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S Quotes

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“She’d best get the hell outta here pretty damn quick. Finally he stood and tossed some cash on the littered table then glanced at the pretty lady shifter. He frowned and gave Joe a look. “With the hunt going down tonight, it might be a good idea to give the little blonde a heads up. She needs to hit the road.” When Joe nodded, Mad shrugged, determined to put some distance between himself and the sexy stranger. “Best take off and see what’s what, Joe. You take care now.” He felt the woman’s eyes on him as he made his way to the door and stopped to return her stare. A sound similar to white noise buzzed in his ears and fairly rattled his brain then stopped almost as soon as it started. Chills raced over his arms. What the fuck?”

“She’d ceased spying upon him, that was true, but the damage was done. Every time he sat at his desk, he could feel her eyes upon him, even though he knew very well she’d shut her curtains tight. But clearly, reality had very little to do with the matter, because all he had to do, it seemed, was glance at her window, and he lost an entire hour’s work. It happened thus: He looked at the window, because it was there, and he couldn’t very well never happen to glance upon it unless he also shut his curtains tight, which he was not willing to do, given the amount of time he spent in his office. So he saw the window, and he thought of her, because, really, what else would he think of upon seeing her bedroom window? At that point, annoyance set in, because A) she wasn’t worth the energy, B) she wasn’t even there, and C) he wasn’t getting any work done because of her. C always led into a bout of even deeper irritation, this time directed at himself, because D) he really ought to have better powers of concentration, E) it was just a stupid window, and F) if he was going to get agitated about a female, it ought to be one he at least liked. F was where he generally let out a loud growl and forced himself to get back to his translation. It usually worked for a minute or two, and then he’d look back up, and happen to see the window, and the whole bloody nonsense cycled back to the beginning.”

“She'd claimed it would be fine to die for her friends, that it was fine because they had made it, they had won, but to be killed by this nobody- Nesta snarled. She had nothing left. Her body had given up on her. Like so many others had. ... She was alone. She had been born alone, and would die alone, and this awful male would be the one to kill her-”

“She'd confused honour with virtue. Virtue is concerned with what we do, and honour is concerned with how we do it. You can fight a war in an honorable way—the Geneva Convention exists for that very reason—and you can enforce the peace without any honor at all. In its essence, honour is the art of being humble. And gangsters, just like cops, politicians, soldiers, and holy men, are only ever good at what they do if they stay humble.”

“She'd decided on a recipe for that evening's dinner that her father used to love- veal braciole with a piccata sauce. It was thinly sliced veal rolled around a little Parmigiano, parsley, and ham, then lightly browned in olive oil. Angelina had bought that nice prosciutto from Sacco's and this seemed like the perfect way to showcase it. She wanted to add some extra zing, so in addition to a squeeze of lemon juice and capers, she was planning to enrich the sauce with dry vermouth and top it with a garnish of fresh-grated lemon zest. She'd serve the veal over linguine dressed in extra-virgin olive oil and butter with lots of cracked pepper, and a side of baby asparagus.”

“She’d expected him to hand her the open vile, but he scooted even closer and press the glass against her– something Elwin had done for her dozens and dozens of times. But it was a very different experience with Fitz. Especially when his finger accidentally grazed the edge of her lips. Not that he seem to notice. He didn’t blush the tiniest bit- which was extra annoying, said she was certain in her cheeks for me on red.”

“She'd failed at everything. But she could do this. She'd failed her father, failed Feyre for years before that. Failed her mother, she supposed. And with Elain, she'd failed as well: first in letting her get taken by Hybern that night they'd been stolen from their beds; then by letting her go into that Cauldron. Then when the Cauldron had taken her into the heart of Hybern's camp. She'd failed and failed and failed, and there was no end to it, no end-”

“She’d fallen in love with a man who risked it all to stoke the embers of desire created that first night and turn those sparks into flames of love. Who saw what she couldn’t because her heart was closed to the possibilities. Who respected and cherished all she was. Ford “Killer” Callaghan slayed her every time, and she was happy to die in his arms every night.”

