T L Swan Quotes

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to touch you again... Because there’s another man who does.

This is it. I can stop searching. I’ve found her.

While he was the sun that lit your world, you were the darkness that shadowed mine.

And this last year I also realized there are different kinds of love. There’s the dreamy kind you always thought you wanted and then there’s the steady one you never understood but the second you let yourself feel it…it’s nothing like you could have imagined in your wildest dreams.

You must have done something stupid in your life, Jameson Miles. Yeah. I have. What? I never asked for your number.

When life gives you lemons, you don't make lemonade. That's for pantywaisters. No. You pucker up, suck them dry, then throw the used rinds back in life's face with a giant fuck-you and a gesture for more.

When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.

In the darkness, in her arms, I listen to her heartbeat. And I lose sight of mine.

Let her destroy me if she will. Better to be destroyed by her love than to never have known it. Erik Book 2~Chanson de l'Ange: The Angel's Song

I like to think we all end up in the place we’re supposed to be eventually. The sum total of our choices carries us to our destiny.

Tristan fucking Miles.

L'union libre [Freedom of Love]" My wife with the hair of a wood fire With the thoughts of heat lightning With the waist of an hourglass With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes With the tongue of an unbelievable stone My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof And of steam on the panes My wife with shoulders of champagne And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice My wife with wrists of matches My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts With fingers of mown hay My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut And of Midsummer Night Of privet and of an angelfish nest With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill My wife with legs of flares With the movements of clockwork and despair My wife with calves of eldertree pith My wife with feet of initials With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking My wife with a neck of unpearled barley My wife with a throat of the valley of gold Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent With breasts of night My wife with breasts of a marine molehill My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days With the belly of a gigantic claw My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically With a back of quicksilver With a back of light With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking My wife with hips of a skiff With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers And of shafts of white peacock plumes Of an insensible pendulum My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos My wife with buttocks of swans' backs My wife with buttocks of spring With the sex of an iris My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat My wife with a sex of mirror My wife with eyes full of tears With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle My wife with savanna eyes My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

To love is to be brave.

He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. " "What's that?" "Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn't get to touch you again." I frown. "Why would I ask him that?" I whisper. "Because there's another man who does." The phone clicks as he hangs up.

I’m watching you,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you who to watch: that middle child of yours. The wizard.

It’s the way I’ve imagined you looking at me my entire life, Maverick.

Angel, men die for honor, riches and glory…saints and women die for love.

This isn’t how I wanted to become a father. I’m supposed to fall in love, have a wedding and a wife that I love and go through trying to conceive and then the pregnancy… the birth. I’m supposed to know my own child.

I will not beg for any man to love me.

Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.” He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

Because until you find someone who loves you as much as I do, they will never be good enough.

Welcome to the Miles-High Club, Emily.

The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.

So . . . sleeping with only you . . . isn’t a problem for me.” His lips touched mine. “However, not sleeping with you is a torture I won’t tolerate.

Who’s hopelessly in love with you.” He leans over and kisses me softly, and I feel my resistance fade. “I love you, cheesecake,” he whispers. “Don’t call me fucking cheesecake.” He chuckles against my lips. “Too far?” “Way too far.

When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.

I work hard . . . but I love harder.

I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.

Send two ambulances,” I bark. “I’m about to have a fucking heart attack myself.

Don’t even fucking look at her ass, or I will sit you on yours

Why don’t you want to look at me? Because I just find your face really...punchable.

Because diamonds are made under pressure.

There are moments in your life that you know you will remember forever. Certain situations that are poignant and have shaped who you are.

Because she wasn't you.

What was your favorite thing you saw today?” He changes the subject. “Honestly?” “Of course.” “It was you.” Our eyes lock. “You were the most beautiful thing I saw today, Tristan Miles.

These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.” I go back to my instructions. Okay, so it says here that this pole goes into this . . . “Ahh,” he cries as he slaps his arm. “I’m getting fucking malaria over here, Emily.” I roll my eyes. “Stop being a baby.” I put the pole into the correct place. “Can you grab the corner and stretch it out, please?

Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.

Don’t misjudge my submission as a weakness.

If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.

I can see the headline now,” Tristan says. “Death by duck.

She’s the honey trap I fall for. Every. Fucking. Time. Without fail.

I like to think we all end up in the place we’re supposed to be eventually,” Sheila answers wistfully. “The sum total of our choices carries us to our destiny.

Your life has been so perfect that you’ve never had to dig deep to find out who you really are.

Why do people think that only hardship builds character?

You know, intelligent people scare stupid people.

I don’t want to fuck you in the dark, Julian. I want to love you in the light,

Are you brushing me off for your book?” “Completely. Don’t be offended. I would brush Superman off for this book.

