Manwhore

A challenge is something you stop wanting once you acquire it. I can’t know if you’re a challenge yet until I make you mine.

My ovaries kind of like him.” I add, “A little,

I feel him brush the grape over my lips again. Instinctively, sensually, I open my mouth and let him feed it to me, breathing hard. By the time I swallow, his smile is gone.

Livingston, if you could read my mind, you would start feeling really shy around me.

The company I’ve been keeping doesn’t seem to satisfy me anymore,” he whispers in my ear.

I'd say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only; they want to pray to me, be me, do me or kill me.

We don’t fit,” I say. “I just want to find a spot, warm not cold, with a nice view, everything I could want, and I want to stop moving and stay there—in that spot. And you will never stand still.

No picture I saw online truly captured the effect of that tanned, well-structured face in person. Absolutely none. His face is walk-straight-into-a-wall stunning, and I won’t even dwell on his body, but now I understand why his bed is the most coveted spot in town.

T." One word, one letter, from Malcom. "Yeah, Saint?" Tahoe returns, lifting his eyebrows. "Dibs.

Picasso’s mother told him if he got into the army, he’d be a general. If he became a monk, he’d be the pope. Instead he was a painter and became Picasso.

I want to know what it’s like to lie next to him without anything between us.

You’re so fragile you’ve boxed yourself up so you don’t break.

There’s no point to love. Truth, loyalty—there’s something that lasts

I am in love with stories. How they shape our lives. How they mark people who don't even know us. How they can impact us even when an event didn't exactly occur in our own lives

I soon discovered he was not a man of many words, but rather a man of the right words.

You think me relentless? I'm much worse than that.

my mother kept quoting Picasso’s mother. “Picasso’s mother told him if he got into the army, he’d be a general. If he became a monk, he’d be the pope. Instead he was a painter and became Picasso. That’s exactly how I feel about you. So do, Rachel, what you love.

But it still feels like there’s a popularity contest here I didn’t sign up for.

me has a perfectly structured face, beautiful lips, and eyes greener

I never expected my story to change, but it did. Stories tend to do that; you go out searching for something and come back with something different.

There’s never a right time for you to fall. It’s why they call it falling. It’s an accident. In one second. Just pray that wherever you land, you’re not there alone.

Stories change. Just like people change. We change when we suffer, when we take, when we give, when we love. When you lose the object of your love, your normal will be perennially changed; there’s no returning to the old anymore. You have to rebuild stronger walls, change your expectations, and wait for the sunlight.

I’m burning to my bones. Beyond

I’d do it all again for another moment with him. I’d do it all again with him. I’d leap blindly into the air if only there were even a 0.01 percent chance that he’d still be there, waiting to catch me.

I think you like teasing me." "Maybe because I like the way you blush.

Rachel, there is nothing I won't do to get you in my bed.

But there’s this one girl. My private property.

And him, in that killer suit, his head bent, his eyes shielded behind his aviators. No comment, the caption says. But the finger says plenty.