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All I Quotes

“I slept in the closet that night. Paranoia and a wild imagination had me picturing a drunken man tearing into my bedroom with an automatic weapon, screaming like a lunatic while blasting holes in my mattress until fluffs of padding flew everywhere and no sleeping child could possibly be left breathing. The closet just felt safer.”

“I slew him-this right hand struck the dagger to his heart. My deeds slew Christ. Alas! I slew my best beloved; I killed him who loved me with an everlasting love. Oh eyes, why do you refuse to weep when you see Jesus' body mangled and torn? Give vent to your sorrow, Christians, for you have good reason to do so.”

“I slice fresh garlic, rub it into the meat with olive oil, then insert the thin wafers into tiny slits I cut along the grain. After rinsing my hands, I hold them to my face, inhale the garlic perfume still on my skin. I could easily wipe it away on the faucet, a spoon, any piece of stainless steel, but I've never understood why people find it offensive. It's the smell of anticipation, the promise of a wonderful meal in the offing. Opening the spice cabinet, I breathe in the fragrance of all those jars I left behind: saffron threads, cardamom pods, star anise, Tahitian vanilla. I almost weep at the sight of my Fleur de Sel. No one ever gets my obsession with sea salt, especially expensive sea salt. They don't understand that it brightens the flavor of food, wakes it up, like a condiment. Regular table salt just makes food salty.”

“I slid back into my mind and slid once more to my worlds. The wind and the green of Ireland flooded back to me and the clouds moved in from the sea. I threw my head back to the skies and smiled. I could hear the stream nearby and wasted no time seeking it out. She called to me and I listened. I found the stream and I followed through the wood. How I missed my forest, my cottage, my realm. How I wished for nothing else, but to stay there until I died.”

“I slid closer, feeling his arms close around me, tightening. Our lips touched-- "Derek?" his dad called. "Chloe?" Derek let out a growl. I laughed and backed up. "We seem to get a lot of that, don't we?" I said. "Too much. After we eat, we're going for a walk. A long walk. Far from every possible interruption." I grinned up at him. "Sounds like a plan”

“I slid my thigh between her warm ones. Damp heat ground into my muscle as she clamped down and rolled her hips with a small helpless groan. "That feel good, honey?" She was mostly shadows, and I itched to turn on a lamp so I could see her properly. But that would mean stopping, and I wasn't willing to let her go. I relied on touch, running my fingers along her arm, up to her neck, where sweat dewed on her skin. "You like riding my thigh?" "Yes. Yes." That word again. Best word ever. Her lips tickled mine as she panted, her sweet sex working in a little circle. I cupped her cheek and ate at her mouth as she took her pleasure. I'd been wanting to give it to her for so long. So fucking long. Her hands found my chest and slid down, mapping their way along my torso. It was nothing in the scheme of things, but that simple exploration, the way she whimpered and gasped into my mouth, sent licks of heat over my skin. When her slim hand reached my cock and squeezed me through the barrier of my boxers, a groan tore from me. I shuddered, so close to coming from a furtive grope in the dark it would almost be funny if I weren't so worked up. "Take it out," I rasped, flexing my thigh, knowing she'd feel it. I needed her hand on my bare skin. "Please." Deftly she stole beneath the waistband and wrapped her fingers around my needy dick, giving it a firm tug. Then I was the one whimpering and gasping, fucking into the clasp of her hand because it felt so good. Sweet relief, hot pleasure.”

“I slightly feel, having written Paraguay and Newfoundland - and both of them have developed eccentricities through isolation - I am quite relieved to be back in France and Germany, and I want people to enjoy these books for the writing and not because they feel they can laugh - some will laugh - at these eccentric places, that's not what I intend.”

“I slip in to Cardan's room. Though it is not yet dawn, I am lucky. The room is empty of revelry. No courtiers doze on the cushions or in his bed. I walk to where he sleeps and press my hand over his mouth. He wakes, fighting against my grip. I press down hard enough that I can feel his teeth against my skin. He grabs for my throat, and for a moment, I am scared that I'm not strong enough, that my training isn't good enough. Then his body relaxes utterly, as though realizing who I am. He shouldn't relax like that. 'He sent me to kill you,' I whisper against his ear. A shiver goes through his body, and his hand goes to my waist, but instead of pushing me away, he pulls me in to the bed with him, rolling my body across him on to the heavily embroidered coverlets. My hand slips from his mouth, and I am unnerved to find myself here, in the new High King's new bed- one I am still too human to lie in, beside someone who terrifies me the more I feel for him. 'Balekin and Orlagh are planning your murder,' I say, flustered. 'Yes,' He says lazily. 'So why did I wake up at all?' I am awkwardly conscious of his physicality, of the moment when he was half awake and pulled me against him. 'Because I am difficult to charm,' I say. That makes him give a soft laugh. He reaches out and touches my hair, traces the hollow of my cheekbone. 'I could have told my brother that,' he says, with a softness in his voice I am utterly unprepared for.”

