7
" He reached over and took Taylor’s hand. She did not pull her hand away.
He moved his hand up her arm. She stiffened a little and glanced around, making sure they weren’t seen. Or, maybe, hoping they were.
His hand reached her neck. He leaned toward her and pulled her to him.
He kissed her.
She kissed him back.
He kissed her harder. And she slid her hand under his shirt, fingers stroking his bare flesh.
Then he pulled away, fast.
“Sorry, I . . .” He hesitated, his wallowing brain arguing against a body that was suddenly aflame.
Sam stood up very suddenly and walked away.
Taylor laughed gaily at his back. “Come see me when you get tired of mooning over the ice princess, Sam. "
― Michael Grant , Plague (Gone, #4)
11
" An Arundel TombSide by side, their faces blurred,The earl and countess lie in stone,Their proper habits vaguely shownAs jointed armour, stiffened pleat,And that faint hint of the absurd -The little dogs under their feet.Such plainness of the pre-BaroqueHardly involves the eye, untilIt meets his left-hand gauntlett, stillClasped empty in the other, andOne sees with a sharp tender shockHis hand withdrawn, holding her hand.They would not think to lie so long,Such faithfulness in effigyWas just a detail friends would see,A sculptor's sweet commissioned graceThrown off in helping to prolongThe Latin names around the base.They would not guess how early inTheir supine stationary voyageThe air would change to soundless damage,Turn the old tenantry away;How soon succeeding eyes beingTo look, not read. Rigidly, theyPersisted, linked, through lengths and breadthsOf time. Snow fell, undated. LightEach summer thronged the grass. A brightLitter of birdcalls strewed the sameBone-littered ground. And up the pathsThe endless altered people cameWashing at their identity.Now helpless in the hollowOf an unarmorial age, a troughOf smoke in slow suspended skeinsAbove their scrap of history,Only an attitude remains.Time has transfigured them intoUntruth. The stone fidelityThey hardly meant has come to beTheir final blazon and to proveOur almost-instinct almost-true:What will survive of us is love. "