He puts his mouth to my ear. “Did you touch yourself?” he whispers. His breath tickles my skin and goosebumps scatter up my arms. “Did you?” I ask. His lips dust mine. “Every day. Coming is my favorite pastime.

The French fairy tale writers were so popular and prolific that when their stories were eventually collected in the 18th century, they filled forty–one volumes of a massive publication called the Cabinet des Fées. Charles Perrault is the French fairy tale writer whom history has singled out for attention, but the majority of tales in the Cabinet des Fées were penned by women writers who ran and attended the leading salons: Marie–Catherine d’Aulnoy, Henriette Julie de Murat, Marie–Jeanne L'Héritier, and numerous others. These were educated women with an unusual degree of social and artistic independence, and within their use of the fairy tale form one can find distinctly subversive, even feminist subtext.

She has a carpet rake, for God’s sake. A. Carpet. Rake. Who rakes their fucking carpet? It’s carpet.

I’m gay, not blind. I can appreciate a fine female form.

Men who look that good can’t be blessed with brains too.

You feel more at home at my home . . . or maybe it’s me that feels at home when you’re there.

And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated. His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.

I smile at my wife. She’s been to Hell and back, yet here she stands, looking up at me with love in her eyes.

I know it seems like it, dear, but you’re not alone. You can let go. I’ve got you.

You can’t heal the wound until you find the sore,

When will you be back?” he asks. I turn back to him. “When my boys are men.

So excuse me if the privilege of sucking your golden CEO dick doesn’t excite me any longer.

Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?

Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily. Because you pay them. Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free. That’s a low blow.

When life hands you lemons, you don’t make lemonade. That’s for pantywaisters. No. You pucker up, suck them dry, then throw the used rinds back in life’s face with a giant fuck-you and a gesture for more.

Is your mother there making you call me?” “Yep.” “Are you really sorry?” “No.” I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.

If Edward Cullen had of been ugly I'm sure Bella Swan wouldn't have been quite so smitten with him coming into her bedroom to watch her sleep at night. We females can be strange, shallow creatures when the mood takes us.

Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood. He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on. I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell. Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.

Emily.” He looks at me, and the flashlight strapped to his forehead shines in my eyes. “I smell like a toxic dumping ground of bug poison, and I have never felt so unsexy in my entire life. I wouldn’t be surprised if my dick has been poisoned off like a weed.

Will you say something?” I whisper. “Say something sweet to put me out of my misery.” His eyes come to mine as he cups my face. “I packed your scarf in my luggage.” I smile softly. “It’s nothing new. I’ve taken it on every trip I’ve been on . . . since we met.

I’m in love with a selfish fucking asshole, and I don’t know how to turn it off, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and for you to walk away again.

Are you deaf, dumb, or just plain stupid?

Destiny is fucking me up the ass, that’s what.” Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Strap-on, or cock?

Don’t stop. Multitask. Suck and listen.

Do not speak to me like that and then barge in here with demands. I’m unsure how things work for you with other women, but I can assure you, it doesn’t cut it with me.” I

If you think I’m sharing your orgasms with a battery-operated device, you’re deluded, Kathryn.

He didn’t love me like I loved him.” She pauses. “It’s okay. I will get my happy ending with someone. It just won’t be with my one.

It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper. “No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.

I drag my eyes to his. “Why don’t you want to look at me?” I stare at him for a moment. “Because I just find your face really . . . punchable.

He leans over and whispers, “You have Zuckerberg on speed dial now?” “Huh?” I frown. “FB . . . that stands for Facebook, right?

Watch and learn, but always remember that you are an Anderson.

This woman was born to seduce me. To fuck me. To drag me to my fucking knees.

Find me, Alastar,” I whisper through my pain. “Because of us, find me.

He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.

If you always do what you’ve always done, you will always be where you always were.

It’s just so hard watching you give him everything I always wanted to but couldn’t,” I whisper.

How you let him treat you now in the early stages is the standard you are setting for how he can treat you in the future. If you put up with crap now, then you will only ever get crap from him,

Teenage Turn-Ons As played by Robert Pattinson in the Twilight Saga movies, Edward has a certain physical sex appeal thanks in part to the the actor's handsome features. but the appeal in both the movies and the novels has nothing to do with a bad-boy energy that so often translates into sexiness because, really, even when he's full-out vamp, there isn't that much of a bad boy to be found in his character. Curiously, the sexiness of the vampire Edward comes from his safeness. He is the ultimate fantasy man. Described in overly ripe prose, his physical perfection is glorious. He might be a little cool to the touch-but gosh! Look at him! He's youthful, with a perfect body, or the sort of man found in the pages of a million romance novels. And most important, he will do what ever it takes to keep his beloved Bella safe, whether the danger comes from the world or himself.

Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her. “Of course, sir.” His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?” I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.” He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him. “What’s funny?” I ask. “You are.” “Why am I funny?” I frown. “This sense of righteousness that you have.” “Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.” Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip.

He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall. “Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.

I understand if you don’t want to fight for us. I’m damaged goods. I couldn’t be with me.” He turns to face me. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “It’s true.” I shrug sadly. “I have more baggage than a 747.” He pushes the hair back from my forehead and then, with his finger under my chin, lifts my face to meet his. “You’re my damaged goods.

You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still the same as they were last April, tell me at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me forever. I love you, most ardently.

I roll over and wince. “Oh God,” I whisper as I put the heel of my hands into my eye sockets. “My head is pounding.” “Like my dick,” Nathan says dryly. I look over at him in question. “Your dick is pounding?” “Uh-huh.” He gives me the side-eye. “Some crazy bitch, tiny kitty, drunk on sangria, thought she might like to squeeze the fuck out of him.

Anywhere will do. I don’t care if we go camping. Maybe next time we can?” “Yeah, okay.” He chuckles as he opens the door. “My brother has told me all about camping, I’ll meet you there.” I smile: that’s code for I’m never going camping.

What kind of twisted fucking head games is he playing? Has been playing for years now? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him. It’s like he makes a sport of keeping me tied to him. How long can I dangle her before she breaks? Little does he know his selfish actions are helping him to eradicate himself from my heart. I hope the door bruises his ass on the way out.

I laugh out loud. “You want kids?” “Yes, I want fucking kids.” He picks me up and throws me onto the bed and I bounce with a laugh. He crawls up over me and rests on his elbow as he looks down at me. We fall serious suddenly. “What kind of father will you be?” I ask. “The kind that protects their mother.

Emily Foster, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Miles,” Lindsey says. I stare at him, unable to speak because there’s no air in my lungs. His eyebrow rises, and he sits back in his chair as he smirks. “Hello, Emily.” His big eyes hold mine, the same beautiful deep-blue eyes that hypnotized me twelve months ago

Look, I never believed in fate. I always thought that I would meet some beautiful young woman and it would be easy,” Tristan says. I listen intently. “And then I met Claire, and everything I thought I wanted went out the window. Her kids hated me and I had to fight tooth and nail to convince her to love me. Never in a million years did I ever imagine my life as it is now. But I honestly believe I am where I’m meant to be. Claire and those kids were meant for me, and the bigger picture of my destiny was already mapped out. They were my family long before I even met them; perhaps before they were even born it was decided that they would end up being mine.

I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—” “Open it,” he barks. Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings. My eyes rise to meet his. “All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers. Goosebumps scatter up my spine. He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.

Point Partageuse got its name from French explorers who mapped the cape that jutted from the south-western corner of the Australian continent well before the British dash to colonize the west began in 1826. Since then, settlers had trickled north from Albany and south from the Swan River Colony, laying claim to the virgin forests in the hundreds of miles between. Cathedral-high trees were felled with handsaws to create grazing pasture; scrawny roads were hewn inch by stubborn inch by pale-skinned fellows with teams of shire horses, as this land, which had never before been scarred by man, was excoriated and burned, mapped and measured and meted out to those willing to try their luck in a hemisphere which might bring them desperation, death, or fortune beyond their dreams.

Can I get my swans?" Reyna asked. Hildar turned to her. "Freya does not have swans." "Right," Matt said. "I got that wrong. Sorry. Freya is said to be the leader of the Valkyries, who are swan maidens." "We are not swan maidens," Hildar said, straightening and lifting her sword. "But you can turn into swans." "No, we are not swans." "Not even vicious killer swans?" Reyna asked. "No." "Okay, but I'm still your leader, right, Like Matt said, Freya -" "No." Hildar hesitated. "You are not battle proven. You may lead us one day. But we are still not swans.

A footfall crunched behind him. He turned to see Reyna heading his way with the cat at her side. He grinned at them, and Reyna stopped short, glancing over her shoulder as if looking for the cause of his grin. "Someone spike you prefight Gatorade?" she asked. "No, I'm just happy to see -" He rocked back on his heels. "Happy to see the cat is still with you. Have you picked a name yet?" "What are my options again?" "Trjegul, Bygul, and Heyyu." "Tree-gool and Bee-gool?" she said. "And Hey-yu?" She stopped. "Hey, you. Oh. Ha-ha. Leave comedy to the professionals, Thorsen." He shrugged. "You could always ask the cat what her name is." "Nope. I pick Trjegul." She looked down at the calico. "You're Trjegul now. Even if you're really Bygul." The cat only blinked. "So if I call you by your name, you'll come, right?" Trjegul got up and wandered off in the other direction. "Watch out or I'll trade you for a swan!" Reyna called after her. "A giant, killer stealth swan that eats ungrateful kitties for breakfast.