“Son, you think I had seven boys because I winked at your mother?”
“I love you Travis. I've loved you since the day I met you. It killed me that you walked away, but it was the right thing to do. We weren't ready. We weren't ready because we weren't complete. We needed to wait for Gage to find us.”
“For fuck’s sake, have you not figured it out yet? You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
“And if Travis was chocolate, then Gage was… donuts. Yes, sweet, flaky donuts. And the only thing better than donuts and chocolate was… well, donuts covered in chocolate.”
“Kylie was tempted to look down and see if her panties went “poof” right off her body. That was a devious smile, and there was no mistaking what he was getting at.”
“If Gage kept up this perfect gentleman routine, she was going to have to buy stock in Duracell or Energizer just so she could function on a daily basis.”
“Travis felt like a damn teenager who’d just been told by the hot girl that she’d jack him off behind the school.”
“He needed this woman more than he needed to breathe. Air was suddenly an extraneous element that meant little without this woman’s taste flooding his tongue.”
“Whatever it is you want, whatever it is you need, I suggest you go after it. Sitting back and pretending otherwise will get you nowhere in life, boy. And if you ever need to talk, about anything, you know your mother and I will always listen.”
“I want to hear you come while Gage fucks you with his tongue. You’re so damn hot like this, pressed between us. So fucking hot.”
“Oh, if you’re looking for your friends, they’re in that hallway over there,” Jess said as she pointed. “I’m not sure I’d interrupt them right now though.” “Why’s that?” Kylie feared she’d been right and maybe they were beating one another to a pulp. Jessie leaned closer, lowering her voice to a mere whisper. “They’re kinda making out at the moment.”
“Justice’s wheels were greased with paper and fueled by quick feet on the streets.”
“Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singular mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.”
“I do not know a better cure for mental illness than a book.”
“I was born singing. Most babies cry, I sang an aria.”
“What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and that he only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result.”
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