Angela Quarles > Quotes

“She straightened and crossed her arms. “I can’t sleep with you,” she blurted.
… “As you please.”
“As you please?” She stepped back, the rough wood of the bench bumping her upper calf. She’d braced herself for a battle and now felt oddly deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me into it?”
“I need not talk women into lying with me.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“He dragged his lips up the soft skin of her neck and gently nipped her ear lobe, sipping on the soft flesh. Her hands splayed against his chest.
Expecting a shove, his senses careened when her fingers fisted his surcoat. Their ragged breath overloud in the forest, he eased his face away, nose rubbing against her jaw on his retreat, and sought her eyes. Hers darkened and—Lord help him—held no censure, only interest.
He stepped back.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“No, he didn’t view the scar as shameful, though he did in its getting. For he’d not received it in battle. He’d received it the last time he’d ever acted foolishly over a woman.
Oddly poetic that the very woman who brought out that foolish side again was turned off by the scar. As if the scar and tattoo were a shield. A shield protecting him forevermore from heartache.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“His heat, his erotic pull—she could feel it. A weird, pulsing, virtual pull tugging at her skin, her nerve endings. Made her want to…touch. Made her want.
The more she resisted the urge, the stronger it became. It would be a relief, really. To just…touch. One little touch. Just one.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Jane takes a step toward me. And another.
And then she, well…throws herself on me. No lie.
I catch her and fall back against the elevator wall with an oof. Her hand twisted into my T-shirt, she pulls me down, and our mouths crash.
Fuck yeah. All of my pent-up need for this woman unleashes in that moment, whipping through me.”
― Angela Quarles, Risking It

“Knowing this was the same man from last night now clad again in his hunky knightly armor was a strange aphrodisiac. Yeah, a hot look, no denying.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“She did not want to have to choose between the legend which had finally made her feel as if her life had meaning and this beautiful, caring man whose soul seemed to echo with the same beats as her own heart.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“I did not mean to be so long away from you. I had clan business to take care of, which took longer than I anticipated.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m not sure you do. I was eager to get through that business precisely because I wanted it out of the way so that I could return to your side.”
Now it was her turn to feel her body flush with heat. “Oh yeah?”
“Aye.” He looked down at his hands and then slowly reached and clasped her hand resting against her thigh. The rough feel of his calloused hands on her skin, and the tentative vulnerability in the movement, about made her slide forward off the bench and melt in a puddle on the stone floor.
He really was just a big—quiet—teddy bear.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“And while she didn’t yet know how she fit into the world, she did know Duncan was a vital part.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“You will be the death of me, woman.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“This was raw. This was primal. This was real.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Here, sleep with your back against me. I shall protect you better this way.”
She nodded, shuffled closer, and leaned back against him. Her unique womanly scent washed over him, and he fortified his resolve, though having her so close on a bed of furs fired his blood. She dragged her fur up, and he draped his extra across, tucking it in around her shoulders and arms.
“I do not fancy having one of them lying next to you. Besides, I wish not for your pinkie to wander.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“In addition to her Curtsey-No-Contraction mantra, she needed to add a No-Ogling-the-Period-Hunks policy.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Breeches

“She dragged the soft cloth up and up, the fabric tickling along his sensitized skin. He trembled. Never had he been so responsive to a woman’s slightest touch.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“He lay stretched full length along his glorified cot, and while his bandage masked his shoulder, plenty of bare skin remained for her gaze to lap up. Bare, musclely skin. Skin that was somehow otherworldly in the soft glow of the flickering candlelight. Skin that made her want to touch, feel, and…and…lick. Until her gaze snagged on the scar-tattoo combo, and ice again crystallized in her gut.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“Her pinkie took matters into its own, er, pinkie, and moved oh-so-slightly, grazing his skin. His pinkie, judging by the shape and texture.
Blood rushed and pounded through her veins, flushing her skin. This could not, in any way, be explained as an accidental touch. But he could feign sleep if he wasn’t interested. Did she want him to do that?
What was she doing?
She commanded her pinkie to drop, and thankfully, it obeyed.
A jolt shot through her as his finger made a query, and the need clarified. The need represented her desire for some measure of control. Control over her general situation. Control over her attraction. She answered with a gentle finger stroke along his calloused, warm skin.
A sharp breath pierced the dark air.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Ah, cariad, finally I have you to myself, with a bed behind me, and what do I do?”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“He settled beside her on the small bench, and awareness of him pushed against her skin as if he extended past the confines of his body and made her want.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“The pulse visible in the pale column of her neck vibrated faster, her intoxicating scent washed over him, and he was dizzy with lust.
Even through his mail and gambeson, he could feel her womanly curves crushed against his hard chest. He uncurled his fingers from her throat and ran the tough leather of his palm’s mitten along her neck and to the enticing curve of her shoulder. He nudged her mantle an inch, exposing skin.
He cursed that his hand was covered in mail. How long had he wanted to taste, to touch her precious skin? Unable to resist, he bent and, with his tongue, touched, tasted the heat of the skin on her collarbone.
Oh, Christ, she was lovely. She shivered, and satisfaction roared through him.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“The light played across the planes of his strong hands and forearms, allowing her to note the minuscule shifting of muscles signaling his next move. His shapely fingers moved with practical ease, and he unclasped the belt. The kilt dropped.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Kilts

