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Quote by Devon Ashley

“My name is Rosalie. I may be smaller, I may be weaker, but I was born free, should die free. You will not take this from me.”

Quote by Devon Ashley

Book:Dust
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Dust

In this gripping narrative, the story unfolds in a world ravaged by a mysterious dust storm that has decimated civilization. The protagonist navigates this harsh landscape, facing the challenges of scarcity, survival, and the remnants of a once-great society. more

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Devon Ashley

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“She jolted to a halt when she saw what was waiting for her. They were breathtaking and entrancing. Their beauty overwhelming, and their light warm and inviting. Safety and peace settled over her, as she gazed around at the beauty before her. They were no more than a foot long with silky wings and a wonderful aura, with light beaming from their bodies. All possessing long, satin hair, with a diversity of color. Not one was identical and their divinity could be felt to the depths of Malkia’s soul.”

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Book:Eyes Wide Shut
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“Alec had stilled, his eyes slowly widening, his hands paused between his legs. Swallowing, I forced myself to blink, debating my next move. But before I could decide, his eyes turned darker, and his hands started moving again. My eyes followed them as he deliberately and slowly lathered more soap all over himself: his chest, his abs, then back between his legs, where a part of him stood up to attention. Wet, naked Alec Mackenzie got hard watching me watching him rub soap all over his body. I had never, ever been so turned on in my whole life. If I could fan myself, I would. He took his sweet time rinsing the soap off, a seductive smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Reaching behind him to turn off the water, he stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist, never once breaking eye contact with me. Then he strolled over and kneeled at the side of the bath, casually propping his dripping wet arm on the edge of the bathtub, his face only inches away from mine. "I hope you enjoyed that." His voice, rough as gravel, rumbled in my ear. I shivered, as if he'd touched and caressed every single inch of my bare skin. Dropping his eyes to my mouth, he gave me one last sizzling look before standing up. "I sure as hell did." Fuuuuuuuccckkkk. He walked out without another word, and I let out a long, ragged breath. My heart made a huge, nonstop ruckus throughout Alec's performance, and it was a miracle I had survived the earth-shattering act.”

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Book:Salty, Spiced, and a Little Bit Nice
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“I don't believe in funerals. Funerals aren't for the dead. The dead are gone. They couldn't care less. Funerals are for the living. They're for the people trying to feel better about the things they could have said, the things they could have done for the dead while they were still alive. The dead don't give a damn. The dead couldn't care less about what's being said to them, about them. Hell, they're dead. The dead know the living aren't there for them, but for themselves. To feel better, to feel less guilty, less regretful, to feel loved, better appreciated by all the other living people who, like them, should have paid attention to the dead while it still mattered, while they were still alive. So screw funerals. Forget the dead. Tend to the living. Before it's too late. Before they're dead”

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Book:Celebrating Time Alone: Stories Of Splendid Solitude
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“George is very far, right now, from sneering at any of these fellow creatures. They may be crude and mercenary and dull and low, but he is proud, is glad, is almost indecently gleeful to be able to stand up and be counted in their ranks—the ranks of that marvelous minority, The Living. They don't know their luck, these people on the sidewalk, but George knows his—for a little while at least—because he is freshly returned from the icy presence of The Majority, which Doris is to join. I am alive, he says to himself, I am alive! And life-energy surges hotly through him, and delight, and appetite. How good to be in a body—even this beat-up carcass—that still has warm blood and semen and rich marrow and wholesome flesh! The scowling youths on the corners see him as a dodderer no doubt, or at best as a potential score. Yet he claims a distant kinship with the strength of their young arms and shoulders and loins. For a few bucks he could get any one of them to climb into the car, ride back with him to his house, strip off butch leather jacket, skin-tight Levi's, shirt and cowboy boots and take a naked, sullen young athlete, in the wrestling bout of his pleasure. But George doesn't want the bought unwilling bodies of these boys. He wants to rejoice in his own body—the tough triumphant old body of a survivor. The body that has outlived Jim and is going to outlive Doris.”

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Book:A single man
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