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Quote by Gabe Adams-Wheatley

“I hated my parents for making me go through all that hard work, but now I look at them and celebrate that they pushed me to be independent and be the person that they knew I could be”

Quote by Gabe Adams-Wheatley

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Gabe Adams-Wheatley

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“The fuck is this shit?" it says. "Can you bloody believe this shit?" "No, honey," I say. "This is absolutely ridiculous." "Aren't you pissed the fuck off?" "Someone really should do something about this." "Why don't we bloody do something about it?" "Yeah, why don't we?" I say. "But how." "Well, we find whatever prick is in charge and give the fucker a piece of our minds, of course."”

RealityTruthSexViolenceFree WillArtificial IntelligenceConspiracyDystopian FictionUneasePost Modern
Book:Motive Black
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“His hand beneath mine was warm, large enough where mine didn't cover nearly all of it, his skin soft and his bones hard ridges that tensed at the touch of my skin. What are you doing? I thought furiously at it. My lips opened to say sorry, and I went to pull my hand away, but before I could do either of those things, his hand flipped over, our palms meeting as he threaded his fingers through mine. It was like when I was a freshman in high school and held a boy's hand for the very first time. The touch of his skin on mine made me tingle all the way up my arm, and the way he squeezed my hand, reassuringly but also firmly, as if to say, this is the way I'd squeeze around your nipple or cup your ass to press you up against me.”

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Book:Best Served Hot
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“Where are you going?” He looked over his shoulder at me. “If I stay, you won’t get any sleep.” “Stay,” I said. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Lie—such an outright lie. He gave me a half smile that told me he knew it, too, but nestled down, tugging me into his arms. I wrapped an arm around his waist and rested my head in the hollow of his shoulder. He idly stroked my hair. I didn’t want to sleep—didn’t want to lose a minute with him—but an immense exhaustion was pulling me away from consciousness, until all I knew was the touch of his fingers in my hair and the sounds of his breathing.”

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Book:A Court of Thorns and Roses
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“Say something.” I struggled to get the word out. “What?” “My name.” I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to say that, and I didn’t know how it would feel to say it again after all this time, but I drew in a deep breath. “Rider.” Another breath shuddered through me. “Rider Stark.” His throat worked and, for a heartbeat, neither of us moved as a steamy breeze tossed strands of hair across my face. Then he dropped his notebook to the pavement. I was surprised it didn’t burst into dust. His long-legged pace ate up the distance. One second there was several feet between us, and in the next breath he was right there in front of me. He was so much taller now. I barely reached his shoulders. And then his arms were around me. My heart exploded as those strong arms pulled me against his chest. There was a moment where I froze, and then my arms swept around his neck. I held on, squeezing my eyes shut as I inhaled the clean scent and the lingering trace of aftershave. This was him. His hugs were different now, stronger and tighter. He lifted me clear off my feet, one arm around my waist, the other hand buried deep in my hair, and my breasts were mushed against his surprisingly hard chest. Whoa. His hugs were most definitely different than they were when we were twelve. “Jesus, Mouse, you don’t even know...” His voice was gruff and thick as he set me back on my feet, but he didn’t let go. One arm stayed around my waist. His other hand fisted the ends of my hair. His chin grazed the top of my head as I slid my hands down his chest. “I never thought I’d see you again.” I rested my forehead between my hands, feeling his heart beat fast. I could hear people around us, and I imagined some were probably staring, but I didn’t care. Rider was warm and solid. Real. Alive.”

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Book:The Problem with Forever
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“I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another’s movements. His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope. But this dance is different. It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don’t, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price. “Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away. Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.”

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Book:The Forbidden Wish
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