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Quote by Chelsea Cain

“maybe the reason we all picture serial killers as schlubby, middle-aged white guys is because they are the ones who get caught.”

Quote by Chelsea Cain

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Chelsea Cain
Chelsea Cain

Chelsea Cain, born on February 5, 1972, is a renowned American novelist known for her suspense, crime, and thriller novels. Her works have gained popularity among readers. more

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“-Queria te levar no baile amanhã. Marfiza, que partia a laranja ao meio, ficou ser reação aparente. A lâmina em movimento terminava de atravessar os últimos milímetros do bagaço da laranja e continuou o corte até a primeira camada da pele e seguiu em frente, epiderme-derme-hipoderme abaixo. Atônita depois do convite, cortando-se a si e nenhum pio. Até o susto com o sangue em jorro denso. Chafariz pintando o rosto dela e o dele também. Um gritinho baixo, miado e cataploft. Ele desmaiou por entre as pernas dela esguichadas de sangue. Ela atônita pra mim, olhos maiores que a cara: morto? Adelmino estava vivo. Tão vivo que alguns anos depois se casaria comigo. Pai dos meus quatro filhos. Pamonha ali estatelado.”

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“Then he strode forward; as I flinched back, he dropped to his knees before me in a deep obeisance. He kissed my foot and laid his hands against my knees: the ancient posture of supplication. Then he looked up at me, his blue eyes wide and desperate. Once, as a child, I had sat with my ear pressed against the grandfather clock in the sitting room as it tolled noon. The peals didn't ring through my head; they rang through my entire body, from the bones in my arms to the air in my lungs, until I was nothing but a helpless vibration alongside them. It felt the same way now. For a short, trackless time I couldn't move or breathe; I could only stare down at his pale face, his half-parted lips, and echo the thought over and over. He is begging me.”

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Book:Cruel Beauty
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“Bennett reached for the fork first and scooped up a perfect bite of everything, which was a relief. A relief that turned into panic when he held the fork out toward me. Not for me to take---for me to take a bite. "For you, sweetheart." His eyes sparkled behind his glasses. I squared my shoulders. I could not believe this was happening. "Thank you, darling," I forced out, and let him feed me. My lips closed over the fork, Bennett watching the entire time. My face warmed again at the intentness of his stare on my mouth, but surely he was just watching to see when he could remove the utensil. The babka beignet was spectacular, light and fluffy and buttery, the chocolate filling dark and sweet against the tart brightness of the cherry. I parted my lips so that he could pull the fork back. His face was red again. Fortunately, he didn't make me feed him, just took a bite himself. Sadie asked, "So? What do you think?" "Delicious," he said, but he wasn't even looking at the dessert. He was looking at me. I couldn't even bring myself to answer. I could still feel the insistent push of his fork against my lips.”

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“It was a brave thing you did, Susannah." Something unfamiliar in his eyes warmed Susannah clear through, and at the same time made her feel strangely bare. "I wasn't trying to be brave." Kit's lovely mouth lifted at the corner. "Which is what makes it brave." His expression was still difficult to read. He seemed so somber, almost shy, if she didn't know better. Humble? No, that couldn't be. But the warmth in it was unmistakable. "You'll be a little sore tomorrow." He absently reached out and kneaded her upper arm. Susannah closed her eyes to slits; the kneading felt wonderful. It was almost more intimate than a kiss, but then again, almost nothing seemed intimate in comparison to having one's hand thrust up a horse, and Susannah, at the moment, didn't care. Kit abruptly dropped her hand. She opened her eyes fully again. And they stood again quietly together for a moment, simply looking at each other. A peculiar peace stole over Susannah, a lovely, dreamy sort of fullness.”

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“Your armpit is very handsome." This made him laugh. "Only an artist would think an armpit is handsome." "But it is... the line of it is, anyhow. The muscles and shadows and hair..." She traced the muscles and shadows and hair with her finger as she said the words, and her voice drifted. She sat up suddenly and reached for her sketchbook and quickly rendered him, that arm stretched over his head, his bare chest, and long legs, his lolling, spent manhood resting in curling hair, his wonderful face reflecting smug satisfaction, easy intimacy. "You're a very good model," she told him approvingly. "You hold cooperatively still." "I don't think I could move if you pointed a gun at me," he murmured. She kissed the birthmark in the shape of a gull on his outstretched wrist, then leaned down and kissed his nipple, tracing it with her tongue, tasting it the way he'd tasted hers. His hand trailed down her back, she saw unmistakable signs of stirring below. "You're moving now," she teased. He gave a short, very distracted laugh. "Siren," he said absently. Clearly enjoying the run of her tongue over his chest.”

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Book:Beauty and the Spy
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