Arnyssa Larsen-pruitt

“One last thing," he said. "Stop looking for me."

"I'm not looking for you." I scoffed.

He touched his index finger to my forehead, my skin absurdly warming under his touch. It didn't escape me that he couldn't seem to stop finding reasons to touch me. Nor did I miss that I didn't want him to stop. "Under all the layers, a part of you remembers. It's the part that came looking for me tonight. It's that part that's going to get you killed, if you're not careful."

We stood face-to-face, both of us breathing hard. The sirens were so close now.

"What am I supposed to tell the police?" I said.

"You're not going to talk to the police."

"Oh, really? Funny, because I plan on telling them exactly how you rammed that tire iron into Gabe's back. Unless you answer my questions."

He gave an ironic snort. "Blackmail? You've changed, Angel.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Silence

“Patch's eyes grazed me with silent heat. My reflection swirled in them, red hair and lips aflame. I was connected to him by a force I couldn't control, a tiny thread that tethered my soul to his. With the moon at his back, shadows painted the faint hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones, making him look breathtakingly handsome and equally diabolical. His hands steadied my face, holding me still before him. The wind tangled my hair around his wrists, twining us together. His thumbs moved across my cheekbones in a slow, intimate caress. Despite the cold, a steady burn coiled up inside me, vulnerable to his touch. His fingers traced lower, lower, leaving behind a hot, delicious ache. I closed my eyes, my joints melting. He lit me up like a flame, light and heat burning at a depth I'd never fathomed. His thumb stroked my lip, a soft, seductive tease. I gave a sharp sigh of pleasure.

"Kiss you now?" he asked.

I couldn't speak; a wilted no was my reply.

His mouth, hot and daring, met mine. All play had left him, and he kissed me with his own black fire, deep and possessive, consuming my body, my soul, and laying waste to all past notions of what it meant to be kissed.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Finale

“I saw you, and I wanted to be close to you. I wanted you to let me in. I wanted to know you in a way no one else did. I wanted you, all of you. That wanting nearly drove me mad.” Patch paused, inhaling softly, as though breathing me in. “And now that I have you, the only thing that terrifies me is having to go back to that place. Having to want you all over again, with no hope of my desire ever being fulfilled. You’re mine, Angel. Every last piece of you. I won’t let anything change that.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Finale

“His mouth twisted into a perceptive, sexy smile.

"Hmm."

"Hmm?" I looked away, flustered, automatically using irritation to cover my discomfort up. "What does 'hmm' have to do with anything? Could you ever use more than five words? All this grunting and miced words make you come across--primal."

His smile tipped higher. "Primal."

"You're impossible."

"Me Jev, you Nora."

"Stop it." But I nearly smiled in spite of myself.

"Since we're keeping it primal, you smell good," he observed. Hw moved closer, makin me acutely aware of his size, the rise and fall of his chest, the warm burn of his skin on mine. Electricity tingled along my scalp, and I shuddered with pleasure.

"It's called a shower...," I began automatically, then trailed off. My memory snagged, taken aback by a compelling and forceful sense of undue familiarity. "Soap, shampoo, hot water," I added, almost as an afterthought.

"Naked. I know the drill," Jev said, something unreadable passing over his eyes.

Unsure how to proceed, I attempted to wash away the moment with an airy laugh. "Are you flirting with me, Jev?"

"Does it feel that way to you?"

"I don't know you well enough to say either way." I tried to keep my voice level, neutral even.

"Then we'll have to change that."

Still uncertain of his motives, I cleared my throat. Two could play this game. "Running from bad guys together is your idea of playing getting-to-know-you?"

"No. This is." He dipped my body backward, drawing me up in a slow arc until he raised me flush against him. In his arms, my joints loosened, my defenses melting as he led me through the sultry steps.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Silence