Fierce Lady Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Fierce Lady. Here they are! All 100 of them:

You know who you are, I know who you are, and our Lady does, too." She said with fierce conviction. "So screw the rest of them!" Maritza grinned at him. "Remember why we're doing this.
Aiden Thomas (Cemetery Boys (Cemetery Boys, #1))
I’m so sorry we’ll never meet,” she whispered, laying her posy atop the late Lord and Lady Payne’s grave. “But thank you. For him. I promise, I’ll love him as fiercely as I can. Kindly send down some blessings when you can spare them. We’ll probably need them, from time to time.
Tessa Dare (A Week to be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
By God, how could you let her do such a thing?’ There was real, fierce anger in his voice. ‘She could have been hurt.’ ‘Let her?’ his friend expostulated, bridling in indignation. ‘Good God man, have you ever tried telling her what to do?
Sophie Irwin (A Lady's Guide to Fortune-Hunting)
Ty braced himself as Julian walked directly up to him, not breaking stride, his jaw set, his blue-green eyes as dark as the deep part of the ocean. He reached Ty and caught hold of him, pulling him into a fierce hug. He pressed his face down into his little brother's black hair as Ty stood, frozen and astonished at Julian's lack of anger. "Jules?" he said. "Are you alright?" Julian's shoulders shook. He held his little brother tighter, as if he could crush Ty into himself, into a place where he'd always be safe. He put his cheek against Ty's curls, squeezing his eyes shut, his voice muffled. "I thought something happened to you," he said. "I thought Johnny Rook might--" He didn't finish his sentence. Ty put his arms carefully around Julian. He patted his back, gently, with his slender hands. It was the first time Emma had seen Ty comfort his older brother--almost the first time she'd ever actually seen Julian let someone else take care of him.
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
His body was urgent against her, and she didn't have the heart anymore to fight...She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up...she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes...He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit and she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea anenome under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make fulfillment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling til it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, til she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries.
D.H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterley's Lover)
I wear a lot of pink cos' seeing pink activates endorphins and energizes my creativity. It is a colour of femininity and fierceness
Janna Cachola
Boldness isn't second nature to everyone, it is intentionality
Janna Cachola (Lead by choice, not by checks)
I tried to give her my best “I Am A Demon Princess” look, which was quite the challenge, seeing as how my hair was hanging in my face and my nose was running. “What’s your name?” I asked. The girl kept her eyes on me, but her hands were moving restlessly over the ground around her, no doubt searching for the knife. “Izzy,” she said. I raised both my eyebrows. Not exactly a name to strike fear into the heart. Izzy must’ve read that in my expression, because she frowned. “I’m Isolde Brannick, daughter of Aislinn, daughter of Fiona, daughter of-“ “Right, right, daughter of a bunch of fierce ladies, got it.
Rachel Hawkins (Spell Bound (Hex Hall, #3))
I know her by her angry air, Her brightblack eyes, her brightblack hair, Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, As laughter of the woodpecker From the bosom of a hill. 'Tis Kate--she sayeth what she will; For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, Clear as the twanging of a harp. Her heart is like a throbbing star. Kate hath a spirit ever strung Like a new bow, and bright and sharp As edges of the scymetar. Whence shall she take a fitting mate? For Kate no common love will feel; My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, As pure and true as blades of steel. Kate saith "the world is void of might". Kate saith "the men are gilded flies". Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; Kate will not hear of lover's sighs. I would I were an armèd knight, Far famed for wellwon enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new-wreathed emprise: For in a moment I would pierce The blackest files of clanging fight, And strongly strike to left and right, In dreaming of my lady's eyes. Oh! Kate loves well the bold and fierce; But none are bold enough for Kate, She cannot find a fitting mate.
Alfred Tennyson
He thought about that visionary lady. To die, he thought, never knowing the fierce joy and attendant comfort of a loved one's embrace. To sink into that hideous coma, to sink then into death and, perhaps, return to sterile, awful wanderings. All without knowing what it was to love and be loved. That was a tragedy more terrible than becoming a vampire.
Richard Matheson (I Am Legend and Other Stories)
A fierce hunter like myself needs more encouragement than that. Will you let me mouth-mate you?
Ruby Dixon (Barbarian's Lady (Ice Planet Barbarians, #13))
Villain, thou know'st nor law of God nor man: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: But I know none, and therefore am no beast. LADY ANNE: O wonderful, when devils tell the troth! RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: More wonderful, when angels are so angry.
William Shakespeare (Richard III)
A. Huxley died at 69, much too early for such a fierce talent, and I read all his works but actually Point Counter Point did help a bit in carrying me through the factories and the drunk tanks and the unsavory ladies. that book along with Hamsun’s Hunger they helped a bit. great books are the ones we need.
Charles Bukowski (The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
SPENCE, THAT DOUR, IMPOSING LADY EAST OF LONDON, has grown a friendly face in my absence. I’ve never been so happy to see a place in all my sixteen years. Even the gargoyles have lost their fierceness. They are like wayward pets who haven’t the sense to come in from the roof and so we let them live there, glaring but cheerful.
Libba Bray (Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2))
Good day, ladies,” he said with a distinctly American accent when all the women were above decks and the hatches closed. With a grin that took some of the edge off his fierce looks, he surveyed the crowd and added, “We’ve come to rescue you.” His words were so unexpected, so completely self-assured that Sara bristled. After all his blatant methods of intimidation, after he’d stood there surveying the women like cattle before the slaughter, he had the audacity to say such a thing! “Is that what they’re calling thievery, pillage, and rape these days?” she snapped.
Sabrina Jeffries (The Pirate Lord)
I always think about the tie between emotions and the body. Fierce joy attacks yang; fierce anger damages yin. If I were to write a book, I’d want to include Liver-related conditions that are affected by the different types of anger we women must hide from our husbands, mothers-in-law, and concubines. And then there are the ailments connected to Lung emotions—sadness and worry.
Lisa See (Lady Tan's Circle of Women)
The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service — she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:
Mark Twain (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer)
Asshole, I will pepperspray your ass, BACK OFF." The first think I think is Cora!, even though it doesn't sound like Cora. Then my brain makes the leap to ... Amber!, who is always hovering at the top of my list of fierce ladies. This is succeeded, rather dazedly by Xena?, Buffy?, River Song?, Agent Scully?, Proffessor McGonagall?, President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol?, Mad Wife In The Attic From Jane Austen Not Eyre No Wait Damn It Eyre Not Austen?
Hannah Johnson (Know Not Why (Know Not Why, #1))
Always remember to make them think they’re in charge.” She smiled and laughed. “That’s the key. Don’t ever make them think otherwise. Love them hard, ladies. Smother them with your love. Be fierce when necessary and never back down. Once you give in, they’ll expect it always. When they won’t give you what you want, well, that’s when you deny them the thing they want most.” She paused, wiggling her eyebrows.
Chelle Bliss (Throttled (Men of Inked, #1.5))
Kate saith the world is void of might. Kate saith the men are gilded flies. Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; Kate will not hear of lovers sighs. I would I were an armed knight, Far-famed for well-won enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new-wreathed emprise For in a moment I would pierce The blackest files of clanging fight, And strongly strike to left and right, In dreaming of my lady's eyes. O, Kate loves well the bold and fierce; But none are bold enough for Kate, She cannot find a fitting mate.
Alfred Tennyson
He has offered to help me, and right now I need his help." "Is it just his help, or are you going because you wish to be with him?" He leaned closer, face fierce. "Do you love him? Is that it?" "You, of all people , have no right to ask me that." "Maybe not, but I ask it anyway. Do you love him?" "Love him?" Helen's voice rose. "Apparently I am not allowed to love in this godforsaken world!" "Apparently neither am I," he said through his clenched teeth. "Yet..." Yet what? His face. his body, were so close. So dangerously close. "Stay," he breathed. She shook her head. He stepped away, the sudden distance between them full of pain.
Alison Goodman (The Dark Days Pact (Lady Helen, #2))
No, I won't let you go, Marcus thought fiercely. He was conscious of a savage urge to carry Arabella far away from here, captive, in his sole possession, until she finally agreed to wed him and give him her heart.
Nicole Jordan (To Pleasure a Lady (Courtship Wars #1))
The door creaked as it began to open. Gray moved like lightning, slapping his left palm against the door and slamming it shut before it had opened more than a fraction of an inch. "Hey!" a woman squawked indignantly from the other side. "This one’s occupied," he said hoarsely, not missing a beat with his plunging hips. "Go somewhere else." Faith couldn’t say anything. Her eyes widened with alarm, but all she could do was look helplessly up at him. Gray’s lips drew back over his teeth and his head dropped forward as he began hammering faster. His face was flushed, satisfaction only a few moments away. Faith shuddered wildly as the coil of tension suddenly released and the fierce, pulsing flood of sensation swept through her. Shivering and pushing hard against him, she buried her face against his chest and bit his shirt to muffle her gasping cries. He kept his hand flat against the door, gripping her bottom with his right hand to anchor himself. He shoved hard into her, twice, three times, again, then bucked violently. His head fell back and a harsh, guttural cry rumbled up from his chest. There was an insistent banging on the door. "What are you doing in there?" the woman said in shrill, grating tones. "That’s the lady’s room! You aren’t supposed to be in there!" Slowly Gray’s head came up. The expression in his eyes was indescribable, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. He took a deep breath, and exploded. "Goddamn it, woman!" he roared with furious indignation. "Can’t you tell I’m busy?
Linda Howard
But Lupe both genuinely worshiped Our Lady of Guadalupe and fiercely doubted her; Lupe’s doubt was borne by the child’s judgmental sense that Guadalupe had submitted to the Virgin Mary—that Guadalupe was complicitous in allowing Mother Mary to be in control.
John Irving (Avenue of Mysteries)
A man of the mouth, formerly the most oral of surgeons, Henry had the habit of giving his lady patients laughing gas, putting them out, then fiercely fucking them, while tugging on their wisdom teeth. His getting caught was a slip of the tongue, so to speak. While he was buried deep in a muff, some sharp thing slipped, and his prize patient, Mrs Mavis Gilette, woke to find a harpoon hole in her cheek and her lost licker languishing on the floor.
A.M. Homes (The End of Alice)
The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for “style,” not service—she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:
Mark Twain (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer)
She looked beautiful, fierce, as terrible as a goddess.
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
We are as strong as the snakes, as fierce as the wolves, and as free as the stars.
Jennifer Ryan (The Chilbury Ladies' Choir)
He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not moving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. she was giving way. She was giving up.
D.H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterley's Lover)
You’re a worse punishment than even he deserves, lady,” she bit off as she turned away from the phone. “I wouldn’t wish you on my worst enemy!” The phone rang again and she picked it up, ready to give Audrey a fierce piece of her mind. But it was a journalist wanting to know if the story in the tabloids was true, about Tate and Cecily being lovers when she was still in school. “It most certainly is not,” she said curtly. “But I’ll tell you what is. Tate Winthrop is marrying Washington socialite Miss Audrey Gannon at Christmas. You can print that, with my blessing!” And she hung up again.
