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“Fine. You look fuckable.”
“Books aren’t life. People use them to escape life, learn things that will help them achieve success, or find new ways to cope with life. Life is what happens outside the bound story. Life isn’t the letters on the page; it’s what inspires those words.”
“Fine. Let’s go with fuckable again. You look fuckable when you’re mad.”
“Good idea. Get over it and then get under him.”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met.” “Shut up,” I murmur just above a whisper, a little breathy as I dip my chin toward my chest.
“Don’t ever surrender.” He hands me a menu. “Promise me you’ll always make me work for it.” It’s hard not to surrender to that smile. “Work for what?” I hide behind the menu before he melts me into a puddle of mush with one look. Fucking mating dance … “You.”
I have a clit. How can he ignore it? My clit will not be ignored!
Oh. Sweet. Baby. Zebras …
“When you’re not insulting my favorite book, you’re rather charming and sexy.”
It’s tough to fall in love with something and feel judged for that love. Books possess power. They are no more ink and paper than humans are flesh and bones. Humans have souls … books have souls.
I guess I’m a romantic for books. When someone shares my love of a story, it reaches deeper than a kiss, and it’s a bond that can’t be broken.
“I haven’t noticed your cellulite, and your boobs are fine. What is it they say … anything more than a mouthful is a waste?”
“You’re flying to Nashville to get laid? Surely you can get laid locally. It’s better for the environment.”
“Cockblocking. You were a little cockblocker.”
I have no direction in my life because this woman is the sunrise for which I wait in the dark to chase after every long night.
“She loved the explicit novels. What did Mike use to call it? Mommy porn?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Lots of nipples, clits, and cocks. Moaning. Multiple orgasms. That shit’s ruining marriages. Setting the bar impossibly high for men.”
Death isn’t a test or a lesson of anything. It’s the worst part of life. Period.
My love for you isn’t dependent on saying or doing the right thing. My love for you accepts imperfections. But more than anything, my love for you is honest. And if you don’t trust that my love for you is greater than any spoken word, greater than a critical observation about a painting, another man’s feelings toward you, or a book … then it isn’t enough. But if my love for you isn’t enough, then no one’s love will be enough. And I know this because no man will love you like I do.”
Men have been trying to figure out women since the beginning of time, and women decided to hide their secrets in the very books that make us roll our eyes at them when they read them.”
“I was going home to let Eric Fucking Steinmann love me like no other man will ever do.”
If love isn’t enduring, I’m not sure it’s really love.
If you focus on the central underlying theme of romances that have happily ever afters, there’s one simple thing the heroine wants—for the hero never to let go. She wants to feel pursued, irreplaceable and understood. She doesn’t want to feel less than anything or anyone. She wants you to walk beside her and have her back. And some days, she might need you to catch her if she starts to fall. And if you can love her flaws, she will make you her world.
“Kiss me.” She grins. “Call me your baby.” She kisses my neck. “And tell me I’m pretty. It’s all I need.”
“Just. A. Book? Don’t let my girlfriend hear you say those words. She thinks books are life. Books have souls.”
“Will you do me the honor of being Mrs. Eric Fucking Steinmann?”
Eric gets the girl. Anna gets a lifetime of mating dances. On their wedding day, he gives her the only copy of their love story. It’s a beautiful clothbound book titled Almost Perfect.
