Lucy Topper

“I don’t know how to quit this,” he told me. “Quit you.” What’s there to quit? I thought, but I couldn’t say those words out loud, because I couldn’t stop thinking about bits of folded paper and lemons, about palindromes and puzzles— “But I’m a selfish bastard, aren’t I? I probably wouldn’t quit you even if I could.” I placed my hand on the crumbling stone, next to his. “You are a selfish bastard,” I breathed. “And there’s nothing to quit.” “Liar,” he murmured, and when he brought his hands to my face, when he buried his fingers in my hair, I didn’t fight it. But not fighting wasn’t enough for him. He brought his lips to just almost touch mine. Almost. And then, damn him to hell and back, he waited. For me. Forgive me, Kaylie. I closed the gap. The moment my lips touched his, he shifted his body and mine, and suddenly, my back was up against the lighthouse and nothing else in the world existed except this. Moonlight and him and this. I’d never kissed anyone before. Twenty years old, and I’d never even imagined that it could— “This is a mistake,” I gasped, barely pulling back. “You’re…” “Horrible,” he filled in, and then his lips crashed down on mine. Horrible. “Yes,” I said. “I have no redeeming qualities,” he murmured, as I turned and pressed him back against the lighthouse. “None,” I said. His hands still in my hair, he tilted my head back, trailing kisses along my jaw and down my neck. “You hate me.” I hate you, I thought, my back arching. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
― Jennifer Lynn Barnes, Games Untold: An Inheritance Games Collection

“And, Heiress?” Jameson’s lips moved down to my jaw, then my neck. “For the record…” I felt him everywhere. My fingernails dug lightly into the skin of his neck. “I would never,” he whispered roughly, “confuse you for a saint.”
― Jennifer Lynn Barnes, Games Untold: An Inheritance Games Collection

“Nothing is stronger than a woman who is told she’s weak.”
― Lauren Roberts, Fearless

“For those fearless enough to follow their heart”
― Lauren Roberts, Fearless