Diana Palmer (Paper Rose (Hutton & Co. #2))
I was always amazed at Cambridge how quickly people appeared to take offence at everything I said, but now I see plainly that it was not my words they hated - it was this fairy face. The dark alchemy of this face turns all my gentle human emotions into fierce fairy vices. Inside I am all despair, but this face shows only fairy scorn. My remorse becomes fairy fury and my pensiveness is turned to fairy cunning.
Susanna Clarke (The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories)
One of the fine, fierce old ladies of England. They’ll climb mountains and make tea on the summit if they need to. We’d have done a damn sight better in the war if they’d sent them over instead of the troops.
T. Kingfisher (What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1))
All conversation had stopped. Following the guests’ collective gazes, Cam saw something—a lizard?—wriggling and slithering its way past sauceboats and salt cellars. Without hesitation he reached out and captured the small creature, cupping it in closed hands. The lizard squirmed furiously in the space between his closed palms. “I’ve got it,” he said mildly. The vicar’s wife half fainted, slumping back in her chair with a low moan. “Don’t hurt him!” Beatrix Hathaway called out anxiously. “He’s a family pet!” The assembled guests glanced from Cam’s closed hands to the Hathaway girl’s apologetic face. “A pet?… What a relief,” Lady Westcliff said calmly, staring down the length of the table at her husband’s blank countenance. “I thought it was some new English delicacy we were serving.” A swift wash of color darkened Westcliff’s face, and he looked away from her with fierce concentration. To anyone who knew him well, it was obvious he was struggling not to laugh.
Lisa Kleypas (Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways, #1))
Whatever Her Grace had said, he was now an engaged man, which had become his objective at some point in the recent past. The relief was fading, leaving a fierce determination to get the woman beside him to the altar, from which position he would be able to keep her safe. Maggie
Grace Burrowes (Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (The Duke's Daughters, #2; Windham, #5))
Huntresses?” Artemis nodded quite solemnly. “My ancient namesake had a band of huntresses, and they were absolutely everything young ladies ought to be permitted to be: fierce, strong, capable, and entirely in control of their own destinies. We mean to emulate them in every way possible.
Sarah M. Eden (The Best-Laid Plans (The Huntresses, #1))
Sigyn’s way takes such courage. Her way is a quiet way of personal mindfulness and dedication. It is a simple way. It is a terrifying way. Walking in Her footsteps means that there is no place to hide: no fine words, no angry posturing, no pride, no ego, no boasting–Her deeds are boast enough. There is nothing but what must be done and a heart committed to the doing. Sigyn’s way is simple: constancy of the heart, in the face of hatred, opposition, jealousy, slander, exhaustion, grief, anguish, rage, despair and a thousand other obstacles that life has a way of creating. She is constancy of purpose. […] She is vast, and Her strength is vast even as it is so completely unassuming. It simply is and will not be moved. She is the ‘Lady of Unyielding Gentleness’ for much the same reason. Her gentleness of spirit is Her shield and Her strength, and in it She is fierce. Her devotion is Her armor.
Galina Krasskova (Sigyn: Lady of the Staying Power)
And then the leaves formed a fierce, low voice, which said, ‘If you had kept her chained, and she had escaped her chains, then there is no power on earth or sky could ever make me help you, not if Great Pan or Lady Sylvia herself were to plead or implore me. But you unchained her, and for that I will help you.
Neil Gaiman (Stardust)
She felt enthralled by him, enthralled by her own sexuality. He bared something in her that she hadn't even known was there before she married him. Something base, primal. Had it always been there, this fierce drive to feel? Or was it something that had been engendered by his touching her? Her touching him? She knew that she should be wary of this part of herself. Ladies were often exhorted to ignore any animal urges. To be polite. Formal. Cold. But the flames of her desire, meeting and burning higher with his compulsion, were intoxicating. It felt wonderful. Too good to ignore. Too good to give up. And when his fingers traced the wetness of her vulva, into the depths of her pleasure, she cried out, her eyes still caught with his. He smiled, crooked and sinister because of his scar, but a smile nonetheless. A smile that wasn't exactly nice or gentlemanly. But a smile that was all for her. Only her. No man- no one- had ever looked at her so before.
Elizabeth Hoyt (Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane, #12))
When I go musing all alone Thinking of divers things fore-known. When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so mad as melancholy. When to myself I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. When I lie, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then, A thousand miseries at once Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce, All my griefs to this are jolly, None so sour as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities fine; Here now, then there; the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely or divine. All other joys to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcries, and fearful sights, My sad and dismal soul affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. Methinks I court, methinks I kiss, Methinks I now embrace my mistress. O blessed days, O sweet content, In Paradise my time is spent. Such thoughts may still my fancy move, So may I ever be in love. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I recount love's many frights, My sighs and tears, my waking nights, My jealous fits; O mine hard fate I now repent, but 'tis too late. No torment is so bad as love, So bitter to my soul can prove. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so harsh as melancholy. Friends and companions get you gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone; Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacy. No Gem, no treasure like to this, 'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. 'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown, I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so fierce as melancholy. I'll not change life with any king, I ravisht am: can the world bring More joy, than still to laugh and smile, In pleasant toys time to beguile? Do not, O do not trouble me, So sweet content I feel and see. All my joys to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy. I'll change my state with any wretch, Thou canst from gaol or dunghill fetch; My pain's past cure, another hell, I may not in this torment dwell! Now desperate I hate my life, Lend me a halter or a knife; All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so damn'd as melancholy.
Robert Burton (The Anatomy of Melancholy: What It Is, With All the Kinds, Causes, Symptoms, Prognostics, and Several Cures of It ; in Three Partitions; With Their ... Historically Opened and Cut Up, V)
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
Louisa May Alcott (Little Women)
Winter came. One night, after a heavy day's rain, a fierce wind blew away the rain clouds so that the moon shone brightly in a clear sky. Noticing that the clover leaves by our eaves had been thoroughly battered by the wind, I was much moved and composed this poem, 'How fondly they must think of Autumn days - These withered clover leaves That now are lashed by Winter storms!
Lady Sarashina (As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams)
Before she could think better of it, she grabbed Darling’s arm as he went for Giran again. He turned around, his hand raised to strike her, too. Just as she thought he’d put her through the wall behind her, he caught himself. His breathing ragged, he stared at her and lowered his hand. The agony on his beautiful face hit her like a blow. He cupped her head in the palm of his hand, then gently pulled her into his arms. She hugged him close as his heart pounded fiercely against her breasts. He continued to cradle her head and hold on to her like she was his lifeline. Maris approached them slowly. “Are you better?” he whispered to Darling. His eyes started jerking. “No. I didn’t get a chance to kill the bastard.” He turned in Giran’s direction. “No one insults my lady. No one.” Nykyrian
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Born of Silence (The League #5))
He was doing his academic rambling thing again. "You'll let me run some calculations on you, Lady Manami, won't you?" "Will they hurt?" "Well, there are some who find the mere presence of advanced mathematical equations painful, but I don't think that you'll be materially damaged in any physical manner. Oh! Can I ask how the relative densities affect buoyancy? I mean to say, do kitsune bob something fierce?
Gail Carriger (Reticence (The Custard Protocol, #4))
When Alex moved as if to escort Lina, Ian gave him a fierce look and stepped forward to offer his arm. “If I may, my lady,” he said politely. She raised her eyebrows much as his mother might have done. But she put a hand on the forearm he’d extended and smiled demurely. “You are most kind, sir.” “Sakes, lass,” he muttered. “Do you mock my courtesy? Can I do nowt to win your approval?” She gave him a direct look and said in a normal tone, “Faith, sir, do you seek my approval? You must know that you have earned my gratitude.” “But you still disapprove of how I won it, do you not?” “That is unfair,” she said. “I have already admitted having mixed feelings about that. I do still believe that one should think before leaping into danger.” “What makes you imagine that I do not?” “I know you don’t always think before you act.
Amanda Scott (The Knight's Temptress (Lairds of the Loch, #2))
Zach: Are you close with your brother? He’s partially to blame for the wrong number thing, isn’t he? * * * Me: Kind of. Yeah, we’re close. My mom worked at the hospital so it was usually just us two fending for ourselves. * * * Me: Okay, so I shouldn’t say fending for ourselves. That makes me sound like a dick and unappreciative of all my mom did. We just spent many nights just the two of us because my mom was a hardworking single lady and she wasn’t searching for a man to put a ring on it because she. Is. Fierce. * * * Zach: I bet your mom is the shit. * * * Me: She really is. You should meet her sometime. * * * Me: Oh, awkward…I’m talking about meeting the family and we’re not even officially a couple. * * * Zach: We’re not? * * * Me: We are? My phone lights up with a call from Zach. “Are you saying we aren’t dating?” he says before I can say anything. “We are…” “Are you saying you’re wanting to see other people?” “No…” “So then we’re a couple.” I’m quiet, unsure what to say. I’m so scared to label this, which is stupid, I know. “Delia?” “Yes, Zach?” “Do you not want to be?” I take a deep breath and push out the answer I know is right, even though my head is saying otherwise. “No. I want to be a couple.” “Are you sure?” “Yes. I’m just…scared. I know I shouldn’t put that all on you, but you’re kind of the reason I’m scared. I like you, Zach—a lot—but what if this doesn’t work out? What if we jump in too soon?” He sighs. “Remember when we were talking about our exes? About the lack of fireworks?” “Yeah.” “I swear to god, someone is going to swoop in and take my man card for this shit, but I felt them with you. When we first kissed, I knew right then you were worth jumping in with both feet and taking a risk.” I don’t let myself overthink his words, wanting to keep my head level and clear. “What if I’m not worth the risk?” “We’ll never know if we don’t take it.” “Say you’re a couple already, Dalilah!” Robbie’s voice comes loud through the speaker. “He paused the movie during an epic scene!” “How many times have I told you that her name is Delia. Deal-ya. Get it?” “You talk about me with Robbie?” I ask. “Sometimes.” “Say yes! He looks like someone kicked his goat!” “Shut the fuck up, Robbie!” I laugh. “If I say yes, will he stop shouting?” “YES!” Robbie shouts again. “I’ll take the risk, Zach, but you better be worth it.” “You’ve seen my Harry Potter underwear—you know I’m worth it.” Then he whispers, “Wink.
Teagan Hunter (Let's Get Textual (Texting, #1))
She gave birth to me, but she is not my mother. That awful, scheming, selfish, unnatural woman is not my mother.” Maggie stood there amid the crimson tulips, tears coursing down her face, until she felt strong, slender arms encircle her and a graceful hand stroke over her hair. “Of course not, my dear,” the duchess said, her tone fierce and proud. “I am your mother, His Grace is your papa, and you are our daughter.
