Spicy Book Quotes

Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home.

The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home.

For a moment she was convinced she was still dreaming. That she’d fallen asleep while reading one of JR Ward’s Brotherhood of The Black Dagger romances and had inserted herself into a dream based on the book. Any moment now he was going to start growling Mine Mine Mine and let loose with some spicy bonding scent. Or flash a massive set of fangs.

You want to be the first guy I fuck up, get in line.

People have been stabbed over spicy chicken sandwiches. The duck farm industry could benefit from that kind of violence to help increase sales.

i licked an ali hazelwood book, it wasn't spicy

He had altered his method of matching books to readers. He often asked, "How would you like to feel when you go to sleep?" Most of his customers wanted to feel light and safe. He asked others to tell him about their favorite things. Cooks loved their knives. Estate agents loved the jangle made by a bunch of keys. Dentists loved the flicker of fear in their patients' eyes; Perdu had guessed as much. Most often he asked, "How should the book taste? Of ice cream? Spicy, meaty? Or like a chilled rose?" Food and books were closely related. He discovered this in Sanary, and it earned him the nickname "the book epicure.

You ever been fucked by a bayou boy after drinkin’ moonshine at a crawfish boil while skinny dippin’ when you’re supposed to be fishin’?” His drawl had just gotten very deep and pronounced and Caroline felt her clit actually tingle in response. “I…” She cleared her throat. “…have not.” “Then you’re a virgin in all the most fun ways.

I cocked a brow at her. “Alpha, huh? Is that something out of your porno books?” She rolled her eyes. “They’re called spicy romances, and they’ve taught me as much about myself as your masktok account has.

I've never had a spicy chicken sandwich worth getting stabbed over. But that's the kind of organic marketing experience I'd like to bring to duck farming.

She's not mine to use, but to worship.

I want to know every inch and curve of your body like it belongs to me-and it will. I want to know everything. Where you are. Who you're with. What panties you are wearing right now.

Peeling an Orange Between you and a bowl of oranges I lie nude Reading The World’s Illusion through my tears. You reach across me hungry for global fruit, Your bare arm hard, furry and warm on my belly. Your fingers pry the skin of a naval orange Releasing tiny explosions of spicy oil. You place peeled disks of gold in a bizarre pattern On my white body. Rearranging, you bend and bite The disks to release further their eager scent. I say “Stop, you’re tickling,” my eyes still on the page. Aromas of groves arise. Through green leaves Glow the lofty snows. Through red lips Your white teeth close on a translucent segment. Your face over my face eclipses The World’s Illusion. Pulp and juice pass into my mouth from your mouth. We laugh against each other’s lips. I hold my book Behind your head, still reading, still weeping a little. You say “Read on, I’m just an illusion,” rolling Over upon me soothingly, gently unmoving, Smiling greenly through long lashes. And soon I say “Don’t stop. Don’t disillusion me.” Snows melt. The mountain silvers into many a stream. The oranges are golden worlds in a dark dream.

I thought. I thought of the slow yellow autumn in the swamp and the high honey sun of spring and the eternal silence of the marshes, and the shivering light on them, and the whisper of the spartina and sweet grass in the wind and the little liquid splashes of who-knew-what secret creatures entering that strange old place of blood-warm half earth, half water. I thought of the song of all the birds that I knew, and the soft singsong of the coffee-skinned women who sold their coiled sweet-grass baskets in the market and on Meeting Street. I thought of the glittering sun on the morning harbor and the spicy, somehow oriental smells from the dark old shops, and the rioting flowers everywhere, heavy tropical and exotic. I thought of the clop of horses' feet on cobblestones and the soft, sulking, wallowing surf of Sullivan's Island in August, and the countless small vistas of grace and charm wherever the eye fell; a garden door, a peeling old wall, an entire symmetrical world caught in a windowpane. Charlestone simply could not manage to offend the eye. I thought of the candy colors of the old houses in the sunset, and the dark secret churchyards with their tumbled stones, and the puresweet bells of Saint Michael's in the Sunday morning stillness. I thought of my tottering piles of books in the study at Belleau and the nights before the fire when my father told me of stars and butterflies and voyages, and the silver music of mathematics. I thought of hot, milky sweet coffee in the mornings, and the old kitchen around me, and Aurelia's gold smile and quick hands and eyes rich with love for me.

This spicy historical will steal your breath, and capture your heart. -Susan Sigler, Love Romance Passion

Oh God,” I gasped. The burn of his mouth on me was so deliciously wrong. “I knew you could be a good girl,” he crooned.

Not all monsters hide under your bed...some of them entice you into theirs.

For all the girls who love romance books and video games

If I wanted to kill myself, I'd climb your ego and jump down to your IQ

She’s so fucking beautiful, it feels like punishment just looking at her.