“I slip my hand beneath the warm water. He's hot and thick and fits against my palm just right. A low, tortured groan leaves him, and his head falls back against the tub edge. Gently, I work him. And he takes it, his expression almost pained. He's panting heavily now, flushed along the cheeks as his hips begin to rock helplessly in time with my strokes. The sight is so patently sexual, so insanely hot, that my sex swells and slicks. I press my legs together to alleviate the pressure. My hand moves up and down his long length, a steady rhythm. "Is this what you needed?" I rub my thumb over his tip on the downstroke. "Me tugging on your big cock?" "Oh, shit," he whispers, his throat working. "Oh, shit. Delilah... I..." His wide chest hitches on a caught breath. The tips of his fingers turn white as he grips the edge of the tub. He's tensing, all those finely wrought muscles clenching. I jerk at his cock, squeezing a bit harder, going a bit faster. "You needed it, didn't you?" "Yes," he says, panting. "Fuck yes." Macon's eyes close, his brow pinched. He licks his lips as he moans--- whimpers, really. That I've reduced this strong, stoic man to this quivering mass has my head spinning. I want to crawl in the damn tub with him. Sink down onto this beautiful dick and take him. But this time is for him. "Are you going to come for me, Macon?" At the sound of my voice, his eyes snap open. The heat in them sears me. "You want to see me come, Delilah?" "Yes." His lashes flutter. "Then make it hurt, honey." The next downstroke has the water frothing. I give him no mercy, pumping him, pulling on his cock as he grunts and thrusts. He's panting, his straight brows knitted in a look of near pain, but he keeps his gaze on me, silently begging for more. "You're beautiful," I whisper, squeezing his shaft. His nostrils flare as his hips lift, and a long, agonized groan tears from him. He comes in a fine arc over his chest and sinks back into the water with a shuddering sigh. I gentle my hold but stay with him until he is limp and replete. We fall silent until suddenly Macon moves, grasping the back of my neck to haul me close. His kiss is quick but messy, like he's all wrung out but needs to convey how much he liked what I did. The dark fringe of his lashes are clumped and wet from his bath as he stares into my eyes. "Thank you." He kisses me again to punctuate the sentiment.”

“I slipped from bed and padded toward the kitchen for mineral water, the marble cool beneath my feet. A faint ache throbbed behind my eyes—remnants of last night’s gala for Literacy Partners at Cipriani. It had been a glittering evening of black tuxedos and women who air-kissed without smudging lipstick. Champagne flowed like forgiveness. And I had been generous. Perhaps too generous. In a moment of theatrical bravado—half tipsy, half triumphant—I’d lifted my paddle and won the live auction: three weeks for two aboard the legendary Venice Simplon-Orient-Express. The room had applauded. I had smiled as though spontaneous extravagance were second nature.”

“I slipped in and out of consciousness as time stretched and flowed around me. Dreams and reality blurred, but I liked the dreams better. Noah was in them. I dreamed of us, walking hand in hand down a crowded street in the middle of the day. We were in New York. I was in no rush—I could walk with him forever—but Noah was. He pulled me alongside him, strong and determined and not smiling. Not today. We wove among the people, somehow not touching a single one. The trees were green and blossoming. It was spring, almost summer. A strong wind shook a few steadfast flowers off of the branches and into our path. We ignored them. Noah led me into Central Park. It was teeming with human life. Bright colored picnic blankets burst across the lawn, the pale, outstretched forms of people wriggling over them like worms in fruit. We passed the reservoir, the sun reflecting off its surface, and then the crowd began to thicken. They funneled into a throbbing mass as we strode up a hill, over and through. Until we could see them all below us, angry and electric. Noah reached into his bag. He pulled out the little cloth doll, my grandmother’s. The one we burned.”