Rule number four for me as a writer? Plotlines are like sharks: They either keep moving or they die. ~J.R. Ward

His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they'd been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting. It wasn't the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs. "God, I miss you," he said in a voice that cracked. "Every night. Every day.

You are the male I might have been. You are the potential I had and lost. You are the honor and the strength and the kindness she needs. You'll take care of her. I want you to take care of her.

Humans are threatened by anything different, and their response is to fight. They're bullies, picking on the weak, cowering from the strong.

Great rationalizations. All of which her adrenal gland middle-fingered and then carried right on.

Phury stepped up in front of her, blocking the view as leaned down and put his mouth right to Throe's ear. As he squeezed Throe's biceps until it screamed in pain, the Brother growled softly, "You get hard and I'll castrate you as soon as she leaves." Well .. If that wasn't crystal clear.

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.