“Wham. She glommed onto him like white plastic on a Stormtrooper, shamelessly pressing against his body, groping and kissing.”
― Angela Quarles, Beer and Groping in Las Vegas

“His eyes flipped up to hers, the lids hooded. Then back to her mouth. The crackling tension now sparked across her skin.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love More Kilts

“He grinned: he’d turned in time to witness her delicate white shoulders dip below the water’s surface. Thankfully, she quickly completed her morning’s ablutions and made a shooing motion with her hands. Back turned again, he waited for her to dress, all the while telling his privy counselor to cease its repeated suggestions.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Here before you lies the memorial to St. Cefnogwr, though he is not buried here, of course.” At her words, an uncanny knowing flushed through Katy and, crazy-of-crazy, transfixed her. “Why? Where is he?” Traci stepped forward, hand on her hip. A you’re-right-on-cue look crossed the guide’s face. She pointed to the ceiling. Traci scoffed. “I meant, where’s the body?” Her American southern accent lent a strange contrast to her skepticism. Again, the tour guide’s arthritic finger pointed upward, and a smile tugged at her lips, the smokers’ wrinkles on her upper lip smoothing out. “That’s the miracle that made him a saint, you see. Throughout the twelve hundreds, the Welsh struggled to maintain our independence from the English. During Madog’s Rebellion in 1294, St. Cefnogwr, a noble Norman-English knight, turned against his liege lord and sided with the Welsh—” “Norman-English?” Katy frowned, her voice raspy in her dry throat. “Why would a Norman have a Welsh name and side with the Welsh?” She might be an American, but her years living in England had taught her that was unusual.

“The English nicknamed him. It means ‘sympathizer’ in Welsh. The knight was captured and, for his crime, sentenced to hang. As he swung, the rope creaking in the crowd’s silence, an angel of mercy swooped down and—” She clapped her hands in one decisive smack, and everyone jumped. “The rope dangled empty, free of its burden. Proof, we say, of his noble cause. He’s been venerated ever since as a Welsh hero.” Another chill danced over Katy’s skin. A chill that flashed warm as the story seeped into her. Familiar. Achingly familiar. Unease followed—this existential stuff was so not her. “His rescue by an angel was enough to make him a saint?” ever-practical Traci asked. “Unofficially. The Welsh named him one, and eventually it became a fait accompli. Now, please follow me.”

The tour guide stepped toward a side door. Katy let the others pass and approached the knight covered in chainmail and other medieval-looking doodads. Only his face peeked out from a tight-fitting, chainmail hoodie-thing. One hand gripped a shield, the other, a sword. She touched his straight nose, the marble a cool kiss against her finger. So. This person had lived about seven
hundred years ago. His angular features were starkly masculine. Probably had women admiring them in the flesh. Had he loved? An odd…void bloomed within, tugging at her, as if it were the absence of a feeling seeking wholeness. Evidence of past lives frozen in time always made her feel…disconnected. Disconnected and disturbed. Unable to grasp some larger meaning. Especially since Isabelle was in the past now too, instead of here as her maid of honor. She traced along the knight’s torso, the bumps from the carved chainmail teasing her fingers.

“The tour group is getting on the bus. Hurry.” Traci’s voice came from the door. “Coming.” One last glance at her knight. Katy ran a finger down his strong nose again. “Bye,” she whispered.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Yes, especially if the lady is intelligent. I have never been one to tolerate fools, regardless of their sex, so it follows I also appreciate sense, regardless of sex.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Breeches

“The door opened, held by the butler, and Lord Montagu swept into the room, his presence overwhelming the space. She could swear even the flowers in their vases perked up and listed in his direction. Honest to Pete.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Breeches

“His appreciative gaze set off an internal chain reaction--erratic heartbeat, rush of heat--like all her cells collectively blushed, sighed, and propped their chins in their hands to stare. Well, if cells had chins and hands.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Breeches

“His warm breath, smelling of clean spice, stroked her cheek and ear. A thrilling shiver coursed over her, the wound on her arm only a minor sting. Then his lips—those full, sensuous lips—grazed her jaw and the soft spot behind her ear, the hairs of his beard brushing her sensitive skin. Her shivers locked her muscles tight. A bolt of tantalizing heat shot down her center.
He leveraged closer, all that warrior brawn pressing hard against her side, linen rasping over skin, an exquisite feeling.
Yes. This.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“I believe I was about to do this." He angled his head and nibbled on her lower lip. A small moan escaped her. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss and found she did not hesitate to explore on her own. Blood rushed to his groin and stiffened his arousal. Never had he met a lady so comfortable with her sensuality.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Breeches

“Hunky men in kilts are a myth.”
― Angela Quarles, Must Love Kilts