Harlequin

old and wheezing

And as I closed the door, the only person I hated was myself.

“I do as Martin Luther instructed—I sin boldly.”

“A Bible-quoting erotica writer—you are quite the oxymoron,”

“As extroverted as she is, I would have thought signings would be her forte.”

“She’s all bark, Zach.” Wesley’s eyes scanned the crowd that was beginning to form behind the red ropes. “Being around a lot of people bothers her when she’s not in total control of the situation.”

“Control freak, is she?”

“You’re beautiful enough and wild enough that you make me think things I never thought I would think again and feel things I didn’t think I’d ever feel again. And you make me afraid I’ll start forgetting things I don’t ever want to forget. You’re dangerous.”

“That year after I left Søren, I became obsessed with one question—when was it, when were we, irrevocable? When did all the little tumblers fall into place and our fate was locked in and it became impossible for us to be anything other than what we became? When was the guilty moment?”

“Nora— Aristotle said character is plot. Aristotle is dead and can’t hurt you. I’m alive and I can. Plot is plot. Find one and keep it.”

“I have seen both hell and purgatory. I assure you, purgatory is the more fearsome punishment.”

Oh, I doubt Mr. Easton will bend me over my desk and ravish me the second you leave,