“You know they say confession is good for the soul, right? "I think that applies unless you're a priest. And you dont look like ANY priest I've ever seen." "It's true. I am having trouble with purity of thoughts at… — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“Whatever am I going to do with that monster, Ryder Davis?” He gave a husky laugh. “I think you could probably just tell it… — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“You should come and watch me.” She frowned. “Watch you?” A small smiled nudged his lips. She didn’t need to be a mind reader to know where his mind had just gone. “Ride bulls. On the weekend.” There were probably about a hundred things she’d put her hand up to watch this guy do, a lot of them just as… — Amy Andrews Copy Share
“If anyone had told Joss last week that she’d be dry humping a twenty-seven-year-old she’d met only five days prior in the bathroom of… — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“You said he was a perfectly adequate lover." "Perfectly adequate? I dont suppose I ever said that about you?" She only had to look… — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“He’s obviously very well trained. He’s probably just confused about being handed around a bit and is acting out.” Ryder didn’t think Tiny was confused at all. That dog was smart as hell. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was enjoying putting Ryder through the ringer then acting all butter-wouldn’t-melt whenever a chick walked by in case he… — Amy Andrews Copy Share
“I saw you on that field tonight, you rugby guys look like you were born knowing how to fuck.” — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“Now, grip the bull tight with your thighs.” She dutifully tensed her thighs. “Not tense. Grip. Real hard with your whole thigh.” His voice dropped, his lips pressing in closer to her ear as he murmured, “I know you know how to do that.” A surge of heat shot from her core. Didn’t he know she was having a hard… — Amy Andrews Copy Share
“I think you just made me forget my own name. Not even amnesia managed that.” — Amy Andrews Copy Share Image
“She was about to take a step back when his hand slid onto her leg. Slow and lazy. “You don’t wear your scrubs home,” he murmured, his fingers idly stroking just behind her knee, the denim of her jeans no barrier to the sensations sweeping up her leg. Joss willed herself to move but not one damn synapse obeyed. It… — Amy Andrews Copy Share
“I’ve got some good physical therapy for you. Any good at fencing?” Joss almost choked on her mouthful of coffee. She sat up straight in her chair and shook her head. “No, Gus.” Troy ignored her. “I can fence in my sleep.” “Gus.” She narrowed her eyes at her father-in-law who could be stubborn as a mule. “He dislocated his… — Amy Andrews Copy Share
