He wasn't handsome. That was too calm a word. He was intensely masculine. He was sexual. He attracted.
He didn't just occupy space; he saturated it. The room had been full of books before, now it was full of him.
Nobody looks good in their darkest hour. But it's those hours that make us what we are. We stand strong, or we cower. We emerge victorious, tempered by our trails, or fracture by a permanent, damning fault line.
I was a twenty-two-year-old single white female alone in a strange country where my sister had been killed.
Even now, my back was still arched with sensual invitation, my bottom was questing up like a cat in heat, and my every move was supple, sinuous. I was one great big come-hither.
My heart has jet lag.
Being threatened seems to being out the worst in me.
I don't believe Barrons is out to destroy mankind. I don't think he particularly cares much for mankind, but I don't think he has any deep-seated desire to see us all wiped out.
The two of you are getting downright chatty, aren't you, Ms. Lane? When did you last see him? what else did he tell you? I'm asking the questions tonight. If an illusion of control comforts you, Ms. Lane, by all means, cling to it.
He goes for stark versus accessorized, dark over bright, jewel tone instead of pastel, carnal over flirty.
You mean you have to be epic already, for it to make you more epic?
Omnipotent not omniscient. We are frequently blinded by how much we see.
At the very last moment, just before its lips claimed hers, its grip on her face relaxed slightly and she did the only thing she could think of: She head-butted it. Snapped her head back, then forward again, and bashed it square in the face as hard as she could. So hard, in fact, that it made her woozy and gave her an instant migraine, making her wonder how Jean-Claude Van Damme always managed to coolly continue fighting after such a stunt. Obviously, movies lied.
Life's not linear at all. It happens in lighting flashes. So fast you don't see those lay-you-out cold moments coming at you until you're Wile E. Coyote, steamrolled flat as a pancake by the Road Runner, victim of your own elaborate schemes.
Sometimes the small pleasures in life are the sweetest.
Fire to my ice. Ice to my fever.
Werewolves? Oh please, just plain stupid. Who wants to get it on with a man ruled by his inner dog?
The other day upon the stair, I saw a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today; how I wish he'd go away!" ~Gabrielle O'Callaghan towards Adam Black
Hours later, Adam propped himself up on an elbow and stared down at Gabrielle, pondering what made beauty. He thought he was beginning to understand. It wasn't symmetry of features; it wasn't perfection. It was uniqueness. That which one person had that no other possessed. That which was only their own.
Oh, please," I rolled my eyes, "You're a leftie, Barrons." "Touche, Ms. Lane," he murmured.
Superglue after duct tape a girl's best friend.
You can't go forward if you're looking backward. You run into walls that way.
Get back on the bike and tell me where to go." "I'll tell you where to go," I muttered sourly, and he laughed.
I never thought there might be one like you out there. Unaware, untrained. Unbelievable. You have no idea what you are, do you?” “Crazy?
You've mistaken me for someone else. Do not wait on me, Ms. Lane. Do not construct your world around mine. I'm not that man." "Screw you, Barrons." "I'm not that man, either.
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