Debra Johnson

“You veriest varlet.” Ashbury lowered his mangled face to within an inch of Chase’s nose. “This. Is. Nap. Time.” Chase was nonplussed. “What?” The duke rolled aside, resting on his elbow as he worked for breath. “My infant son is currently upstairs, sleeping for the first time in nineteen hours. The only thing keeping me from disemboweling you here in the entrance hall, you cream-faced rooting hog, is that you’d probably wake him with all your sniveling and sobbing for mercy.” “Oh.” Somewhere upstairs, a thin wail pierced the silence. Ashbury closed his eyes. “I hate you.”
― Tessa Dare, The Governess Game

“Butch came around in front, twisting the shirt he’d taken off into a rope. Thanks to all the lifting they’d been doing, the male’s chest and arm muscles were thickening up, and he hadn’t been small to begin with. He couldn’t pull the kind of iron Rhage did, but for a human, the guy was a bulldozer. “You’re getting into some kind of shape, cop.” “Aw, come on, now.” Butch grinned. “Don’t let that shower we took go to your head.”
― J.R. Ward, Lover Eternal

“Lillian offered him a placating smile. “I never thought you would actually betray me that way. I was just afraid that you found her tempting. And I—” “The only thing I find tempting is the idea of taking you to the tack room and applying a saddle strap to your bottom. Repeatedly. With vigor.”
― Lisa Kleypas, A Wallflower Christmas

“Gripping her hips, I fuck her. Hard. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and brutal. It isn’t making love. It’s fucking at its finest; raw and beautiful and fucking powerful, for us both. She submits to me willingly, simply, almost desperately, and I take her, body and mind, making them both mine. I brand them with my own fucked up version of love. Because I don’t love like most. I love darkly, cruelly, and brutally, or not at all.”
― Claire C. Riley, Wrath