The novels, travel books and poems I read had a particular smell. The smell of cellars. An almost spicy smell, a mixture of dust and grease. Verdigris. Books today don't have a smell. They don't even smell of print.

My body arched into him automatically, craving more contact, more pressure, just more. Skin against skin wasn’t enough—I needed us to be soul to soul.

Have you ever had a prophetic dream about my duck farm being as successful in the future as The Spicy Chicken Sandwich? No? Well, try harder! For better results, sleep longer.

She haunted my mind every waking hour, and carved herself into my dreams...

Cupid, if you’re watching, you are going to love this next part.

Du bist die Flamme für meine innere Motte.

I really knew we were destined to be friends when I saw a copy of the spicy romance book I’ve been wanting to read tucked between her kids’ books, fresh from the local library.

Your daughter has my soul.

I don’t need anyone to tell me he will protect me. I already know, my body, my heart and my soul are safe with the man the world calls the king of the underworld.

You look like a perfect queen, and if we didn’t have an event to attend, I’d show you just how perfect you are in more than one ways.

And I can’t wait any longer to taste my queen.

I get on my knees for no one. I submit to no one. I show weakness to no one. But for you Angel? You get all of me. You fucking own me. I bow to you and only you.

I have everything without you, wife, and it means nothing. I don’t want anything but you.

I hate you, Alexander.” “Hate me, muse,” he whispers in trembling voice. “Hate me all you want, but come back to me. Hate me. Love me. Fight me. But do it in my arms.

He rubs my cheek with his knuckles, his eyes following the movement like a man possessed. “Unreal. Maddening.” His darkened amber eyes lift to mine. “Muse.

I murmur, “Don’t call me your wife.” He whispers, “I will. That word tells me you’re mine. My wife. My Abigail. My muse.

She’s facing the ocean, her black waves dancing in the night breeze, the moonlight brushing against her skin. Muse.

I had this woman. The devotion in her voice, the worship in those molten brown eyes—I had the world. But then I destroyed it. And now I’ve got nothing but ashes.

The most dangerous weapon I ever created… was my muse. The woman behind it ruined me.

Obsession is what remains when love forgets its soul and decays into fixation, when every heartbeat becomes an echo of theirs.

I can conquer anything. But I’m the failure who lost his most sacred conquest—my muse’s heart.

She’s always in my head, like an unsolved puzzle. She has always been a mystery. And the more I learn about her, the more confused I become.

She’s Dante’s daughter and Vittorio’s granddaughter. Machiavellianism runs in her dirty blood.

I’d be an idiot to feel something for him when he’s already taken.

Sorry to disappoint you Mr. Bennett, I have zero interest in you.

So are we clear? You are my slave for the next three months, if that term helps you understand your position better.

Look at you. Tied up in my favorite tie, dripping for forgiveness you’re not getting.

Run all the way to the middle of the ocean!” he calls behind me. “Let me see who saves you today!

You have no idea what you are to me.

Tell me you want me, Abigail.

Is your head spinning better now, dear wife?

Now breathe in,” he murmurs, even more seductively. “Out.” And my damned brain imagines something very not meditation-related.

I can see your dirty thoughts written all over your face, wife. Keep your focus on the meeting so I can do the same.

You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Ruined and untouched, all at once.

Don’t force me to show you exactly how much of this is my concern.

Damn it. She even smells delicious.

Fucking hell, muse. What are you doing to me?

For the first time, I feel her waist, exactly like I imagined. Soft. Supple. Covered in a layer of warmth that clings to my palms like a perfectly worn leather grip on a trusted sidearm.

Occasionally, in the stillness of a taxi or an airplane, she would catalog the pleasures she had lost. Cigarettes. Chewing gum. Strong mint toothpaste. Any food with hard edges or sharp corners that could pierce or abrade the inside of her mouth: potato chips, croutons, crunchy peanut butter. Any food that was more than infinitesimally, protozoically, spicy or tangy or salty or acidic: pesto or Worcestershire sauce, wasabi or anchovies, tomato juice or movie-theater popcorn. Certain pamphlets and magazines whose paper carried a caustic wafting chemical scent she could taste as she turned the pages. Perfume. Incense. Library books. Long hours of easy conversation. The ability to lick an envelope without worrying that the glue had irritated her mouth. The knowledge that if she heard a song she liked, she could sing along to it in all her dreadful jubilant tunelessness. The faith that if she bit her tongue, she would soon feel better rather than worse.

Despite how horrifying today had been, my knees trembled when his warm body bucked softly against me. His eyes met mine in the mirror, and he gave one of those half-smiles only very hot guys could master.

MG: Question number five: Would you ever consider cowriting something with another author? Personally, I've got a manuscript of a spicy romance novel I'd love to slap your name on. It's called Fifty Shades of Goose. CC: I just threw up a little in the back of my mouth.

