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Quote by Lisa Kleypas

“Once as a child, Phoebe had been caught outside in a summer storm, and had seen a butterfly knocked from the air by raindrops. It had fluttered and fallen to the ground, bombarded from every direction. The only choice had been to fold its wings, take shelter and wait. This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel- hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging. She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn't know whether she was trying to escape or press closer. She had craved this, the hardness and heat of his body against hers, the sensation familiar and yet not at all familiar. She had feared this, a man with a will and power that matched her own, a man who would desire and possess every last part of her without mercy.”

Quote by Lisa Kleypas

Book:Devil's Daughter
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Devil's Daughter

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Author

Lisa Kleypas
Lisa Kleypas

Lisa Kleypas, born in 1964, is a renowned American romance novel author. Her works are known for their delicate emotional descriptions and captivating storylines, which have won the hearts of numerous readers. more

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“Vane watched her reaction from under heavy lids, watched flaring passion light her eyes. Sparks of pure gold flashed in the hazel depths as he gently kneaded, then sent his fingers gliding over her silken skin. He knew he should kiss her, distract her, from what came next- but the compulsion to witness, to know her reaction as she learned what he would do, as he filled his senses with her, waxed strong.”

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“She should, of course, feel scandalized, or at the very least, shocked. Yet whenever she allowed herself to recall all that had happened, sweet pleasure washed through her, leaving her skin tingling and her breasts deliciously warm. Her "shock" was exciting, thrilling, an enticing reaction, not one of revulsion. She should feel guilty, yet whatever guilt she possessed was swamped beneath a compulsion to know, to experience, and an intense recollection of how much she'd enjoyed that particular experience. Lips firming, she set a stitch. Curiosity- it was her curse, her bane, the cross she had to bear. She knew it. Unfortunately, knowing didn't quell the impulse. This time, curiosity was prompting her to waltz with a wolf- a dangerous enterprise. For the last two days, she'd watched him, waiting for the pounce she'd convinced herself would come, but he'd behaved like a lamb- a ridiculously strong, impossibly arrogant, not to say masterful lamb, but with a guileless newborn innocence, as if a halo had settled over his burnished locks.”

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“I do not know what love is I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.”

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“I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.”

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“The restaurant owner brought them wine, pale and golden and cool. There were just four oysters each, and when they were all gone they turned their attention to the cecinella. After the soft shapeless texture of the oysters these were almost the opposite: hard, crunchy skeletons whose flavor was all on the outside, a crisp bite of garlic and peperone that dissolved to nothing in your mouth. The ricci, or sea urchins, were another taste again, salty and exotic and rich. It was hard to believe that he had once thought they could be an austerity measure. After that they were brought without being asked a dish of baby octopus, cooked with tomatoes and wine mixed with the rich, gamey ink of a squid. For dessert the owner brought them two peaches. Their skins were wrinkled and almost bruised, but the flesh, when James cut into it with his knife, was unspoiled and perfectly ripe, so dark it was almost black. He was about to put a slice into his mouth when Livia stopped him. "Not like that. This is how we eat peaches here." She cut a chunk from the peach into her wine, then held the glass to his lips. He took it, tipping the wine and fruit together into his mouth. It was a delicious, sensual cascade of sensations, the sweet wine and the sweet peach rolling around his mouth before finally, he had to bite it, releasing the fruit's sugary juices. It was like the oyster all over again, a completely undreamt-of experience, and one that he found stirringly sexual, in some strange way that he couldn't have defined.”

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“He couldn't resist her. He didn't want to. In torturously slow degrees, he lowered his head toward hers. Every sense, every nerve in his body was focused on the next few moments. He knew he would want to savor the memory of this, the first time he had kissed Lily. He pressed his lips to hers gently at first, not knowing what to expect. But even such a light touch sent a swift rush of sensation through him. It was unlike anything he had ever known. Delicate and passionate at once. The silken texture of her lips, her pliant softness, the little moan that caught in her throat. It stunned him. Stopped his breath and jolted his heart. Intent upon exploring this new experience, he shifted the pressure of his mouth, brushing his lips across hers before he flicked his tongue out to touch just the center of her bottom lip. Her lips parted on a sudden exhale. Her warm breath mingled with his. Something more than desire coursed through his blood. He lifted his hands to grasp her shoulders, and with a groan, he crushed her mouth with his. A voice in his head demanded he slow down, relish the sensations. But he was too desperate to know more. He tilted his head, craving the taste of her as though it could save his soul. He swept his tongue past her teeth, sliding it into the recesses of her mouth. She tasted of innocence and shadows, and he was ravenous for her. It shocked him- that desperate, obsessive need to consume her, to take all that she was into himself. To make what was hers, his. Her breath, her taste, her softness, and her need.”

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“There was so much heat. So much tenderness in the way her body accepted his. Encompassing, consuming, drawing on his final reserves. It was a sensation unlike anything he could have imagined. Finally, he could take no more. Tensing his buttocks, he gave one long thrust and drove deeply into her core. His jaw clenched, and a guttural moan caught in his throat. He nearly closed his eyes in an instinctive urge to contain the fierce rush of pleasure, but he could not look away from Lily's face. The tip of her tongue pressed delicately against the top row of her parted teeth as she gasped for breath. It was the only reaction she gave to the rending of her maidenhead. While he felt as though he had trespassed into nirvana. Being inside her, fully encased in her warmth, was more powerful a feeling than he had ever expected. It was possession and surrender at once. Each ragged breath he drew as he remained still and focused on managing the overwhelming stimulation only made his body crave more. As stunning and intimate as it was to feel so connected with Lily, there was an undeniable force within him, demanding he take them both to the limit of what they could endure. He knew he should wait, allow her body to adjust to his intrusion, but he couldn't. He had been reduced to nothing but a primitive urge to finally, finally explore the bone-deep pleasure of being joined with this woman. And it was pleasure, he realized in awe. Full, encompassing, undeniable pleasure. The flashes of pain across his affected nerves were not nearly enough to distract from the beauty of everything else he felt.”

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