A gentleman holds my hand.A man pulls my hair.A soulmate will do both.

Being a writer all boils down to this: It's you, in a chair, staring at a page. And you're either going to stay in that chair until words are written, or you're going to give up and walk away. The great writers have to fight for their words. They have to choose to write, choose words over distractions, and their characters over their friends. Great writers can be lonely, exhausted souls. But through our characters, we live.

The true measure of a man is how he treats you when others are not looking.

I'm done. I don't need anything more out of life. I have you, and that's enough.

There is nothing like young love. It comes at a time before the heart knows to protect itself, when everything important is raw and exposed—the perfect environment for a soul-sucking, heart-crushing burst.

Incredible how quickly a world can change. How my entire person, our friendship, can be reduced to nothing, with just one confession.

(Regarding Marriage) Both people need to care deeply about the other person, to put the other’s needs before their own, and to make a daily commitment to that person to stick it out.

I thought women enjoyed affairs. I thought they got sparks of pleasure at the buzz of their phone, thought they ran around with a glow, their world suddenly on fire with new love. I thought they were women with terrible husbands and unhappy lives, an affair the first step in an eventual ending of their marriage. I thought that they were horrible, selfish women. I never thought that I would be one of them. I never thought that I'd be so weak. It turned out being the perfect wife was only easy when there was no temptation, no mistake haunting and overshadowing your marriage.

The heart is stubborn. It holds onto love despite what sense and emotion tells it. And it is often, in the battle of those three, the most brilliant of all.

I hate society’s notion that there is something wrong with sex. Something wrong with a woman who loves sex.

Gentlemen are a dying breed.Do your part to help out by supporting them sexually.

Sex should be about mutual enjoyment, connection, the borrowing from another’s fire at a moment when you want it most.

On the bed - now,” he ordered, yanking the band of his shorts and dropping them on the floor. “I need to fuck right now more than I need to breath.

Get up and get on the bed in the Master. I’m going to fuck the hell out of you.

A child is the quickest to trust because they have no concept of the depravity of our species.

Security is a strange thing, a myth that the brain allows in exchange for a brief moment of peace.

Marrying the wrong person only denies you both a chance at your soul mate.

I stare across the table at Jeremy, and wonder if I will make it through our first date without trying to kill him.

No one is normal. Everyone is just pretending to be normal.

Today is the day that you create worlds, you change lives, you make a something, a someone, out of nothing.Today is the day you become a writer.

The attraction of reading is that it allows you to live, for a few hours, as someone else—grants you access to their head, their thoughts, their secrets.

Love is only made more valuable by the risk of heartbreak.

The act of sex is healthy, normal, God-given. It's the emotions and entitlement that everyone attaches to it that is harmful.

One of the hardest things for a writer to do is delete words.

They say that love is finding your soul’s match in another. I found my match. I found him,let him wrestle me to the ground, and then turned around and made him mine. I’m so gladthat I didn’t scare him off, I’m so glad that he didn’t stop chasing.

Wait for the man who will do anything to be your everything. And will continue to do it after he has your heart.

Hope, in general, is dangerous. Hope can be the loose thread that pulls apart your sanity.

Lust is a dangerous thing. It can make you believe things that are not real. It can seduce your mind and lead it blindfolded to the cliff that will be its demise.

Death. It is a strange stalker, one that we spend our whole lives running from, some more successful than others.

His looks are my weakness, his mind my undoing.

And when one loves kills another, can you still love the one who's left?

I was a woman unaccustomed to guilt, and it drowned me - pulling me deeper, cutting off my air supply.

I've put one foot before another and the years have passed, the time marked by late rent payments and the appearance of wrinkles - tiny ones, on the corners of my eyes. They are a reminder of my youth, and of the hourglass that we all live in, grains of sand slipping through the gap of time, each granule adding another wrinkle, another pocket of fat, another sag that I will fight to overcome, another grey hair to pluck or dye.

Women rarely need the things they want