Fighting with Harper stirred his blood, and walking out on her had only intensified his need, as though the brief separation was more than he could bear. All he could think about was getting back to her. Undressing her. And fucking her until he worked whatever this desperate feeling was out of his system.
Idrith didn’t want to go back to his cold lonely room, with all its unanswered questions. He took the glass and sat down. For a long while they sat without speaking, watching the flames and sipping their drinks. Idrith would have felt at peace if it weren’t for the book in Harmion’s lap.
Sandy’s was one of those places that made poor, white trash feel like high-class consumers. This was the kind of place you’d take your mistress to, but never your wife. Wives expected better. Mistresses were impressed by the blandness of the over-priced wine and the vast Italian menu options.
Just read The Virtue of Minding Your Own Business. Oh my, what currents run deep! Beautifully seen, beautifully told. Praise praise praise . . . Pardon my French, but you are one darn major American writer!"---Richard Bach, author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Illusions, on Sandcastle and Other Stories
Rage and despair shook her for minutes or hours. She was unaware of the passage of time. Finally spent, she retreated inward and collapsed onto the floor in a fetal position, the letter in shreds around her. The room had grown dark. Like a gentle snowfall, the cold mantle of an unbearable silence descended.
Hot damn, Diego Santero looked fine soaking wet. Everything about him radiated potent masculinity, from the slick, dark hair that drew emphasis to the angles of his cheeks and jaw, to the water beading off his forearms and the soaked black shirt and cargo pants that clung to every curve of muscle and flesh below.
They were opposite in so many ways, but it was the kind of difference that was balancing-her softness with his steel, his instinct and her logic. He was teaching her by example to have courage in the face of fear, and she badly wanted to help him give voice to his grief and understand it was all right to feel pain.
Impertinent submissive,” Raoul snapped, and his dark brown eyes turned mean. “Nothing new for this one. You're doing a lousy job of bringing her to heel, Marcus.”“Bring me to heel? Like I'm a dog?” Without thinking, Gabi instinctively yanked away and snapped out, “Bite me.
—Quería preguntártelo algún día, cuando fuera el momento adecuado, pero hemos comenzado a hablar…[…]—La miró a los ojos mientras le acariciaba la mejilla con los nudillos—. Estoy ante ti sin nada, bella, solo te entrego a mí mismo y mis sentimientos.
The reality and what it meant was slowly dawning: the betrayal, deception, and omission. Clandestine meetings. Evasion under questioning. In hindsight, Dana and Evan picked out the clues they’d missed, reevaluated the moments they’d been led astray, and tiptoed over possible theories as to how they’d been duped.
Elsa's mother no longer spoke to her of men and love, but of duty and fate and accepting one’s burden. As far as Elsa could tell, if love really was the inherited female domain, then women were saddled with the biggest burden of all. It was pressing down upon them, the way the sea pressed down upon the creatures of the deep.
Why do you even want to be involved with me?" she asked. "I'm a complete mess. I don't have my head on straight. I'm a master at fucking up everything that's good in my life.""But you're my mess." Cole said quietly. "I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to be you because that's who I care about.
She dribbled water over his neck and back. The towel didn't quite soak up all of it, and drops raced down his back, trailing the curve of his spine. She loved that curve, framed on either side by ripple after ripple of muscle, and she especially loved the way it dipped in at his waist before flaring onto his perfect, rounded backside.
Eve: What is it about asking you Catholic questions that gets you all jumpy?Roarke: You'd be jumpy, too, if I asked you things that make you feel the hot breath of hell at your back.Eve: You're not going to hell.Roarke: Oh, and have you got some inside intel on that?Eve: You married a cop...you married me. I'm your goddamn salvation.
I wished for you on every shooting star when I was little. Now, if I gathered all of the stars I wished for you on, none could ever shine brighter than you. You are my shooting star, Ren. You are here with me walking this beach. I may have fucked up, but I swear to you, to God, and every single star in this sky, I will never give you up!”Stefan
