Emsmadsabs

“What’s three?” I asked, hoping to move away from this uncomfortable topic.
The smile pulled at his lips again.
“Three.” One of his hands cupped my face and the other slid around my back. He pulled my body against his and my heart began to pound. I took advantage of my free hand and pushed at his chest.
“I don’t think so, Lily,” he said. “If you want to get rid of me, you’ll need to do better than that.”
I drew a sharp breath and tried to wiggle away, but he held me firmly in place, watching me struggle. He grinned as he lifted me up onto the sink.
“What are you doing?” I started to panic. “Someone could come in!”
“If they see us, they’ll just turn around and get out of here,” he murmured, lips touching my ear. “No one crosses me.”
His hips pressed against my knees, opening them, pushing my skirt up my legs. I gripped his shirt, clinging to him so I wouldn’t fall into the sink. His hand pushed into my lower back. I gasped as his body fitted against mine.
Heat flooded my chest, my pelvis. I thought I would drown in it.
“We can’t—” His lips stopped my words. The kiss just made me dizzier. I dug my fingers into his shoulders.
“You said you didn’t want to be left alone.” His tongue flicked over my cheekbone. “This is me pestering you.”
“Aren’t you breaking the rules?” I could barely get the words out. “What about the union?”
“I’d rather have you on my own terms.” His hand slipped between my thighs.
All strength fled my limbs. “I can’t breathe.”
“That means you like it.” He kissed me again.”
― Andrea Cremer, Nightshade

“I think she just asked if she could touch my mango.”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Fallen Angels

“Then his lips caress mine. It’s only a brush, but the warmth overheats every part of me. Leaning back, my elbow bumps into the power button on the dryer and the old appliance starts moving. Spinning. Spinning like my head. Like my heart.”
― Lauren Hammond, He Loves Me...He Loves You Not...

“She remembered one of her boyfriends asking, offhandedly, how many books she read in a year. "A few hundred," she said.
"How do you have the time?" he asked, gobsmacked.
She narrowed her eyes and considered the array of potential answers in front of her. Because I don't spend hours flipping through cable complaining there's nothing on? Because my entire Sunday is not eaten up with pre-game, in-game, and post-game talking heads? Because I do not spend every night drinking overpriced beer and engaging in dick-swinging contests with the other financirati? Because when I am waiting in line, at the gym, on the train, eating lunch, I am not complaining about the wait/staring into space/admiring myself in reflective surfaces? I am reading!
"I don't know," she said, shrugging.”
― Eleanor Brown, The Weird Sisters