Amy Barber

“I move with him, letting him touch me, kiss me, taste my body like I’m his canvas and he’s painting me with his tongue.”
― Lauren Blakely, Playing With Her Heart

“I thought I was leading this kiss, but I’m not anymore, because he’s claiming me, tracing his tongue across my top lip, then nipping at the bottom lip, then kissing me so deeply and with so much heat that I shudder.”
― Lauren Blakely, Playing with Her Heart

“What is happening here?” Her voice is unsteady as she says a line that’s not in the script.
“You tell me,” I say, and I’m not even sure where my own voice is coming from.
Then she turns around, uncrosses her legs, and mirrors me, kneeling. “You wrote that scene for me, didn’t you?”
I nod. My throat is dry. I can barely speak.
“That day you saw me with Shelby outside the theater, right?”
“Yes.” I swallow. I’m an open book now.
“Did you write it because it makes the show better? Or did you write it for me?”
― Lauren Blakely, Playing With Her Heart

“He’s heart-stoppingly handsome, and he has this brooding sense about him whenever I see his pictures. As if he rarely cracks a smile, so when he does you know it must be special...”
― Lauren Blakely, Playing With Her Heart