My parents had sent me on this journey to have adventures - small adventures, such as dining alone and trying out new foods, and bigger adventures with elves, a boy with no shoes, water sprites, Spellbinders, and dragons. They had sent me on this journey to hear my aunts tell stories about my parents themselves - reading Faery books, stealing cinnamon, eating spicy foods, turning cartwheels in forests - a basketful of memories to comfort me. Now I soared through the air, my heart glowing golden, and a thought flung itself at me. I have never been so happy.

Why aren’t more news articles written about duck farms? Is it because the end product doesn’t produce obscene violence? It’s true, people do stab each other over spicy chicken sandwiches, but think of the savagery over my eggs that’ll take place when all that’s left in the grocery store is Beyond Meat.

This is for all my good girls who use books to live out their own spicy dreams. Here’s to making your man drop to his knees and bark for you. To those of you who will fold for a masked mafia boss chasing you through the woods… or getting you off with his gun. Enjoy adding more fantasies to your research list. Mikhail is ready to take you now.

Love was no delusion. You didn’t have to have your head in the clouds to believe in it. It wasn’t invalid because someone was hopelessly romantic, nor was negated because someone viewed the world with a more critical eye. Love was about being safe with someone, knowing you could count on them for anything. Big or small. Heavy. Or featherlight.

I’m not supposed to act on the thoughts that cross my mind. Obviously. Even if I wanted to act on them, I can’t. How can I act on the thought of touching his jaw to know how his stubble feels? Or the thought of licking his lips to see if they carry the scent of tobacco? Or the thought of tracing his abs just to know if they’re as hard as his chest?

I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. I wanted him as more than my friend. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been long since Brayan. Tristen was the boy next door with dirty dance moves. He helped me with math and watched stupid shows with me when I was sad. He walked with me, challenged me. Liked me. Every time I tried to push him away, I knew it was morally right, but it felt wrong.

She pulls from a shelf certain rare spices and sugars that her successor is unlikely to use. Insulating the jars with softbound books and sheafs of cooking notes, she packs them in a carton that came to this kitchen holding boxes of Italian pasta. She examines the fanciful designs on a container of sugar imported from Turkey, a favorite finish for the surface of cookies: bearclaws, butter wafers. The large, faceted granules glitter like bluish rhinestones; children always choose those cookies first. She wonders if she will be able to get this sugar anymore, if borders will tighten so austerely that she will lose some of her most precious, treasured ingredients: the best dried lavender and mascarpone, pomegranate molasses. But in the scheme of things, does it matter? She comes upon her collection of vinegars, which she uses to brighten the character of certain cakes, to hold the line between sweet and cloying. She takes down a spicy vinegar she bought at a nearby farm; inside the bottle, purple peppers, like sleeping bats, hang from the surface of the liquid. Greenie used it in a dark chocolate ice cream and molasses pie.

English Gingerbread Cake Serves: 12 to 16 Baking Time: 50 to 60 minutes Kyle Cathie, editor for the British version of The Cake Bible (and now a publisher), informed me in no uncertain terms that a book could not be called a cake "bible" in England if it did not contain the beloved gingerbread cake. When I went to England to retest all the cakes using British flour and ingredients, I developed this gingerbread recipe. Now that I have tasted it, I quite agree with Kyle. It is a moist spicy cake with an intriguing blend of buttery, lemony, wheaty, and treacly flavors. Cut into squares and decorated with pumpkin faces, it makes a delightful "treat" for Halloween. Batter Volume Ounce Gram unsalted butter (65° to 75°F/19° to 23°C) 8 tablespoons (1 stick) 4 113 golden syrup or light corn syrup 1¼ cups (10 fluid ounces) 15 425 dark brown sugar, preferably Muscovado ¼ cup, firmly packed 2 60 orange marmalade 1 heaping tablespoon 1.5 40 2 large eggs, at room temperature ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons (3 fluid ounces) 3.5 100 milk 2/3 cup (5.3 fluid ounces) 5.6 160 cake flour (or bleached all-purpose flour) 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (or 1 cup), sifted into the cup and leveled off 4 115 whole wheat flour 1 cup minus 1 tablespoon (lightly spooned into the cup) 4 115 baking powder 1½ teaspoons . . cinnamon 1 teaspoon . . ground ginger 1 teaspoon . . baking soda ½ teaspoon . . salt pinch . . Special Equipment One 8 by 2-inch square cake pan or 9 by 2-inch round pan (see Note), wrapped with a cake strip, bottom coated with shortening, topped with a parchment square (or round), then coated with baking spray with flour Preheat the Oven Twenty minutes or more before baking, set an oven rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat the oven to 325°F/160°C. Mix the Liquid Ingredients In a small heavy saucepan, stir together the butter, golden syrup, sugar, and marmalade over medium-low heat until melted and uniform in color. Set aside uncovered until just barely warm, about 10 minutes. Whisk in the eggs and milk. Make the Batter In a large bowl, whisk together the cake flour, whole wheat flour, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, baking soda, and salt. Add the butter mixture, stirring with a large silicone spatula or spoon just until smooth and the consistency of thick soup. Using the silicone spatula, scrape the batter into the prepared pan. Bake the Cake Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a wire cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean and the cake springs back when pressed lightly in the center. The cake should start to shrink from the sides of the pan only after removal from the oven. Cool the Cake Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. While the cake is cooling, make the syrup.

