I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.
He ordered food with a childlike glee and watched me eat, tasting it as I did. In private he'd roll on his back like a cat, hands pressed to his mouth as if trying to drain every taste. It was the only thing he did that was cute. He was gorgeous, sensual, but rarely cute.- Anita Blake about Jean-Claude
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, he said, That from the nunnery, Of they chaste breast and quiet mind.I looked up at him, and said the next line, To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase, he said.The first foe in the field, I said, and let him draw me closer.And with a stronger faith embrace, he said.A sword, a horse, a shield. And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore, he whispered against my hair.I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.