60 Quotes by Charlotte Stein

She heard something crack and splinter the second he got to that last word. But it took her a second to realize the cracking and splintering came from somewhere inside herself. That thick layer of granite she had carved around her heart had just developed a fissure, and things were starting to leak through. Bad things, like hopes and dreams.

You know it feels good. I can hardly geta…I don’t even…”There was something amusing about watching him trying to form a coherent sen-tence. Amusing, but arousing at the sametime.

That there should be no punishment for kindness. No toll to pay because you wanted to reach out or wear a nice dress or see if the guy across the street is really sleepwalking and maybe help him out of it.

Jesus Christ, you’re soaking wet. Seriously, have you been going around with all this between your legs? I can feel it through fucking flannel, honey. Oh my God, I can feel it through flannel,” he said, the first words almost steady and sure and the last ones like nothing she’d ever heard before.

And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little — just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his. It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire.

His voice sounded like molten metal. As if he had something thick at the back of his throat and it was making him sound deeper and richer than he actually was.

Just that one word—sound—sent a strong answering pulse through her body. His tongue curled around syllables that weren’t there, like a promise. This is what you’ll get, if you just let me hear.

He suggested devils, skulls, harsh masculine drawings. This thing was…heart poundingly good. She wanted to pluck it, and bury her face in it, and keep it in a vase by her bedside.

I like the fact that he randomly asks me about books I’m reading. It means three things: that he is different from everyone I’ve ever known, that he thinks I’m worth having a discussion with, and, more importantly, that he notices.