The Curse of Tenth Grave

The fact that there’s a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven says a lot about anticipated traffic numbers. —

What other secrets are you hiding behind those sparkling eyes?" He grinned. “You have my heart. That’s where I hide all my secrets.” “Then I guess I don’t have the key.” “Are you kidding? You forged the key.

I tried to start a gang once. It turned into a book club. —MEME

My love is like a candle. Carry me with you and I'll light your path. Forget me and I'll burn your fucking house down. — T-SHIRT

Should I leave you two alone?" he asked, changing the subject. "He's taken," I said, accepting the fact that forgiving himself was something Reyes didn't do. "Osh. By someone very special." "And who might that be?" This might be a little hard for him to swallow. Tact was definitely in order. Or I could just blurt it out and watch his expression go from content to disbelief to horror to a bristly, murderous kind of fury. I chose door number two. "He's destined to be with our daughter." Reyes's expression slowly changed from content to disbelief to horror to a bristly, murderous kind of fury. "Oh, hell, no." He shot to his feet. "A Daeva? Are you fucking kidding me?" Just like a dad. "Yes, a Daeva. But I wouldn't dismiss him so offhandedly." He whirled around and scowled. Not really at me. Just in general. "What do you mean?" I pressed one corner of my mouth together in thought. "Okay, you know how I was the grim reaper all of my life, then suddenly I'm also this god from another dimension? And how you're the son of Satan all your life, then suddenly you're a god from this dimension? Who does that? Our lives are so weird. I think that maybe Osh is something else, too." I traced one of the dark lines on his face. "I think there's more than meets the eye. I see greatness in him, Reyes. I see a power beyond our imaginings. I see him giving his life for our daughter." "Oh." He sat back down, satisfied. "As long as he dies in the end.

Let me get this straight. You have no intention of telling me what's wrong. You don't want to talk about whatever is wrong. And you're going to let me continue to believe I've done something horrible before you'll open up. Even if, say, I restrain you? Force it out of you?" "The only thing you are going to force out of me under the confinement of restraints is an orgasm." Finally! "So, you'd be open to my restraining you for my own sexual pleasure?" "Wide open." "And, it would be something you'd enjoy?" "Who wouldn't?

Does he ever eat cotton candy for breakfast?" He stepped around the counter to face us, lowered his gaze, and took a sip from the black mug in his hands. "No," I said. "He's very much like the Big Bad Wolf. He eats little girls for breakfast." He spoke from behind the cup, his voice deep and as smooth as butterscotch. "She's wrong. I eat big girls for breakfast.

It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position. I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do. "What are you doing?" he asked without removing his arm. "Giving you CPR." I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I'd straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say. "I'm not sure I'm in the market," he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn't appreciate my dedication. "Damn it, man! I'm trying to save your life! Don't interrupt." A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions. "Don't you die on me!" And praying. After another round, he asked, "Am I going to make it?" "It's touch-and-go. I'm going to have to bring out the defibrillator." "We have a defibrillator?" he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed. I reached for my phone. "I have an app. Hold on." As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. "You don't have the app," I said from between clenched teeth. "I had no idea smartphones were so versatile." "I'll just have to download it. It'll just take a sec." "Do I have that long?" Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I'd forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted? "Got it!" I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, "Clear!" Granted, I didn't get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway. He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper. After two more jolts of electricity--it had to be done--I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat. "Well?" he asked after a tense moment. I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Farrow." Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair. It was a miracle!

I’m married to a billionaire like in all those books I read where the superrich guy falls in love with the poor chick who may not have much in the way of money but is wealthy in vivacity and sprightliness and is really into bondage?

What does it mean if the holy water sizzles when it hits your skin? —ASKING FOR A FRIEND Once

I think senility is going to be a fairly smooth transition for me. —TRUE FACT   Beep

I am sorry," I whispered to Reyes. He wrapped his long fingers around my neck and buried his face in my hair. He smelled like a lightening storm. His emotions electricity. His body the desert after a rain. Fresh. Starkly beautiful. Dangerous. "Are you okay?" he asked, his breath on my neck. "I am now.

Keep Reading. Keep Writing. Keep Pushing yourself! And never stop learning! We writerly types have to stick together mostly because everybody else thinks we're "weird".

Hearts are wild creatures. That’s why our ribs are cages. —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

So, was it good for you?” I asked him. He shook his head. “I faked it.” “Really? So did I. I guess we’ll have to try again.

I almost forgot. It’s our anniversary.” “What?” I asked, bolting upright. “We’ve been married a year already?” “Not that anniversary.” “Oh, whew. So, on this day however many years ago we … kissed for the first time?” “Nope,” he said with a smirk, opening the bottle with a loud pop. “We … celebrated the first spine you’d severed in my defense?

Reyes,” I said, raising a hand to his cheek, “no matter what happens, I love you.” His brows knitted for just a moment before he answered. “I love you more.” “Nope. Wanna wrestle for it?” “For?” “The championship. Who loves who more?” He glanced up as though in thought, then whispered so quietly I barely heard him, “You are so going down.

In the meantime, I had to get dressed and go to work, because going to work in my pajamas was apparently the definition of unprofessional. Cookie's words. I looked it up though. She was wrong. Webster's mentioned nothing about pajamas.

One day, I’m going to get to the bottom of you, Charley Davidson.” I had no idea she was into anal.

I keep forgetting your IQ is higher than my bank balance.” “That’s not saying much.

Don’t borrow trouble. Gotcha. So, then, can I rent it? —CHARLEY DAVIDSON

If at first you don’t succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried. —STEPHEN WRIGHT

Note to self. Prepare better when letting a man in a straitjacket cross.

I miss being able to slam the phone down in anger. Violently pressing END CALL just isn’t the same. —MEME

Reyes, how do you not just fly around all the time, checking shit out?” He laid his head against the headboard and laughed. “I do sometimes, but my life is on this plane.” He brushed his fingertips over my palm again, studying me. “I love every inch of you.” My heart melted, and I hoped it hadn’t dematerialized and rematerialized somewhere else. That couldn’t be good. I turned in to him. “I love all your inches, too.

You have complete faith in me? For reals?” “Yes. Well, not your cooking. Other than that, absolutely.” I gasped. “I’ve cooked for you, like, twice.” “Two times too many, pumpkin. Two times too many.

That’s true, but I like to think of this as a ray of sunshine.” Her voice, filled with empathy, softened. “I’m all for sunrays,” I said, absently fondling the god glass in my pocket. “Give me permanent skin damage and a little radiation any day.” “I love how you see the bright side of everything.

I was ready to take on the world, until I saw something sparkly. —T-SHIRT

When I was a kid … No, wait, I still do that. —T-SHIRT