I hammered him with my fists. He just stood and took it. He didn't suffer graciously, he looked pissed off to no end. But he let me hit him. And he didn't hit me back.

When he comes, he makes a noise deep in his throat that is so raw and animal and sexual that I think if he merely looked at me and made that noise, I might explode in an orgasm.

I began to cry. Barrons looked horrified. "Stop that immediately, Ms. Lane." "I can't." I sniffeled into my cup pf cocoa so he couldn't see my face. "Try harder!" I gave a great sniff and shudder, and turned it off. "I have not been her lover for...some time," he offered, watching me carefully. "Oh, get over yourself!

I’m Pri-ya again. I always will be with this man.

His coworker was velvety-skinned, a sexy boy-on-the-cusp-of man.

He just didn't look like the kind of creep that would messily murder a woman in her hotel room; he looked like the kind of creep that could line her up in the sights of an assassins rifle without a shred of emotion.

It's just that in the Deep South, women learn at a young age that when the world is falling apart around you, it's time to take down the drapes and make a new dress.