1,081 Quotes by Christine Feehan

His strength was enormous, and so was the burning need to kill this man. He'd felt this way on more than one occasion. The drive was an actual need, like breathing, consuming him, almost taking him out of his body so that the rage was a separate entity.

He was a machine, not feeling the grueling effects on his muscles as he made the slow crawl between targets, but the longer he was in the field, moving from kill to kill, the more he felt eyes on him.

He had to be a GhostWalker. She was looking at a legitimate GhostWalker. The real deal.

He took her breath away. He was solid, all muscle and she could see, even with the veil of gray rain, that his muscles rippled deliciously as he ran.

She liked that little nod of approval he'd given her as if she were his equal just because she hadn't given into the hysteria welling up.

In his quest to find the perfect supersoldier, he experimented on the girls and when he thought he perfected what he was looking for, he psychically and genetically enhanced the soldiers in his GhostWalker program.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, his incredible eyes moving over her face. Seeing her. Focusing on her. The way he looked at her made her heart begin to accelerate.

That fantasy mouth smiled. The kind of smile that could melt the panties off a nun. Holy Cow.

He pulled out of her mind abruptly. She knew because she felt bereft. Starkly alone. The feeling was raw and ugly after having him there with her. She wanted him back, and that wasn't an intelligent response.