Grace Burrowes (Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (The Duke's Daughters, #2; Windham, #5))
But though the essential of the woman's task is universality, this does not, of course, prevent her from having one or two severe though largely wholesome prejudices. She has, on the whole, been more conscious than man that she is only one half of humanity; but she has expressed it (if one may say so of lady) by getting her teeth into the two or three things which she thinks she stands for. I would observe here in parenthesis that much of the recent official trouble about women has arisen from the fact that they transfer to things of doubt and reason that sacred stubbornness only proper to the primary things which a woman was set to guard. One's own children, one's own altar, ought to be a matter of principle-- or if you like, a matter of prejudice. On the other hand, who wrote Junius's Letters ought not to be a principle or a prejudice, it ought to be a matter of free and almost indifferent inquiry. But take an energetic modern girl secretary to a league to show that George III wrote Junius, and in three months she will believe it, too, out of mere loyalty to her employers. Modern women defend their office with all the fierceness of domesticity. They fight for desk and typewriter as for hearth and home, and develop a sort of wolfish wifehood on behalf of the invisible head of the firm. That is why they do office work so well; and that is why they ought not to do it.
G.K. Chesterton
Her pretty name of Adina seemed to me to have somehow a mystic fitness to her personality. Behind a cold shyness, there seemed to lurk a tremulous promise to be franker when she knew you better. Adina is a strange child; she is fanciful without being capricious. She was stout and fresh-coloured, she laughed and talked rather loud, and generally, in galleries and temples, caused a good many stiff British necks to turn round. She had a mania for excursions, and at Frascati and Tivoli she inflicted her good-humoured ponderosity on diminutive donkeys with a relish which seemed to prove that a passion for scenery, like all our passions, is capable of making the best of us pitiless. Adina may not have the shoulders of the Venus of Milo...but I hope it will take more than a bauble like this to make her stoop. Adina espied the first violet of the year glimmering at the root of a cypress. She made haste to rise and gather it, and then wandered further, in the hope of giving it a few companions. Scrope sat and watched her as she moved slowly away, trailing her long shadow on the grass and drooping her head from side to side in her charming quest. It was not, I know, that he felt no impulse to join her; but that he was in love, for the moment, with looking at her from where he sat. Her search carried her some distance and at last she passed out of sight behind a bend in the villa wall. I don't pretend to be sure that I was particularly struck, from this time forward, with something strange in our quiet Adina. She had always seemed to me vaguely, innocently strange; it was part of her charm that in the daily noiseless movement of her life a mystic undertone seemed to murmur "You don't half know me! Perhaps we three prosaic mortals were not quite worthy to know her: yet I believe that if a practised man of the world had whispered to me, one day, over his wine, after Miss Waddington had rustled away from the table, that there was a young lady who, sooner or later, would treat her friends to a first class surprise, I should have laid my finger on his sleeve and told him with a smile that he phrased my own thought. .."That beautiful girl," I said, "seems to me agitated and preoccupied." "That beautiful girl is a puzzle. I don't know what's the matter with her; it's all very painful; she's a very strange creature. I never dreamed there was an obstacle to our happiness--to our union. She has never protested and promised; it's not her way, nor her nature; she is always humble, passive, gentle; but always extremely grateful for every sign of tenderness. Till within three or four days ago, she seemed to me more so than ever; her habitual gentleness took the form of a sort of shrinking, almost suffering, deprecation of my attentions, my petits soins, my lovers nonsense. It was as if they oppressed and mortified her--and she would have liked me to bear more lightly. I did not see directly that it was not the excess of my devotion, but my devotion itself--the very fact of my love and her engagement that pained her. When I did it was a blow in the face. I don't know what under heaven I've done! Women are fathomless creatures. And yet Adina is not capricious, in the common sense... .So these are peines d'amour?" he went on, after brooding a moment. "I didn't know how fiercely I was in love!" Scrope stood staring at her as she thrust out the crumpled note: that she meant that Adina--that Adina had left us in the night--was too large a horror for his unprepared sense...."Good-bye to everything! Think me crazy if you will. I could never explain. Only forget me and believe that I am happy, happy, happy! Adina Beati."... Love is said to be par excellence the egotistical passion; if so Adina was far gone. "I can't promise to forget you," I said; "you and my friend here deserve to be remembered!
Henry James (Adina)
And yet, you know,” continued Lady Pole, scarcely attending to her, “battles have been fought at some time or other almost everywhere. I remember learning in my schoolroom how London was once the scene of a particularly fierce battle. The people were put to death in horrible ways and the city was burnt to the ground. We are surrounded by the shadows of violence and misery all the days of our life and it seems to me that it matters very little whether any material sign remains or not.
Susanna Clarke (Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell)
You want to know who the strongest man in the Kabuki District is? You must be new in town. You won't last long with that attitude. Forget it. This town is on a whole different level. You got thugs, brawlers, vigilantes and rogue warriors from all over Edo here. It's like a haven for hooligans. This is for your own good. Have a drink and go back to the countryside. What's that? You want me to tell you about the top dogs before you go? You really like this stuff. First, there are four monsters on a level of their own: The Fierce and Divine Madamoiselle Saigo, Doromizu Jirocho the Gallant, Peacock Princess Kada and Empress Otose. The four factions are in a standoff which preserves a fragile balance of power. Who would be the strongest in a fight? You wouldn't be able to even scratch those beasts. Saigo and Jirocho in particular, were heroes during the Joui War. Well, they're too old to go on a tear now. If you want someone who's currently active, there's Katsuro Kuroguma, a young leader in the Doromizu Faction. He's the most feared man in Kabuki District right now. You'll also find a few former Joui in Saigo's Faction. There are rumours about Kada's Faction having ties to some crazy folk. Otose's Faction? It's just a bar, really. She's just an old lady with a soft heart. But if you try any funny business on her turf, you'll run into a certain guy. A guy who holds his own against the Big Three by himself. One hell of a monster, with hair that's completely white. A demon...
Hideaki Sorachi
And if you hadn’t pulled me from the horse-“ “I lost half a lifetime when I realized-“ He choked off whatever else he was about to say. “Best not to think about it.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You survived, and that’s all that matters.” “You saved my life.” He smiled faintly. “If you can’t trust a Bow Street Runner to protect you, who can you trust?” His tone turned fierce. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear.” “I know.” She gazed up at him, her heart full. He flushed, then jerked his gaze back to the window.
Sabrina Jeffries (A Lady Never Surrenders (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #5))
I understand, intellectually, that the death of a parent is a natural, acceptable part of life. Nobody would call the death of a very sick eighty-year-old woman a tragedy. There was soft weeping at her funeral and red watery eyes. No wrenching sobs. Now I think that I should have let myself sob. I should have wailed and beaten my chest and thrown myself over her coffin. I read a poem. A pretty, touching poem I thought she would have liked. I should have used my own words. I should have said: No one will ever love me as fiercely as my mother did. I should have said: You all think you’re at the funeral of a sweet little old lady, but you’re at the funeral of a girl called Clara, who had long blond hair in a heavy thick plait down to her waist, who fell in love with a shy man who worked on the railways, and they spent years and years trying to have a baby, and when Clara finally got pregnant, they danced around the living room but very slowly, so as not to hurt the baby, and the first two years of her little girl’s life were the happiest of Clara’s life, except then her husband died, and she had to bring up the little girl on her own, before there was a single mother’s pension, before the words “single mother” even existed. I should have told them about how when I was at school, if the day became unexpectedly cold, Mum would turn up in the school yard with a jacket for me. I should have told them that she hated broccoli with such a passion she couldn’t even look at it, and that she was in love with the main character on the English television series Judge John Deed. I should have told them that she loved to read and she was a terrible cook, because she’d try to cook and read her latest library book at the same time, and the dinner always got burned and the library book always got food spatters on it, and then she’d spend ages trying to dab them away with the wet corner of a tea towel. I should have told them that my mum thought of Jack as her own grandchild, and how she made him a special racing car quilt he adored. I should have talked and talked and grabbed both sides of the lectern and said: She was not just a little old lady. She was Clara. She was my mother. She was wonderful.
Liane Moriarty (The Hypnotist's Love Story)
Lily Chadwick knew there was something different about the fiercely scowling gentleman the first moment she saw him. She could feel it. The instant their gazes met, caught, held, something skittered across her skin like a rain of white sparks. It entered her bloodstream, heating her from the inside until her breath became stilted and her knees went alarmingly weak. He stared at her from beneath a brow drawn low in a forbidding expression. His eyes were so dark, even the light of the glittering ballroom could not be reflected there. The angles of his face were hard, his jaw sharply defined, and he held his mouth in a harsh line that attempted to harden the full curve of his lower lip but didn't quite manage it. Lily tried to glance away demurely, but she couldn't seem to manage. She felt a flutter that became a tightening in her belly. Her heart stopped, skipped a few beats, then started up again in a frantic rhythm as he just kept watching her. Despite his severe, aloof appearance, something about him reached out to her, touching her with an intrinsic sort of recognition. It left her feeling as though she stood in the heart of a firestorm. She sensed with a certainty beyond rational explanation that his unyielding manner was a facade, as if he were a hero in some gothic novel. There was passion in him. She felt it in every quickened, prey-like breath she took while frozen under his intent stare. The silent interaction between them was becoming more inappropriate by the minute, yet she could not compel herself to break away. As though caught in an invisible trap, she stared back at him while her hands began to sweat and her stomach trembled.
Amy Sandas (The Untouchable Earl (Fallen Ladies, #2))
She buried her face against his shoulder, her face hot. "I want you, Aidan," she said again. This time it was a helpless cry. "I want to be yours." A low growl erupted from his throat. "Then be mine." Fiercely, he caught her up against him, his arms like bands of iron around her back, almost crushing her. It was exactly what she wanted, what she needed. He kissed her with fiery greed, almost wild, his tongue twining around hers. He allowed no room for reticence; there was none. She returned in equal measure precisely what he demanded and reveled in it.
