I’ve come to ask how you do it. How you feel what I know you’re feeling and then walk away like that.

I don't know why it's so hard for me to say those three words. Most guys throw it around like breath, like bait.

She's like a wind-up monkey that winds itself.

My last coherent thought, as Lucas took his time kissing and touching every part of me he could reach and my body arched into his, was: oh... so this is what all the fuss is about.

LUCAS: I've done a couple from memory but they aren't the same. Can't quite get the shape of your jaw. The line of your neck. And your lips. I need to spend more time staring at them and less time tasting them. ME: I can't say i agree with that notion. LUCAS: More of both, then.

Sorry, boyfriends everywhere—you’re doomed to sit through an hour and forty-seven minutes of syrupy drivel. The payoff? Between my face, Tadd’s abs and Quinton’s biceps, your girl will be ready for takeoff as soon as the credits roll. You’re welcome.

Bonus: I now knew what Erin meant by lickable abs.