... a good place to start discovering it, he knew, was the nape of the neck. But there were other delightful places, too.
He smiled, a wicked, private smile, which faded when he remembered he was not to be discovering the smells of females while he was in Barnstables.
You were bloody quiet, she'd said. As though he'd thwarted her.
He gave a bark of delighted laughter. It rather sounded like something he would have said.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy