Man, some open doors were not welcoming, and that was so the case here—less hi-how’re-ya, more come-in-so-your-skin-can-be-used-to-make-a-super-hero-cape-for-one-of-Hannibal-Lecter’s-patients.

I lived for the night, because I could go over to your house. It was the only thing that kept me going. You were the only thing, actually. It was… you.

But then, gifts are like beauty, are they not. It is in the eye of the recipient that they find their seat, not in the hand of the giver.

You sure about this?" he asked in a guttural voice. "I get down on that mattress right now, I'm not stopping until I'm inside of you.

Tell you what, you let me go, and I’ll ask you plenty of questions about your race. Until then, I’m slightly distracted with how this little vacation on the good ship Holy Sh*t is going to pan out for me.

Stop it. Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm Syndrome is not your friend.

Then how about we start with a shower," he said in the kind of deep voice that made her consider the value of cleanliness.