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“You're shivering so hard the bed is shaking,' he said. 'My hair is wet,' I said. It wasn't a lie. Rhys went silent, then the mattress groaned, sinking directly behind me as his warmth poured over me. 'No expectations,' he said. 'Just body heat.' I scowled at the laughter in his voice. But his broad hands slid under and over me: one flattening against my stomach and tugging me against the hard warmth of him, the other sliding under my ribs and arms to band around my chest, pressing his front into me. He tangled his legs with mine, and then a heavier, warmer darkness settled over us, smelling of citrus and sea. I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material- his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me. 'Your finger... is very cold,' he gritted out, the words hot on my neck. I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across his stomach. 'You cruel, wicked thing,' he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of neck I'd arched beneath him. 'Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?' 'I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies,' I said, sliding another finger down the inside of his wing.” — Sarah J. Maas