If I decided to be a serial killer and went on a murderous rampage with a kitchen knife, she’d find some way to be supportive. She’d probably buy me a set of monogrammed cleavers.
His lip was curled. His eyes were narrowed. His nose was stuck so far up in the air, I wondered if he’d come in from the rain to avoid drowning.
A healthy body is a gift. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t treat it like some cheap one-night stand. Treat it like the love of your life. Treat it with respect and tenderness, but most of all, gratitude.
My point is that I’m aware of my shortcomings. Because I know I’m not perfect, I don’t expect other people to be perfect, either. The only thing I demand from anyone – whether they like me or not – is that they’re real. Whatever and whoever they are, they own it. They don’t make fuckin’ excuses. I hate excuses.
Paradise isn’t a garden. It isn’t heaven, or some faraway, mythical place. Paradise is in the small, silent space between the faces of two lovers as they share their bodies and breath.
Just before he died, my father asked me what I thought heaven was like. I told him heaven was a library that had a lot of comfortable chairs, good lighting, and every book ever written. If I lived here, I’d spend all my time in this room.
Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.
You’re the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard. Sassy goddamn woman. No one ever spoke to me.
I assume you’re aware of the definition of the word hypocrite? Because I’m thinking if we looked it up in the dictionary, your picture would be right next to it.
Girl, what are friends for if you can’t count on them to help you move a body?
It slowly dawned on me I knew the exact color of his eyes because I was staring into them. He stared right back at me with a look so charged I thought he might ignite me with it.
The average woman exhibits more courage before lunch every day than a soldier does his entire career. The bravery of women is what built the entire world. You men just like to take credit for it.
You’ve both got a lot of broken pieces. But if you give it a chance, you might find that all your broken pieces fit together perfectly to make a beautiful whole.
Being nice is the worst thing a woman can be. Nice means you have to swallow your own feelings and focus on everyone else’s. Nice means you don’t speak up when you’re wronged. Nice means being a people pleaser and a conciliator and worrying yourself to death over others’ opinions. Nice means never getting what you really want.
Whatever it is you’re doin’, you better be sure. Take your time. Figure it out. But be sure. You owe it to yourself.
Love is war, darlin’. Only thing in life worth sheddin’ blood over.
The same can’t be said for my new client, who appears to have an angry goth porcupine nesting on top of his cranium. “Bed head” doesn’t even begin to cover it. It looks like his preferred hair styling method is sticking his head into a blender and setting it to puree.
This kiss is a gold medal winner, a heart breaker, a soul stealer, a dream. This kiss is everything I never knew I needed. This is the kiss that will ruin me, I know it is, but because it’s so brain-meltingly decadent, I don’t care. I’ll worry about my ruination later.
Nico pressed his cheek to mine. His heart pounded frantically in his chest. “If you wanna call what you feel for me ‘hate,’ then I hate you, too, baby. I hate you with my whole heart.
I’m not a competitive eater, lass, you can’t expect me to shovel an entire pie down my throat in less than half an hour.
The heart wants what it wants,” Cam says, watching me steadily. “But sometimes what you think is love is just a beautiful form of self-destruction. The worst thing in life is to give yourself away in exchange for nothing.