Samantha James (The Seduction Of An Unknown Lady (McBride Family #2))
Oh no,” she breathed. “Not the Highwoods.” She called after the coach as it rumbled off into the distance. “Mrs. Highwood, wait! Come back. I can explain everything. Don’t leave!” “They seem to have already left.” She turned on Bram, flashing him an angry blue glare. The force of it pushed against his sternum. Not nearly sufficient to move him, but enough to leave an impression. “I do hope you’re happy, sir. If tormenting innocent sheep and blowing ruts in our road weren’t enough mischief for you today, you’ve ruined a young woman’s future.” “Ruined?” Bram wasn’t in the habit of ruining young ladies-that was his cousin’s specialty-but if he ever decided to take up the sport, he’d employ a different technique. He edged closer, lowering his voice. “Really, it was just a little kiss. Or is this about your frock?” His gaze dipped. Her frock had caught the worst of their encounter. Grass and dirt streaked the yards of shell-pink muslin. A torn flounce drooped to the ground, limp as a forgotten handkerchief. Her neckline had likewise strayed. He wondered if she knew her left breast was one exhortation away from popping free of her bodice altogether. He wondered if he should stop staring at it. No, he decided. He would do her a favor by staring at it, calling her attention to what needed to be repaired. Indeed. Staring at her half-exposed, emotion-flushed breast was his solemn duty, and Bram was never one to shirk responsibility. “Ahem.” She crossed her arms over her chest, abruptly aborting his mission. “It’s not about me,” she said, “or my frock. The woman in that carriage was vulnerable and in need of help, and…” She blew out a breath, lifting the stray wisps of hair from her brow. “And now she’s gone. They’re all gone.” She looked him up and down. “So what is it you require? A wheelwright? Supplies? Directions to the main thoroughfare? Just tell me what you need to be on your way, and I will happily supply it.” “We won’t put you to any such trouble. So long as this is the road to Summerfield, we’ll-“ “Summerfield? You didn’t say Summerfield.” Vaguely, he understood that she was vexed with him, and that he probably deserved it. But damned if he could bring himself to feel sorry. Her fluster was fiercely attractive. The way her freckles bunched as she frowned at him. The elongation of her pale, slender neck as she stood straight in challenge. She was tall for a woman. He liked his women tall. “I did say Summerfield,” he replied. “That is the residence of Sir Lewis Finch, is it not?” Her brow creased. “What business do you have with Sir Lewis Finch?” “Men’s business, love. The specifics needn’t concern you.” “Summerfield is my home,” she said. “And Sir Lewis Finch is my father. So yes, Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell”-she fired each word as a separate shot-“you concern me.
Tessa Dare (A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove, #1))
They were two-thirds of the way up when he heard a woman’s voice right behind him. “Pretty. So very pretty.” He turned to see the lady patting Deedee’s head, almost petting her like an animal at the zoo. The little girl’s face was filled with horror. “Such a pretty child,” the woman said. “I could just eat you up. Like a turkey dinner. Yes. So sweet.” Mark faced front again, repulsed. There was a bulging feeling in his chest, as if something were trying to escape. He’d just taken another step when a man reached out and poked his shoulder with a finger. “Good, strong young boy, you are,” the stranger said. “I bet your mama’s proud, eh?” Mark ignored him, went up another step. This time people on either side of him put their hands on his arm—not in a threatening way, just a touch. Another step. A woman moved away from the wall and threw her arms around his neck, squeezed him in a quick and fierce hug. Then she released him and stepped back into her position to the side. A wicked smile distorted her features. Revulsion filled Mark. He couldn’t take another minute in that house. He threw caution to the wind and reached behind him, grabbed Deedee’s hand, then started moving faster up the steps. He could hear Alec’s feet pounding as he brought up the rear.
James Dashner (The Kill Order (Maze Runner, #4))
Girl. Such a simple title. One I've been labeled all my life. But nowhere was I called it more than at the Hidden Palace: spat from the beaked mouth of Madam Himura, hissed with contemp by Naja, thrown with derision by General Yu. But in the Cloud Palace, with the magnificent Lady Dunya before me and her bold, fierce daughters, I feel for one of the first times the hidden power contained within its single modest syllable. Because this is what I am. Not a Paper Girl anymore, just "girl." Almost, as I told Lady Dunya, a caste of its own. An oppressed caste, yes, but one braver and bolder and capable of more brilliance than any other in this world.
Natasha Ngan (Girls of Storm and Shadow (Girls of Paper and Fire, #2))
He's so intense, but I stand my ground. "Your people will... "I am not only talking about my people now," he snaps. "I am talking about me." The words feel like a slap. I stare at him, suddenly breathless "You think I betrayed you." He says nothing. And the worst part is, he's not wrong either. I was acting on emotion. I wasn't thinking about how anyone would perceive my actions. I spent months thinking Grey was dead, and after seeing what Rhen was willing to do in the courtyard, I wasn't going to wait around for him to up the ante. My throat tightens. I turn to look out over the courtyard again, hoping the breeze will drag my tears away. "He was trapped with you for ... ever," I say. "Forever, Rhen. "How could you do that to him?" Rhen is quiet for a moment. "He was your friend, too, my lady. I was not the only one he ran from." I remember a moment, in the courtyard, when Rhen was still a monster. When Lilith was going to kill me, and Grey got on his knees and offered himself to spare me. I remember a moment in Washington, DC, when Grey was near death because Rhen had attacked him, and he came to me for help. Not anyone in Emberfall. To me. He could have told me his secret. I would have helped him. He chose not to. To protect me? Or to protect himself? Both? We once spoke of my duty to bleed so he does not. Oh, Grey.
Brigid Kemmerer (A Heart So Fierce and Broken (Cursebreakers, #2))
When K & I returned to the gingerbread house after taking Nana home, I was beyond exhausted. But I couldn't sleep, not for a long time. I stayed awake. Thinking of boys, of myself, & of all the intersections in between. ... Regardless, there were times when I was at least part boy. A femme boy deep down. Shy sweater fag, my cardigan on hand to comfort me in the cold world. Bookworm queer boy at heart, K told me on more than one occasion. Certain moods & I was the most enviable of drag princesses, eyelashes all a-flutter & my fingers tickling the air with each gesture. Sometimes I was full of flirtatious swagger, but that playful swag could turn fierce snarl for defense, if need be. Never, I promised myself one line I wouldn't cross, never would I be the mean kind of boy that laughed me back inside the store's red doors when I did no good at hot afternoon sour pissing contests. Of course, there were plenty of times I was such a fairy lady that I ceased to be even part boy. Yes, Rob would have accused me of bringing the communal growl down for saying I'm part boy. And pre-Stonewall dykes would have wanted to call my game. What kind of dyke was I, anyway? Good question. Simple & complicated all at once, I wasn't a pigeon to be tucked away neatly into a hole. I didn't wear a fixed category without feeling pain. I was more, or less, or something different entirely.
Felicia Luna Lemus (Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties)
What are you so afraid of?” “Nothing!” He yelled so fiercely that a pair of oxen grazing in a nearby field snorted and moved farther away from us. It was the first time I ever saw fire in Milo’s eyes. “I’m no coward. That’s not why I wouldn’t go with your brothers. I have to go with you.” “Who said so? You’re free now, Milo. Don’t you know what that means? You can come and go anywhere you like. You ought to appreciate it.” “I appreciate you, Lady Helen!” Once Milo raised his voice, he couldn’t stop. He shouted so loudly that the two oxen trotted to the far side of the pasture as fast as they could move their massive bodies. “You’re the one who gave me my freedom. If I love to be fifty, I’ll never be able to repay you!
Esther M. Friesner (Nobody's Princess (Nobody's Princess, #1))
She cuddled the baby closer and kissed his ear. Kit turned to swing his little paw at her, but Sophie drew back, only to kiss his ear again when he dropped his hand. “That child likes to play.” And Sophie adored to play with him, to lavish love and attention upon him. “He’s been singing today, as well,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa with the infant. “Wonderful baby songs, odes to his toes, madrigals to his knuckles. I wonder when he’ll begin to speak. Mrs. Harrad will no doubt know such things.” She was Lady Sophia this morning, a woman with no recollection of the glorious intimacies they’d shared. A duke’s daughter determined on her cause. He sat beside her, missing plain Sophie Windham with a fierce ache. “The
Grace Burrowes (Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (The Duke's Daughters, #1; Windham, #4))
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Assessing her. Gauging his success, looking for a chink in her armor. He gazed at her for a long time and she stared back at him, her own eyes challenging, angry. And then he made a fierce face at her, took up his knife as though it was a pirate’s dagger, and baring his teeth in a manner meant to be threatening, growled, “Aaaaargh! Eat yer dinner, matey, before I carve out yer liver and feed it to the sharks.” She stared at him, her jaw falling open. He stared back, the corners of his mouth twitching, his face deceptively little-boy innocent. “What?” “You’re . . . deranged,” she murmured. “No, merely hungry. For you. Hurry up and get better so we can make savage, uninhibited love.
Danelle Harmon (My Lady Pirate (Heroes of the Sea #3))
You may not want to glare at me quite so fiercely,” West murmured to Kathleen sotto voce, as the sisters gathered up their gifts and carried them from the room. “It would distress the girls if they were to realize how much you dislike me.” “I disapprove of you,” she replied gravely, walking out to the grand staircase with him. “That’s not the same as dislike.” “Lady Trenear, I disapprove of me.” He grinned at her. “So we have something in common.” “Mr. Ravenel, if you--” “Mightn’t we call each other cousin?” “No. Mr. Ravenel, if you are to spend a fortnight here, you will conduct yourself like a gentleman, or I will have you forcibly taken to Alton and tossed onto the first railway car that stops at the station.” West blinked and looked at her, clearly wondering if she was serious.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Your heart has been sorely wounded, Maeve.” She heard the scrape of his chair as he pushed it back and came around the table toward her. She felt his presence behind her, felt his hands touching her hair, then resting lightly upon her shoulders. It was a gentle touch, a possessive, protective one, and beneath the weight of it she melted inside. His thumbs grazed her nape, eliciting an involuntary shudder; his breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned down and kissed her temple. “I love you, Maeve.” She clenched her hands together fiercely, her nails biting into her palms. “I love you so much I would give my life for you,” he continued. Her fists buried themselves in the folds of the blanket, and the nightshirt just beneath. “I love you so much I would marry you tonight, if I could. But I shall wait, because I would have your father’s consent on the union.
Danelle Harmon (My Lady Pirate (Heroes of the Sea #3))
The friends were unexpected… She ended up liking her friends quite a bit. And, much to her shock and amazement, they seemed to like her back. Sidheag was the first to win her over. Agatha was grateful they’d been told to share a room, for it was the Lady of Kingair who introduced her to the others. Tall, grumpy, and Scottish, Sidheag Maccon came off as gruff, but turned out to be kindly underneath it all. Sidheag saw none of the usual flaws in Agatha’s timid manner, dumpy appearance, or awkward address, because Sidheag saw only actions, and Agatha was never cruel… After Sidheag came Sophronia – proud and cunning and a little bit scary. After Sophronia came Vieve – tiny, fierce, and irrepressibly mechanically minded. Trailing Sophronia, like a very sparkly puppy, was Dimity, the easiest to like of them all. Dimity was chattery and sweet. Agatha worried about her sometimes.
