Okay,' I said quietly. 'I'll do whatever you say. Just remember not to talk down to me. I'm not your student anymore. I'm your equal now.' He glanced away from the side of the road just long enough to give me a surprised look. 'You've always been my equal, Roza.

My mother wasnʹt sleeping with anybody. She doesnʹt even sleep with my father.

I'm really not good with impulse control.

What was love, really? Flowers, chocolate, and poetry? Or was it something else? Was it being able to finish someone's jokes? Was it having absolute faith that someone was there at your back? Was it knowing someone so well that they instantly understood why you did the things you did—and shared those same beliefs?

This was the last thing I expected. You destroy my life and then feed me some inspiratonal philosophy.

None of the bravado he usually showed was there. I guess there was "usually" and then there was being held in the grip of a really ripped, really tall, and really pissed off Russian guy.

Since I’m presuming you don’t mean you finally bought him a leash, let me say simply that there is a big difference between allowing an animal to ravage you and allowing yourself to be ravaged. One is common. The other is art. It is planned. Crafted, even. Only capable of being done by a master.