Sometimes my mind gets the best of me and fixates on how many shitloads are in a fuckton, but these are the kind of things my therapist sighs quietly at when I mention and looks down at her hands like she’s lost all hope of being useful to society, so I’ve never gotten a solid answer to that.
No one can offer you proof of reality, not even Einstein himself. But just because it can’t be proven doesn’t mean the sun won’t rise tomorrow. It will.
He has no idea what’s happening. Honestly, there’s nothing more adorable than a befuddled man. Especially when they’re huge and armed.
You own me, Sloane. Every corner of my worthless black soul. Every piece of my corrupt black heart. You own it all, and you always will. I’m your slave, not the other way around. Never forget it.
I pause, examining his expression. “Why are you so quiet?” “I don’t plan murder out loud.
His voice goes rough. “Because once you’re in my bed, you’re mine. And that’s it. Once I have you, I’ll never let you go. Not even if you ask me to.” We stare at each other. After a moment, I say, “Wow. We haven’t even had our first date yet.
And I can’t lose her. If ever I do, I’ll burn the whole world to the ground before following her into the dark.
I crucify myself over all the things I should’ve told Theo while I had the time. We always think we have enough of that precious commodity, until fate steps in and proves us wrong.
Don’t let the worst things that happen to you be the benchmark for your self-respect. Don’t give bad people the power to hurt you again by believing you deserved what they did in the first place.
Two things you should know about me: one, I always get what I want. And two, I always plan ten steps ahead to get it.
Please be quiet. My inner demons are demanding that I kill you, and I want to hear what they have to say.
Tell me what I need to hear.” I whisper, “I’m yours. I’m in love with you. You have my whole heart.
And who are you?” “The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.
We skipped the dinner dates and polite conversation and jumped straight to kinky fuckery.
I tried to kick him under the table, but my legs were too short.
Love isn’t a nightmare. It’s a miracle. A blessing. It’s knowing you’re finally home.
I’m gonna devour you, little bunny rabbit, piece by tasty piece. I’m going to eat. You. Up.
I’ve learned that no matter how well you think you know yourself, you can still be surprised. You can’t control what moves you. The only thing in your control is the choice over whether or not you surrender to it.
As it turns out, that was the exact wrong thing to say. He regards me with entire cities burning to the ground in his eyes.
What we call memory is the intersection between imagination and fact. Memories are the stories we tell ourselves about the important events in our lives. In the telling, some details get lost, others embellished, until truth is closer to fiction.