Gail Carriger (Ambush or Adore (Delightfully Deadly, #3))
When he came at her suddenly, flattened her against the wall, and tried to kiss her, she no longer had any doubt. He had surprised her, but the wine addling his brains made her work easy. You don’t want to kiss me. Nash stopped trying to kiss her but continued to press himself against her, groping her breasts and her back. Hurting her arm. “I’m in love with you,” he said, breathing sour air into her face. “I want to marry you.” You don’t want to marry me. You don’t even want to touch me. You want to release me. Nash stepped back from her and she pushed herself away, gulping fresh air, smoothing her clothing. She turned to make her escape. Then she swung back at him and did a thing she never did. Apologize to me, she thought to him fiercely. I’ve had enough of this. Apologize. Instantly the king kneeled at her feet, gracious, gentlemanly, black eyes swimming with penitence. “Forgive me, Lady, for my insult to your person. Go safely to your bed.
Kristin Cashore (Fire)
Seven and a half.” He breathed the words next to her ear. Her eyes snapped open, all coffee-colored impatience. “You’re supposed to go lower, to meet me. Six and a half, you should say.” “Eight,” he murmured into her shoulder. “And I’ll go lower, to meet you, any time you like.” He flicked his tongue across her spine and caught the little shock that went charging up from her tailbone to the base of her skull. When he lifted his head to look in the mirror, her cheeks were red and her chin was down, all fierce attention leveled on his watch. Eight minutes it was, then. He kissed her, and kissed and kissed and kissed her until he knew that narrow path of skin, and the knobbly scaffolding underneath, the way he knew the lines on his own palm. He knew her scent, and he knew her taste, and he knew which vertebra put a catch in her breath when he brushed it with his lips. He could learn her whole body by mouth, if she would but let him, and distract her all out of her mind.
Cecilia Grant (A Lady Awakened (Blackshear Family, #1))
One of the biggest battles that second-wave feminists of the seventies had with third wave feminists of the nineties was over the place of sex and beauty in feminism. Second wavers critiqued high heels and lipstick as oppressive expectations of the patriarchy. Third-wave white girls brought heels and fly red lips back into the mix. Black feminists gave the side eye to white girls and their feminist waves, because looking fierce and fly has always been a part of the Black-girl credo. (And also because Black feminism didn’t fit neatly within the historical trajectory of waves.) Our embrace of femininity was its own armor in a world where white women said that Black women should never be called ladies. If I have to pick a side, I’d say I’m third wave enough to affirm that beauty and the desire to be wanted still matter. When you go for months or years without a dude (or any love interest) ever noticing you, you can begin to feel invisible. And feminist principles about how the patriarchy has made us beholden to beauty culture do nothing to assuage the desire we all have to be seen and affirmed.
Brittney Cooper (Eloquent Rage: A Black Feminist Discovers Her Superpower)
scrub oak trees. Kieran was leaning against him, pinning him to the tree, and they were kissing. Cristina hesitated a moment, blood rising into her face, but it was clear Mark wasn’t being touched against his will. Mark’s hands were tangled in Kieran’s hair, and he was kissing him as fiercely as if he were starving. Their bodies were pressed together tightly; nevertheless, Kieran clutched at Mark’s waist, his hands moving restlessly, desperately, as if he could pull Mark closer still. They slid up, pushing Mark’s jacket off his shoulders, stroking the skin at the edge of his collar. He made a low keening sound, like a cry of grief, deep in his throat, and broke away. He was staring at Mark, his gaze as hungry as it was hopeless. Never had a faerie looked so human to Cristina as Kieran did then. Mark looked back at him, eyes wide, shining in the moonlight. A shared look of love and longing and terrible sadness. It was too much. It had already been too much: Cristina knew she shouldn’t have been watching them but she hadn’t been able to stop, mingled shock and fascination rooting her to the spot. And desire. There was desire, too. Whether for Mark, or for both of them, or just for the idea of wanting someone so much, she wasn’t sure. She moved back, her heart pounding, about to pull the
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
All wore coronets of some kind and many had chains of pearls. They wore no other clothes. Their bodies were the color of old ivory, their hair dark purple. The King in the center (no one could mistake him for anything but the King) looked proudly and fiercely into Lucy’s face and shook a spear in his hand. His knights did the same. The faces of the ladies were filled with astonishment. Lucy felt sure they had never seen a ship or a human before--and how should they, in seas beyond the world’s end where no ship ever came? “What are you staring at, Lu?” said a voice close beside her. Lucy had been so absorbed in what she was seeing that she started at the sound, and when she turned she found that her arm had gone “dead” from leaning so long on the rail in one position. Drinian and Edmund were beside her. “Look,” she said. They both looked, but almost at once Drinian said in a low voice: “Turn round at once, your Majesties--that’s right, with our backs to the sea. And don’t look as if we were talking about anything important.” “Why, what’s the matter?” said Lucy as she obeyed. “It’ll never do for the sailors to see all that,” said Drinian. “We’ll have men falling in love with a sea-woman, or falling in love with the under-sea country itself, and jumping overboard. I’ve heard of that kind of thing happening before in strange seas. It’s always unlucky to see these people.
C.S. Lewis (The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (Chronicles of Narnia, #3))
It doesn’t matter what happened. I am here to make things right. I want to marry your sister.” Stoneville eyed him closely. “Minerva seemed to think otherwise.” Jackson sighed. “I’m not surprised. I believe that I also left Lady Celia unsure of my intentions. I…um…made rather a hash of it when I proposed the first time.” The marquess chuckled. “I’ll say.” Jackson cast him a startled glance. “Yes, I heard all about your offer. Do forgive my amusement. If you’ll recall, I made rather a hash of my own marriage proposal.” He sobered. “I also understand that my grandmother had something to do with your reticence to offer marriage.” “I was not reticent,” Jackson said fiercely. “I was never reticent about that. I’ve wanted to marry your sister almost from the moment I met her. And no matter what your grandmother thinks, it has nothing to do with her fortune or her position or-“ “I know.” When Jackson blinked, the marquess smiled. “You forget-I’ve watched you work for nearly a year. I’ve listened to your opinions and heard of your fine reputation. I know a man of good character when I see one.” “Even if he’s a bastard?” Jackson bit out. “The Duke of Clarence has ten bastards and everyone turns a blind eye, so I don’t see why we can’t have at least one on the family. Or two, if you count Jarret’s stepson.” Stoneville smiled. “We Sharpes are hellions after all. We wouldn’t want to become boring. What would the gossips have to talk about?
Sabrina Jeffries (A Lady Never Surrenders (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #5))
He’d just reached the hall when Jane ran out after him. “Dom, wait.” He smiled at her. “What is it, sweeting?” “Thank you.” “For what?” She came up to press a kiss to his cheek. “For letting me question her. For not turning all investigator-like and bellowing questions at her. I know she’ll have to face plenty of that at the trial.” “I’ll keep her out of it if I can, but if the choice is sending him to prison or covering up the scandal--” “You should send him to prison,” she said fiercely. “No question about that.” He chuckled. “You are far more bloodthirsty than I ever would have guessed.” “And more hardy, I hope?” “Definitely.” Her eyes sparkled at him. “Does this mean you’ll make me an honorary Duke’s Man, after all?” “Certainly not,” he said in a falsely stern voice. When she lifted an eyebrow at him, he swept his gaze down her and grinned. “There is nothing remotely manly about you, sweeting. So you’ll have to be an honorary Duke’s Lady.” She beamed at him. “I’m going to remind you of that when I ask you to teach me how to shoot.” His grin faltered. “Teach you to what?” he said as she headed back to Nancy’s room. “Have you gone mad?” Her laughter wafted back to him as she closed the door, and he realized with relief that she was joking. Or was she? Good God. As a wife, Jane was clearly going to be a joy and a trial, a blessing and a curse. Once they married, she was going to throw all his plans into disarray, and all his careful control right out the window. He smiled. He couldn’t wait to begin.
Sabrina Jeffries (If the Viscount Falls (The Duke's Men, #4))
To my knowledge, none of them has ever taken advantage of a respectable female. Even my brothers had their...dalliances as bachelors." "So did your father." He would point that out. "That's different. Papa broke his marriage vows. That doesn't mean my suitors would do so." She swallowed. "Unless you think it impossible for a woman like me to keep men like them satisfied and happy?" He started. "No! I wasn't trying to say...That is-" "It's all right, Mr. Pinter," she said, fighting to keep the hurt out of her voice. "I know what you think of me." His gaze locked with hers, confusing her with its sudden fierceness. "You have no idea what I think of you." She twisted her bracelet nervously, and the motion drew his eyes down to her hands. But as his gaze came back up, it slowed, lingering on her bosom. Could Mr. Pinter...Was it possible that he... Certainly not! Proper Pinter would never be interested in a reckless female of her stamp. Why, he didn't even like her. She'd dressed carefully today, hoping to sway him into doing her bidding by showing that she could look and act like a lady, hoping to gain a measure of his respect. But the intimate way his gaze continued up past her bosom to her throat, and then paused again at her mouth, was more how her brothers looked at their wives. It wasn't so much disrespectful as it was...interested. No, she must be imagining that. He was merely trying to make her uncomfortable; she was misinterpreting the seeming heat in his glance. She refused to let herself be taken in by imagining what wasn't there.
Sabrina Jeffries (A Lady Never Surrenders (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #5))
I’ve imagined you like this…many times…naked, sharing my bed,” he rasped, the fervent words warming her, making her relax. “You have no idea.” “I have some idea,” she managed. “I imagined you, too.” He looked skeptical. “Like this?” “Well, not exactly…I didn’t know…what to expect.” Or how shockingly intimate it would feel. A lock of his dark hair fell over one eye, making him look more like a dangerous character and less like the formal Jackson she knew. “And now that you do?” he asked. “I like it.” The motion had started to warm her below, to spark the same tingling she’d felt when he rubbed her. “It’s like a very naughty waltz.” He choked out a laugh. “Yes. I lead. You follow.” You move between my legs. Oh, so that’s why people thought the waltz so scandalous! “I’ll never be able to waltz again….without thinking of this,” she breathed. He bent to whisper. “Then I’ll have to claim you for the next waltz.” She liked that word, claim. “And the next…and the next…” He thrust more quickly into her and her tingling heightened, twisting into something hot and exciting and infinitely more thrilling than any waltz. “Jackson…ohhh, Jackson…” “Every waltz…from now…until eternity.” “Yes…” She felt as if she were spiraling upward, like sparks dancing up from the fire into the chimney and out, and now she was soaring, rising with him into the cloudless climes and starry skies where all the beauty walked… “Yes!” she cried as she reached that pinnacle. “Oh, yes, Jackson, yes…I’m yours…I’m yours…yours…” And with a fierce groan, he drove in deep and spent himself inside her. “As am I…” he whispered against her ear while he shuddered and shook over her. “Yours. Always.
