Home, Ms. Lane?” His deep voice was gently amused. “I have to call it something,” I said morosely. “They say home is where the heart is. I think mine’s satin-lined and six feet under.
The inspector ate only two of my tiny sandwiches: the first because he hadnt expected it to taste so awful; the second, I think, because hed thought surely the first must have been a mistake.
I'd never been turned on by the Ken doll—even before I looked down his pants and saw what was missing.
If I entered a tropical beach, would I end up in Nazi Germany with my highly inconvenient black hair?
The kind of person that thanks another person never survives. Have you learned nothing?
You hated my rainbows, now you don't like my leather. Is there anything you like on me?
But it seems Ive got this set of scales inside me that I never used to have, or at least I wasnt aware of, and I cant shake the feeling that if I dont try to keep them balanced, Ill lose something I wont be able to get back.
Oh ye of little faith. Not for IYD... But you didn't even try.
We're taking back the night
raking a hand through his hair, he forced his attention to the text she'd left on the coffee table, refusing to dwell on the disconcerting fact that a part of him had taken one look at the lass in such proximity to his bed and said simply: Mine
I see God in a sunrise, not in repetitious ritual.
I'm a bartender. I like recipes. They're concretes. Was the drink recipe for seduction one shot charm and two shots self-deception, shaken, not stirred?
Four: If you try to force yourself into my head, I will force myself into your pants.
It's a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: It's every princess for herself.
He looked blank. “He’s the one who’s been doing the magic against us?” “Duh,” I said. “Doona be ‘duh’ing me, lass,” he growled, his burr thickening.
He lives. I breathe. I want. Him. Always. Fire to my ice. Ice to my fever. -Mac
Safety is a fence, and fences are for sheep.
Silence isn't golden, it's deadly. It's a vacuum that fills up with ghosts.
Who would ever understand me?
As I moved deeper into the room, his gaze dropped to my feet, and worked its way back to my face. I was wearing faded jeans, boots, and a snug pink Juicy T-shirt I got on sale at TJ Maxx last summer that said I’m a Juicy girl. “I bet you are,” he murmured.
And then what? Said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Lane, I didn't mean to wrinkle your lovely blouse. May I press that for you?' Or perhaps you gouged it with one of your pretty pink nails?" I was really beginning to wonder what his hang-up with pink was, but I didn't resent the sarcasm in his voice.
The battle had been invisible to the naked eye, but the hardest ones are.
There are three floors beneath the garage? Why on earth?" -Mac
I am a kite in a tornado, but I have a long string.
Burns from dropped matches, Ms. Lane? Matches one might have dropped while flirting with a pernicious Fae, Ms. Lane? Have you any idea the value of this rug?” I didn’t think his nostrils could flare any wider. His eyes were black flame. “Pernicious? Good grief, is English your second language? Third?” Only someone who’d learned English from a dictionary would use such a word. “Fifth,” he snarled. “Answer me.
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