Well, that's certainly... adequate," I told him, burying my face in his chest. I knew immediately I'd picked the wrong word. "Adequate?" He took my hand, placed it on the part in question. It immediately began to stir. He moved my hand on it, and I obligingly circled it with my fingers. "This is adequate?" "Maybe I should have said it's a gracious plenty?" "A gracious plenty. I like that," he said.

As it was, I couldn't escape the feeling that I was out of my element. I found myself thinking of a book I'd left half-read at home and wishing I'd stuck it in my purse so I could pull it out now.

It was beautiful Eric, who desired me, who was hungry for me, in a world that often let me know it could do very well without me.

Could I tell them I was sorry their loved one was dead, when he’d tried to kill me? There was no rule of etiquette for this; even my grandmother would have been stymied.

Self-pity is like chocolate; as you get older, you can only afford a little bit.

I love you,” Bill said helplessly, as if he wished those magic words would heal me. But he knew they wouldn’t. “That’s what you all keep saying,” I answered. “But it doesn’t seem to get me any happier.

I would've asked him to bring a shovel and come to help me dig a body up. That was what a boyfriend should do, right?" -Sookie Stackhouse