Red lentil soup, although quite seductive in scent, is as simple to make as its name suggests. Marjan preferred to boil her lentils before frying the chopped onions, garlic, and spices with some good, strong olive oil. Covering the ready broth, lentils, and onions, she would then allow the luscious soup to simmer for half an hour or so, as the spices embedded themselves into the compliant onion skins. In the recipe book filed away in her head, Marjan always made sure to place a particular emphasis on the soup's spices. Cumin added the aroma of afternoon lovemaking to the mixture, but it was another spice that had the greatest tantric effect on the innocent soup drinker: 'siah daneh'- love in the midst- or nigella seed. This modest little pod, when crushed open by mortar and pestle, or when steamed in dishes such as this lentil soup, excites a spicy energy that hibernates in the human spleen. Unleashed, it burns forever with the unbound desire of an unrequited lover. So powerful is nigella in its heat that the spice should not be taken by pregnant women, for fear of early labor. Indigenous to the Middle and Near Easts of the girls' past lives, nigella is rarely used in Western recipes, its ability to soothe heartburn and abolish fatigue quite overlooked.

McDaniel, stay, if you would. We have a game to finish and business to discuss.” Van Buren strode to the chestnut bar and poured two glasses of Glen Garioch, 1958 whiskey. He downed a shot of his favorite beverage and refilled before facing McDaniel. The dark burgundy walls and the lingering spicy scent of recently-smoked Gurkha cigars soothed him. “You play a good game of poker. Do you play often?” Van Buren approached the table with the drinks. “Every Friday night.

Pepper Spray — One alternative is to carry “pepper” or OC (Oleoresin Capsaicin) spray. Pepper spray is a derivative of the hot cayenne (chili) peppers containing an oil alkaloid called “capsaicin”. Capsaicin generates a “felt” heat against the skin or mucus membrane (but has no thermal effect). This spicy heat, or piquance, is measured in Scoville Heat Units (SHU). The range of the Scoville heat scale ranges from zero to maximum 16 million (pure capsaicin). Some examples of heat ranges are: Banana peppers – 800 SHU, Cayenne or tabasco pepper – 40,000 SHU, Red Savina habanero (hottest chili pepper) – 450,000 SHU. Most pepper sprays are rated at one to three million SHU.

Sarah, are you eating your cereal with tomato soup?" "Yes." She didn't look up from her book. "I like it better than V8. It's not as spicy. I don't mind the spicy, really- it's mild- but it clashes with the little marshmallows, and I like the little marshmallows.

Some things we both need to work on, babygirl, but this isn’t one of them. Feeling safe isn’t one of them.

and

What was she going to do about class tomorrow?

How should the book taste? Of ice cream? Spicy, meaty? Or like a chilled Rosé?' Food and books were closely related. He discovered this in Sanary, and it earned him the nickname 'the book epicure'.

Fucking. Luke.

If the choice is the mission or coming home to you, I’m coming home.

I'm never going to get over you.

I'll grovel every day of my fucking life.

I don't think I can just be your friend.

He kissed me like it was the last thing he’d ever do, the last time he ever would.

She was an addiction, a drug I desperately needed to stay away from, but there was no rehab for Chloe Grant.

This was too much. Too much of what I wanted, too much of what I knew I couldn’t have.

Wanting you is never a problem. It's keeping you.

Chloe Grant was the poison and the cure all at once.

In my experience, men loved to help, even when they weren’t wanted.

But she was under my skin, in all meanings of the word. If I was honest, I really fucking liked her there.

I realized then that I’d do anything to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life. To be the one making her laugh like that.

One night and he’d already figured out exactly how to make me melt.

Fuck, you’re an exquisite little thing,” he groans in my ear. “Such a bonnie lass.

If she was out in the world right now, I was right there with her.

I didn’t want to let her go. I never wanted her to let her go again.

You. Are. Mine.

Fuck, I didn’t know how I could be so angry at someone I simultaneously couldn’t stand to be without.

We were opposites, but not like oil and water. More like a positive and negative charge, drawn to each other inexplicably.

I need the way he looks at you and can’t stand to be near you at the same time.

The only way this is happening, Chloe, is if I’m on my knees.

Scared? Yes. Giving up? Not a chance.