Some times we choose our fate,” she said. “Other times it’s chosen for us.” The cleft between his dark brows deepened and his jaw clenched then released. “And sometimes its what we make it.

...got the ink as a constant symbol of what I fight for and of what I have to live for.

You taste like sex, Magdalena. And I’m a starved man.

The shock of orgasm pulls you under the wave you never saw coming. It wrestles you to the point of exhaustion and allows you to breathe only when you’ve died la petite mort. When you’ve given all and received everything in return.

... if sin had a taste she’d found it.