Sabrina Jeffries (A Lady Never Surrenders (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #5))
Why didn’t they ask two of the guards to go with them?” Milo asked. “A soldier’s not a servant,” I told him. “The most loyal Spartan warrior would be insulted if he was asked to be a weapons bearer, even for a prince. It looks like Castor and Polydeuces will have to take care of themselves.” Milo looked away from me. I was puzzled by this sudden shyness and tried to catch his eye, but he deliberately avoided my gaze. He reeked of guilty secrets. “You’re the one,” I said. “You’re the scrawn--the boy Castor asked to go with him.” His silence was the same as shouting Yes! I knew it. “You just told me you wanted to join the quest for the fleece. You could have done it: Why didn’t you?” “I couldn’t,” he mumbled. “Why not? Because it’s safer to talk about dreams than to try making them real? What are you so afraid of?” “Nothing!” He yelled so fiercely that a pair of oxen grazing in a nearby field snorted and moved farther away from us. It was the first time I ever saw fire in Milo’s eyes. “I’m no coward. That’s not why I wouldn’t go with your brothers. I have to go with you.” “Who said so? You’re free now, Milo. Don’t you know what that means? You can come and go anywhere you like. You ought to appreciate it.” “I appreciate you, Lady Helen!” Once Milo raised his voice, he couldn’t stop. He shouted so loudly that the two oxen trotted to the far side of the pasture as fast as they could move their massive bodies. “You’re the one who gave me my freedom. If I love to be fifty, I’ll never be able to repay you!” Milo’s uproar attracted the attention of the two guards, but I waved them back when I saw them coming toward us. “Do you think you could be grateful quietly?” I asked. “This is between us, not us and all Delphi.
Esther M. Friesner (Nobody's Princess (Nobody's Princess, #1))
The Soviet Union was the only nation involved in the Second World War to put women in the sky as fighter and bomber pilots, and what women they were! Products of the Soviet aviation drive of the 1930s, these young fliers were championed by Marina Raskova, the Amelia Earhart of the USSR. The day bombers and the fighter pilots (among the latter, Lilia Litviak, seen in cameo at the Engels training camp, was killed in an aerial dogfight during the war, but became history’s first female ace) eventually integrated with male personnel . . . but the night bombers remained all-female throughout their term of service and were fiercely proud of this fact. The ladies of the Forty-Sixth Taman Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment went to war in the outdated Polikarpov U-2, an open-cockpit cloth-and-plywood biplane, achingly slow and highly flammable, built without radio, parachute, or brakes. (It was redesignated the Po-2 after 1943; I was unable to pinpoint an exact date for the change, and continued to use the term U-2 for clarity.) The women flew winter and summer, anywhere from five to eighteen runs per night, relying on stimulants that destroyed their ability to rest once off-duty. They flew continuously under these conditions for three years, surviving on catnaps and camaraderie, developing the conveyor belt land-and-refuel routine that gave them a far more efficient record than comparable night bomber regiments. The women’s relentless efficiency waged ruthless psychological warfare on the Germans below, who thought their silent glide-down sounded like witches on broomsticks, and awarded them the nickname “die Nachthexen.” Such dedication took a toll: the regiment lost approximately 27 percent of its flying personnel to crashes and enemy fire. The Night Witches were also awarded a disproportionately higher percentage of Hero of the Soviet Union medals—the USSR’s highest decoration.
Kate Quinn (The Huntress)
The story of Lourdes starts centuries before young Bernadette encountered the beautiful woman at Massabielle. While the area of Massabielle was known as a decrepit place during Bernadette’s time—fit only to feed swine and gather kindling—it hadn’t always been regarded as such. In 778, Charlemagne approached the Muslim stronghold in the Aquitaine region of Southern France. On the edge of the Pyrenees mountains, the fortress of Massbielle was the last refuge of the indefatigable Saracen fighters who had occupied the area for forty years. Led by the fierce Saracen Mirat, the fortress was impregnable. Mirat was determined to fight to the death because he had made an oath in the name of Mohammed that he would never surrender to a mortal man. Charlemagne and his soldiers were left with one option: starve them out. After weeks passed, resources inside the fort were running low. An eagle dropped a trout inside to the desperate men. The starving Mirat, rather than devour the fish, flippantly threw it back at the enemy soldiers, as if to indicate that their food was still plenty in hopes that it would break their resolve, and Charlemagne and his men would leave. Suspecting a trick, the local bishop of Le Puy, Roracius, requested an audience with Mirat. After seeing the sorry state of the Saracens, but knowing of Mirat’s oath, the bishop said, “Brave prince, you have sworn never to yield to any mortal man. Could you not with honor make your surrender to an immortal Lady? Mary, Queen of Heaven, has her throne at Le Puy, and I am her humble minister there.”2 Mirat saw that agreeing would free him from his oath; he promptly surrendered to the Queen of Heaven. He and his men became subjects to the Queen; all were baptized, and Mirat was given a new name, Lorus. Charlemagne knighted him, and Lorus went on to command the Fortress of Mass-abielle. It is the name Lorus from which the name Lourdes comes.
Carrie Gress (The Marian Option: God’s Solution to a Civilization in Crisis)
A splash of light snuck beneath the a dressing room door. He heard a groan. A shuffle. A bump. A heavy sigh. "Uh, too tight." He walked toward the back, stopping outside the dressing room. The door was cracked a fraction. He rested a shoulder against the wall, and glanced inside. Grace as Catwoman blew his mind. A feline fantasy. The three-way mirror tripled his pleasure. He viewed her from every angle. Hot, sleek, fierce. The lady could fight Batman in her skintight black leather catsuit and come out the winner. After a moment she scrunched her nose, slapped her palms against her thighs. Stuck out her tongue at her reflection in the mirrors. He saw what had her so frustrated. Sympathized with her disappointment. Her costume didn't fit. The front zipper hadn't fully cleared her cleavage, which was deep and visible. She wore no bra. She gave a little hop, and her breasts bounced. Full and plump. He felt a tug at his groin. Superhero lust. He cleared his throat and made his presence known. She caught his image in the corner of the glass, and reached for the fitting room chair, positioning it between them. Like that would keep him from her. He should've looked away, but couldn't. He sensed her embarrassment. Her panic. Flight? She had nowhere to go. He blocked the door. He wasn't leaving until they'd talked. "Archibald's going to love your costume," he initiated. She didn't find him funny. Her gaze narrowed behind the molded cat-eye mask with attached ears. Her fingers clenched in her elbow-length gloves. Inspired by the movie The Dark Knight, she'd added a whip and a gun holster. Her thigh-high stiletto boots were killer, adding five inches to her height. Her image would stick with him forever. She backed against the center mirror, and nervously fingered the open flaps over her breasts. A yank on the zipper broke the tab. The metal teeth parted, and the gap widened, revealing the round inner curves of her breasts. A hint of her nipples. Dusky pink. All the way down to the dent of her navel.
Kate Angell (The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine)
Amy?" he breathed. Two dancers, caught up in the dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him down. "Lord Charles!  I beg your pardon!" But he never heard them.  He never saw them.  He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry.  She was a ravishing young woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to insignificance. Charles's mouth went dry.  His heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe. Another set of dancers collided with him, knocking him to his senses.  Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was partnering a grinning Nerissa.  "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?" quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past.  "You should've stuck around to see her announced, Charles.  Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting . . ." Charles had heard enough.  But as he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more. "Well, His Grace told me she's an heiress . . ." "Not just an heiress, but a princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ." ". . . came here to offer her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ." Charles clenched his fists.  Lucien.  No one else could have, would have, started and circulated such a preposterously crazy rumor!  What the hell was his brother trying to do, get Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life forever?  This was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned sure! His jaw tight, he stormed across the dance floor toward Amy.  He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've sworn she didn't have. She had not seen him yet, and as Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent, that it made him think of doing something totally irrational. Such as calling Perry out for dancing with his woman. Such as killing Lucien for whatever little game he was playing. Such
Danelle Harmon (The Beloved One (The De Montforte Brothers, #2))
What are you so afraid of?” “Nothing!” He yelled so fiercely that a pair of oxen grazing in a nearby field snorted and moved farther away from us. It was the first time I ever saw fire in Milo’s eyes. “I’m no coward. That’s not why I wouldn’t go with your brothers. I have to go with you.” “Who said so? You’re free now, Milo. Don’t you know what that means? You can come and go anywhere you like. You ought to appreciate it.” “I appreciate you, Lady Helen!” Once Milo raised his voice, he couldn’t stop. He shouted so loudly that the two oxen trotted to the far side of the pasture as fast as they could move their massive bodies. “You’re the one who gave me my freedom. If I love to be fifty, I’ll never be able to repay you!” Milo’s uproar attracted the attention of the two guards, but I waved them back when I saw them coming toward us. “Do you think you could be grateful quietly?” I asked. “This is between us, not us and all Delphi. You owe me nothing. Listen, if you leave now, you might still be able to catch up to my brothers. I’ll ask the Pythia for help. There must be at least one of Apollo’s pilgrims heading north today, one who’s going on horseback. If she tells him to carry you with him, you’ll overtake Prince Jason’s party in no time! I’ll give you whatever you’ll need for the road and--” “Then I will be in your debt,” Milo encountered. “If you say I’m free, why aren’t I free to stay with you, if that’s what I want?” “Because it’s stupid!” I forgot my own caution about keeping our voices low. I’d decided that if I couldn’t win our argument with facts, I’d do it with volume. “Don’t you see, Milo? This is a better opportunity than anything that’s waiting for you in Sparta! What could you become if you went there? A potter, a tanner, a metalsmith, maybe a farmer’s boy or a shepherd. But if you sail to Colchis with my brothers, you could be--” “Seasick,” Milo finished for me. I raised my eyebrows. “Is that why you won’t go? Not even if it means passing up a once-in-a-lifetime chance for adventures? For a real future? I’m disappointed.” Milo folded his arms. “Why don’t you just command me not to be seasick? Command me to go away and leave you, while you’re at it. Command me to join your brothers. It’s not what I want, but I guess that doesn’t matter after all.” I was about to launch into another list of reasons why he should rush after my brothers when his words stopped me. Lord Oeneus was open-handed with commands, I thought. And it was worse for Milo when his hand closed into a fist. I shouldn’t bully Milo into joining the quest for the fleece just because I wish I could do it myself. In that instant, a happy inspiration struck me with the force of one of Zeus’s own thunderbolts: Why can’t I? I found an unripe acorn lying on the ground beside me and flicked it at Milo. “All right,” I told him. “You win. You can stay with me.” A look of utter relief spread across his face until I added, “But I win too. You’re going to go with my brothers.” “But how can I do that if--?” “And so am I.