“She'd found a smutty novel she'd already read and loved in one of the trunks Elain had packed, and had laid it on the desk. She'd said to the air, 'I found this for you. It's a present.' The book had vanished into nothing. But in the morning, she'd found a bouquet of autumnal flowers upon her desk, the glass vase bursting with asters and chrysanthemums of every colour.”

“She’d fucked him over hardcore. She’d betrayed him and she’d lied to him, and she knew that as far as he was concerned she’d led him on and used him as well, had consorted with people who wanted to see him dead and given them information to help them make him so. Most of all, she’d hurt him. And if the pain in her chest was anything close to what he’d felt, she was more than willing to admit he deserved to get his own back. Was willing to do more than admit it; was willing to take it, in the hopes he’d eventually decide she’d been punished enough and they could maybe move on.”

“She'd give him what he needed. Her limbs were jelly as Ellis pivoted her on the bed, looping her thighs over his so she could ride him. "Good girl, ride it, ride my cock," he growled out, his hips punching to meet hers. She wound her arms around his neck, their panting breaths mingling, their bodies as close as possible. The only time Ellis's mouth left hers was when he bent down to suck her nipples, twirling his tongue around them until Rosemary felt the heat building in her core again. She was helpless to avoid it, this onslaught of pleasure. Her thoughts ebbed away, and she wasn't;t sure if she was moaning or whispering or screaming Ellis's name. Every touch rippled into a wave of pleasure, every vicious jerk of his cock inside her, every stroke of his fingers circling her clit had her floating away. It was heady, dizzying. She let herself go, knowing that she was safe, knowing that when this was all over, Ellis would bring her back down to Earth.”

“She'd gotten the butcher to grind a mixture of filet mignon and chuck steak for the burgers, and had blended in mushrooms and blue cheese; she'd ordered hot dogs from Chicago, which came delivered in a cooler of dry ice. She'd made her own barbecue sauce, plus dozens of elaborate canapés, slivers of smoked salmon on cucumbers and a refined version of onion dip, where she spent an hour caramelizing onions.”

“She'd grown up on a sun-drenched island called Eano, where you were in far more danger of sunburn than frostbite. She used to walk barefoot through the sand and feel it tickle her toes on her way to her cousins' house, and she'd swim every sunset in the sun-warmed water before her parents called her in for dinner. At the height of summer, you could cook mussels and clams by leaving them out on the rocks, and you had to drink fruit juice to stay hydrated or you'd risk the wrath of the cluster of grandfathers who'd hand out pitchers of guava and watery sweet-berry juice at every street corner. Remembering, Terlu could almost taste the hint of sweet-berry. It was the flavor of the summer solstice, when the whole island would be decked out in flowers and smell like chocolate and cinnamon and citrus as every baker and aspiring baker would compete to create the most delectable pastries for the Summer Feast...”

“She'd grown up with few friends. She'd played with the neighborhood boys, chasing pigeons and catching fireflies with them until it was no longer considered proper. By then, the girls in the village scorned her. In front of her mother and father, they pretended to be polite, but Mulan knew what they said about her behind her back. Ill-bred and ill-mannered. She has the temper of a firecracker and the grace of a bull. It's a miracle she even looks like a girl- look at the hay in her hair, and the dirt on her face. What a discredit to her mother! The insults had never bothered Mulan too much. Back then, her mother comforted her by telling her to ignore what people said, and talking to her father would always make her feel better. And she'd had Khan for company... then, later, Mushu and Cri-Kee.”

“She’d had unsettling dreams like this. 'I’m wandering through Miryoku, but it’s not Miryoku. Or it is, but it’s been abandoned and overgrown, like no one’s lived here for decades. It’s become a dense forest with pieces of buildings showing through in spots. I hardly recognize anything. Fae and animals have moved in—there’s a raccoon family looking at me from an apartment window, a cluster of mushroom fae crawling all over a café sign—and it smells like wild plants and earth and flowers. It feels both familiar and unsafe, and it makes me so, so sad.”