Was he a good kisser, Ms. Lane?โ Barrons asked, watching me carefully. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand at the memory. โIt was like being owned.โ Some women like that.โ Not me.โ Perhaps it depends on the man doing the owning.โ I doubt it. I couldnโt breathe with him kissing me.โ One day you may kiss a man you canโt breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence.โ Right, and one day my prince might come.โ I doubt heโll be a prince, Ms. Lane. Men rarely are.
Karen Marie MoningSome people fall apart when they get hurt. Puddle into apathy and despair and never recover. They wait all their lives for someone to come along and rescue them.
Karen Marie MoningDude. Post-apocalyptic world. Who does job applications anymore?โ โI do.โ I squint at it, then him. โWhat are you paying me?โ I angle. โDude. Post-apocalyptic world. Who does money anymore.โ I snicker. First sign of any sense of humor heโs shown. Then I remember where I am and why. I wad it up and throw it at him. It bounces off his chest.
Karen Marie MoningAt the very last moment, just before its lips claimed hers, its grip on her face relaxed slightly and she did the only thing she could think of: She head-butted it. Snapped her head back, then forward again, and bashed it square in the face as hard as she could. So hard, in fact, that it made her woozy and gave her an instant migraine, making her wonder how Jean-Claude Van Damme always managed to coolly continue fighting after such a stunt. Obviously, movies lied.
Karen Marie Moning