Esther M. Friesner (Nobody's Princess (Nobody's Princess, #1))
Without thinking, she delivered a stinging slap, all her hurt and disappointment behind the impact. The imprint of her hand on his cheek shocked her. And though she immediately regretted her childish action, pride forbade her to own up to it. "Mind your manners, next time, Sinclair!" Across the yard, Luter Hicks halted and burst into guffaws. "Guess she told you, lapdog! Hey, honey," he called to Willow, "if he ain't satisfying you, how 'bout lettin' me warm your bed tonight?" An angry growl rolled out of Rider's throat. He pulled Willow up on her tiptoes, mashing her breasts against his hard chest. His fingers plowed through her thick tresses, knocking her bonnet off and scattering her hair pins. Then clasping her chin between his thumb and fingers, he tipped her head back and took fierce possession of her mouth. When he finally released her lips, he set her down a little harder than necessary. "I'll kill the first man who even blinks at you," he ground out loud enough for Hicks to hear. Then in a low, no-nonsense voice,meant for her ears alone, he ordered, "Kiss me and make it look good!" Willow glanced over at Hick's eager face and cringed. Her pride be damned! Sinclair was by far the lesser evil. She swept her arms around his neck. "Whatever you say...lover," she hissed in his ear. Standing on tiptoe again, she slowly brought his head down and pasted her lips to his. But he would have none of her stiff-lipped kiss and increased the pressure on her mouth until she opened to his brazen tongue. As the kiss deepened, he spread one big hand at the base of her spine and molded her stomach against his hard, hot need. Willow's blood sang, her anger instantly gone in the heat of the moment. "Mr. Sinclair!" Miriam interrupted in a berating tone. "You degrade this young lady with your public display. Unhand her at once!" Without his supporting arms, Willow's weak knees barely held her upright. She stumbled backwards, thoroughly stunned by her backfiring emotions. A loud crash snapped her to her senses when Luther threw his plate against the house and stomped off to the bunkouse. Rider collected himself and stooped to pick up Willow's discarded bonnet. Carefully brushing the dust off, he handed it to her without a word. Willow took her hat, gave him a perfunctory nod, and ground her heel into his toe as she pivoted to enter the house. Unaware of the young man's pained expression, Miriam followed on the girl's heels. "Talk about circuses!" she exclaimed, closing the door behind them. "It was just an act for Hick's benefit," Willow defended. Feeling the need to escape Miriam's all-too-knowing glance,she headed down the hall to her room. A heavy boot kicked at the door. Miriam opened it and Rider limped in. "Where do you want these?" he growled testily from behind a tower of packages. "Put them on the settee for now, thank you," Miriam said. "I'd have you carry them back to Willow's room but it isn't a healthy place for you right now." Rider only grunted,dumped the bundles, and returned to the wagon for another armload.
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
Elizabeth?” Ian said in a clipped voice. She whirled around, her heart slamming against her ribs, her hand flying to her throat, her knees turning to jelly. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You-you startled me,” she said as he strolled up to her, his expression oddly impassive. “I didn’t expect you to come here,” she added nervously. “Really?” he mocked. “Whom did you expect after that note-the Prince of Wales?” The note! Crazily, her first thought after realizing ti was from him, not Valerie, was that for an articulate man his handwriting verged on the illiterate. Her second thought was that he seemed angry about something. He didn’t keep her long in doubt as to the reason. “Suppose you tell me how, during the entire afternoon we spent together, you neglected to mention that you are Lady Elizabeth?” Elizabeth wondered a little frantically how he’d feel if he knew she was the Countess of Havenhurst, not merely the eldest daughter of some minor noble or knight. “Start talking, love. I’m listening.” Elizabeth backed away a step. “Since you don’t want to talk,” he bit out, reaching for her arms, “is this all you wanted from me?” “No!” she said hastily, backing out of his reach. “I’d rather talk.” He stepped forward, and Elizabeth took another step backward, exclaiming, “I mean, there are so many interesting topics for conversation, are there not?” “Are there?” he asked, moving forward again. “Yes,” she exclaimed, taking two steps back this time. Snatching at the first topic she could think of, she pointed to the table of hyacinths beside her and exclaimed, “A-Aren’t these hyacinths lovely?” “Lovely,” he agreed without looking at them, and he reached for her shoulders, obviously intending to draw her forward. Elizabeth jumped back so swiftly that his fingers merely grazed the gauze fabric of her gown. “Hyacinths,” she babbled with frantic determination as he began stalking her step for step, pas the table of potted pansies, past the table of potted lilies, “are part of genus Hyacinthus, although the cultivated variety, which we have here, is commonly called the Dutch hyacinth, which is part of H. orientalis-“ “Elizabeth,” he interrupted silkily, “I’m not interested in flowers.” He reached for her again, and Elizabeth, in a frantic attempt to evade his grasp, snatched up a pot of hyacinths and dumped it into his outstretched hands. “There is a mythological background to hyacinths that you may find more interesting than the flower itself,” she continued fiercely, and an indescribable expression of disbelief, amusement, and fascination suddenly seemed to flicker across his face. “You see, the hyacinth is actually named for a handsome Spartan youth-Hyacinthus-who was loved by Apollo and by Zephyrus, god of the west wind. One day Zephyrus was teaching Hyacinthus to throw the discus, and he accidentally killed him. It is said that Hyacinthus’s blood caused a flower to spring up, and each petal was inscribed with the Greek exclamation of sorrow.” Her voice trembled a little as he purposefully set the pot of hyacinths on the table. “A-Actually, the flower that sprang up would have been the iris or larkspur, not the modern hyacinth, but that is how it earned its name.” “Fascinating.” His unfathomable eyes locked onto hers. Elizabeth knew he was referring to her and not the history of the hyacinth, and though she commanded herself to move out of his reach, her legs refused to budge.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
She was bony, with firm, stringy muscles, and had no business wearing a tank top. Her Bellevue eyes complemented the wild salt-and-pepper hair that was straight out of a fright-wig catalog, or perhaps one of Darwin’s early sketchbooks. She appeared to be in her late fifties and was a quintessential New York loon—one of those classic Upper West Side ladies who smiled too much, had intergalactic notions about the existence of man, yet fiercely observed the High Holidays.
Adam Resnick (Will Not Attend: Lively Stories of Detachment and Isolation)
Slowly Shane took his hands from his pockets and reached for her. Dani held her breath, not sure what was to come, afraid and yet not really fearful. His hands settled on her shoulders, and his arms drew her closer as he bent down to her mouth. The kiss was more gentle than Dani had expected, and far more hungry. It haunted her in ways that had nothing to do with her fear of large men. “What about that?” Shane asked softly. “Does that change your mind?” “Should it?” “You’re damned right it should.” He kissed her again, less gently this time. She sensed the barely restrained passion in him and trembled. But not with fear. Suddenly she found herself kissing him fiercely, almost fighting him for the embrace with a passion that demanded more from him than a warrior’s restraint. Shane made a thick sound. His arms closed around her, lifting her, holding her so close there was barely room between them for the heat of their bodies to mingle. Finally, reluctantly, he let her slide down the length of his body. He made no effort to hide his arousal. He simply looked at her with a raw desire that made her want to be close to him again. Very close. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said bluntly. “We want each other. There’s nothing worse for a covert operation than sex.” For a moment longer Dani savored the warmth of his hands, the caressing pressure of his thumbs against the underside of her breasts, and the undisguised hunger in his eyes. Then she drew a long, ragged breath and slowly let it out. “Then we’ll just have to say no, won’t we?” Dani said. Shane said something in Tibetan. Dani didn’t ask for a translation. “You still insist on going?” he asked, but without real hope. “Yes.” “It’s going to be hell, lady. I promise that you’ll roast in the fires with me.
Ann Maxwell (Shadow and Silk)
He started to speak quiet, but his volume rose to a fierce thunder. “That man took my future bride and I want her back!
Amber Lynn Perry (So Fair a Lady (Daughters of His Kingdom, #1))
Miles of ocean, and oh, the vastness of it, shadows and salt, fierce dark water filled with alien emptiness and the monsters that lived there. Imagine falling into that water and knowing it was below you, even as you treaded water, desperately trying to remain on the surface; the terror of the realisation of what was under you - miles and miles of nothingness and monsters, blackness stretching away everywhere and the sea floor so far below - would tear your mind apart.
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
She didn’t look at me even once, Sean thought, feeling an icy chill of disappointment, far colder than the pool water. Abruptly aware that he was still standing in the pool, fully dressed, looking like an idiot, he hauled himself out. Hal’s obvious concern had transmuted into narrow-eyed disapproval. Sean pretended not to notice. He was too preoccupied to deal with Hal right now, too busy trying to figure out what might be going on in Lily’s head. Damn it, why couldn’t things ever be simple between Lily and him? With a grimace, he emptied his dripping pockets, dumping his wallet and ruined cell phone onto the deck. He grabbed his sodden towel and made a halfhearted attempt to blot his dripping clothes. Thank God his drenched clothing hid the evidence of his arousal. Fierce need still clawed, its talons deep. If Sean hadn’t been damned sure Hal would hurl himself in a flying tackle if he tried it, he would have marched right into the ladies’ locker room and dragged Lily back where she belonged: in his arms. Arms that ached from the loss of her.
Laura Moore (Night Swimming: A Novel)
Careful, minx, or I shall think you dragged me to this silly place just to irritate me.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. She plied her fan, feigning innocence. “Would I do that?” He laughed as he led her to the dance floor. “I imagine you would. In fact, I am quite certain that you despise this place as much as I already do.” “I…” She raised the fan to hide her expression. Could he be aware of her plan to annoy him out of the engagement? “Please, Miss Winthrop, do not exert yourself by indulging in further falsehoods.” he whispered through clenched teeth. “The truth is written all over your face. Now tell me, why are you trying to vex me?” The vampire loomed over her like the fierce blood drinker he was. The young ladies and gentlemen around them had abandoned even the slightest pretense of dancing and were now watching the discussion with avid interest. Claire Belmont gripped Lord Makepeace’s sleeve and dragged him closer. The audience seemed to salivate over the possibility of scandal. Angelica resisted the urge to glare at Claire. “People are staring at us.” “Let them,” Burnrath said curtly. “This is not the first time we’ve garnered attention, and from the pattern of our discourse, it will not be the last.” “Fine,” she muttered and confessed the truth. “I had thought if I irritated you enough, you would not wish to marry me.” “Angel…” His voice grew tender and his grip tightened on her waist as they waltzed. “Nothing will make me change my mind. I have told you time and again that you have no reason to fear me. What will it take to make you believe me?” As she swayed in his arms, his handsome face and gentleness nearly shattered her resolve. “I do not know. I am so confused.” Could I tell him I am afraid of losing my freedom? No, such an action would be ludicrous! “Everything will be all right. I promise,” he whispered and her heart ached in longing to believe him. The
Brooklyn Ann (Bite Me, Your Grace (Scandals with Bite, #1))
Oh, God, Jane, why did I let you go?” he asked in an aching voice that resonated to her very soul. “I’ve been lost ever since.” The words melted the last corner of ice in her heart, and when he lowered his head to hers, she rose to him like a shoot stretching for the sun. Moaning low in his throat, he devoured her mouth, his kiss pure hot passion, so all-consuming that within moments she had to pull free just to breathe. Then he shifted his kisses to her cheek and ear and jaw, branding everything as his. “I need you,” he said against her throat. “God help me for it, but I do. All these years without you have been hell.” Kissing her neck, he fisted his hands in her sleeves. “I want to strip this gown from you. I want to lay you down in that straw over there and have my way with you.” The words made her exult. “Then do it,” she murmured against his hair. “Now. Tonight. Have your way with me, and I’ll have mine with you.” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said darkly, but he seized her mouth again with such ferocity that it took her aback…then fed some feral part of her that had never felt like this with anyone but him. She couldn’t get her fill of his mouth…or his hands, which roamed her most familiarly. Wanting to touch him, too, she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. He broke their kiss to stare at her, a sudden sobering awareness in his eyes. “We shouldn’t do this here.” There was no question what “this” meant. There was also no question that he was having second thoughts, pulling away from her. She refused to let him. “Why not? The grooms and the coachman have all gone to bed. And you did say you meant to marry me.” “Yes, but you’re a lady,” he said fiercely. “You deserve better than to be tumbled in a stable.” That was the trouble with Dom. Some part of him still saw her as the poor maiden needing his protection, not as a full-grown woman who had the same needs as he had. Who wanted and yearned just the same as he did. He’d sent her away last night to protect her innocence, and then had avoided her for the next day. She wasn’t giving him the chance to do that again, not now that he’d allowed her a glimpse into his soul. Dragging her hands free of his grip, she went to shut the door to the harness room. “Twelve years ago you decided what I deserved, and I ended up alone. So this time I will decide what I deserve.” Ignoring a twinge of self-consciousness, she faced him and began to undo the front fastenings of her pelisse-robe. “And I deserve this. I deserve you.
Sabrina Jeffries (If the Viscount Falls (The Duke's Men, #4))
Wanting to touch him, too, she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. He broke their kiss to stare at her, a sudden sobering awareness in his eyes. “We shouldn’t do this here.” There was no question what “this” meant. There was also no question that he was having second thoughts, pulling away from her. She refused to let him. “Why not? The grooms and the coachman have all gone to bed. And you did say you meant to marry me.” “Yes, but you’re a lady,” he said fiercely. “You deserve better than to be tumbled in a stable.” That was the trouble with Dom. Some part of him still saw her as the poor maiden needing his protection, not as a full-grown woman who had the same needs as he had. Who wanted and yearned just the same as he did. He’d sent her away last night to protect her innocence, and then had avoided her for the next day. She wasn’t giving him the chance to do that again, not now that he’d allowed her a glimpse into his soul. Dragging her hands free of his grip, she went to shut the door to the harness room. “Twelve years ago you decided what I deserved, and I ended up alone. So this time I will decide what I deserve.” Ignoring a twinge of self-consciousness, she faced him and began to undo the front fastenings of her pelisse-robe. “And I deserve this. I deserve you.” His breathing grew labored as he stared at her hands with a searing intensity. “What are you doing, Jane?” “What does it look like?” She slid out of her gown and let it fall to the floor, leaving her standing before him in only her petticoats, corset, and shift. “I’m seducing you.” Dom’s eyes narrowed on her, and she panicked. Was she being too bold? Too shameless? Too daft? She was daft, to be standing half-dressed like this in a stable, when all it would take was a groom coming down from his room above to turn this into the most mortifying night of her life.
Sabrina Jeffries (If the Viscount Falls (The Duke's Men, #4))
Kat jerked her head up to see Deep lounging in the bedroom doorway, one broad shoulder pressed against the door jam. There was a mocking look on his dark face but his eyes were fierce. “Well, well,” he murmured. “You two look so cozy. I’d join you but I don’t think that bed is big enough for three.” Lock sat up, shielding Kat protectively with his arm. “What are you doing here?” he snarled. “The same thing you are, dear brother. Little Kat’s pain called to me—dragged me like a magnet all the way across the ship from the Unmated Males section.” Lock’s brown eyes flashed. “What were you doing there? You’re not unmated!” Deep raised an eyebrow. “I practically am. Anyway, why should you care?” Kat looked back and forth between them uneasily. She wasn’t sure exactly what went on in the Unmated Males area—but she thought there must be some kind of sexual element to it. She’d never heard of prostitutes aboard the Mother ship but vague whispers and rumors seemed to indicate that there was some form of release available to the unmated warriors. Which made sense when you considered the uncharted amount of testosterone in the average alpha male Kindred. “I care because it’s disrespectful to the lady Kat,” Lock growled. “But why should I expect anything different? You disrespect everything and everyone. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Deep threw up his hands. “That’s me—I’m just a self-centered bastard, pissing on everything you hold dear. Ruining your life.” “Yes, you are!
Evangeline Anderson (Sought (Brides of the Kindred, #3))
LO I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song.
Edmund Spenser (The Faerie Queene)
She too possessed a fierce pride, alongside a bottomless need for affection and a desire to give that warred constantly with the fear of rejection.
Sherry Thomas (The Art of Theft (Lady Sherlock, #4))
In no time, she and Betsy had me changed into my nightgown, tucked me into bed, and sent for a cup of tea. Then Lady Caroline sat on my bed and bathed my forehead with lavender water. Her touch felt so motherly, and her eyes looked so kind and full of concern that I was overcome by a fierce longing for my own mother. I had told my heart to never cry over Philip, but I had given it no instructions about crying over my mother, my father, and the home and family I had lost. The tears spilled out so quickly I had no hope of calling them back. They ran down my temples, into my hair.
Julianne Donaldson (Edenbrooke)
Read Tsultrim Allione, Feeding Your Demons Louise Hay, The Power Is Within You C.J. Johnson, Wombology Monica Sjoo and Barbara, Mor, The Great Cosmic Mother Marianne Williamson, A Woman’s Worth
Lisa Lister (Love Your Lady Landscape: Trust Your Gut, Care for 'Down There' and Reclaim Your Fierce and Feminine SHE-Power)
Miles of ocean, and oh, the vastness of it, shadows and salt, fierce dark water filled with alien emptiness and the monsters that lived there. Imagine falling into that water and knowing it was below you, even as you treaded water, desperately trying to remain on the surface; the terror of the realization of what was under you—miles and miles of nothingness and monsters, blackness stretching away everywhere and the sea floor so far below—would tear your mind apart.
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
This was an order. Freddy enjoyed giving orders, but Sebastian could not oblige her. “I’ll have the coach brought around instead, the weather being unpredictable. The press of business is such that—” Tante advanced on him, hands on her hips. A line of Shakespeare flitted through his head, about the lady being small but fierce. “She has lost her only friend, Sebastian. Miss Danforth’s aunt, her only supporter in this world, has gone to her reward, and the girl buried her other aunt only three months past. She is alone, but for what kindness we can show her.” An aunt. Merde. It would be an aunt. “John Coachman knows the roads—” She jabbed him in the sternum with a bony, surprisingly painful finger. “You are competent to get the girl to Chelsea. John Coachman’s gout is acting up, and the undercoachman takes a half day today, along with the footmen. Call. For. Your. Phaeton.” Four more jabs right to the sternum. Sebastian had never had any call to jab a man in the breastbone before, but if he were still in the interrogation business, he would have added it to his repertoire of torments.
Grace Burrowes (The Traitor (Captive Hearts, #2))
Behind the scenes, in a smaller room provided with geysers for the making of tea and large sinks for washing-up dirty dishes, a band of earnest workers was toiling at cutting bread at high speed to refill the returned empties from the hall in which the locusts were at work. Pile after pile of bread-and-butter was tipped on the plates which arrived, swept clean, through the hatches. The ammunition was provided by a number of women, armed with fierce and flashing breadknives and who brandished them with machine-like skill and precision. Each lady had brought her own tools, the better to get on with the job. Others continually replenished the tea urns from the steaming, spluttering water-boilers. Now and then, as one of the party left the kitchen for some purpose or another, there would be a brief pause whilst the rest criticised, verbally or by appropriate looks and gestures, her dress, demeanour, speed of work, contribution to the communal labours, or style of headgear — all the women wore hats, by the way — behind her back. Then they would turn-to again.
George Bellairs (Death Stops the Frolic)
It is true that when single, I swiftly chased off any men whose threatened disruption of my Saturday mornings, which I set aside for breakfast on my own and aa ridiculous apartment-cleaning ritual that involved dancing, I found too irritating to bear. I felt smothered by suitors who called too often, claustrophobic around those who wanted to see me too frequently, and bugged by the ones who didn't want to try the bars or restaurants I liked to go to, or who pressured me to cut out of work earlier than I wanted to cut out. I got used to doing things my way; I *liked* doing things my way. These men just mucked it all up. I knew how I sounded, even in my own head: picky, petty, and narcissistic. I worried about the monster of self-interest that I had become. In retrospect, however, I see that the fierce protection of my space, schedule, and solitude served as prophylactic against relationships I didn't really want to be in. Maybe I was too hard on those guys, but I am also certain that I wasn't very interested in them. I am certain of that because when, after six years without a relationship that lasted beyond three dates, I met a man I was interested in and didn't think twice about Saturday mornings, about breaking my weirdo routines or leaving work early; I was happy every single time he called.
Rebecca Traister (All the Single Ladies)
So you intend to find a bride with the help of my grandmother, is that it?” She wondered what sort of woman he hoped to woo. It wasn’t going to be easy, for few women would marry a man who wanted her for nothing but money. Only someone quite desperate. Ireland lay in ruins, and it was unlikely that any woman would want to live there. “Indeed. Unless you change your mind, that is.” He reached out and took her gloved hand. His touch lingered upon her, warming the kidskin glove. When he stared into her eyes, she had a sudden rash thought that he was about to kiss her. Right here, in front of her footman and Beauregard. “Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Donovan. Or I shall be forced to whack you with a parasol.” “Or a rake,” he suggested cheerfully. He winked at her, and she relaxed when she realized that he was only teasing her. “I could be quite lethal with gardening tools. You don’t want to imagine what I would do with a pair of shears.” He winced and made a face. “You terrify me.” Her smile widened. “You should be scared. I can be quite fierce when provoked.” “I can easily believe that.” His green eyes locked upon hers. “You are a strong woman, Lady Rose. You would tell everyone to go and kiss the devil’s backside before you’d turn away from your family or those who need you. Am I wrong?
Michelle Willingham (Good Earls Don't Lie (The Earls Next Door Book 1))