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Each time it was like a stray bit of glass pressed into the softness of her heart, grinding, grinding, oh so silently until she no longer noticed when she bled.

Elizabeth Hoyt

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Elizabeth Hoyt
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: November 21
Author
Writer
Heart
Softness
Time
Silently
Like
Pressed
Noticed
Glass
Glasses
Bled
Longer
Grinding
Bits
Stray

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There's something about her, Caire said in a low voice. She cares for everyone about her, yet neglects herself. I want to be the one who cares for her.
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This is my social face,” he said lightly. “Don’t confuse it with the animal beneath.
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It was a strange thing, this feeling of empathy. He'd never experienced it before. He realized that what hurt this woman hurt him as well, that what made her bleed caused a hemorrhage of pain within his soul.
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Much of life is a game. If played skillfully, with an intelligent and fascinating opponent, it can become almost a dance. One challenges and moves, the other teases and skips away, only to dart forward later and strike a telling blow.
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You say my name like a lover, so soft, so sweet. I want to lick the word from your lips, sip the exhaled breath from your mouth. I want to possess you utterly. Right now. Right here.
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But like the legless man, I'm unaccountably fascinated by those who can dance.
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He watched her retreat, his eyes lazy, and his body unmoving. A trickle of blood seeped slowly from the corner of his mouth. He let her get nearly out of the room before he spoke, “I may not have the right, Silence, me love,” he drawled so soft she nearly didn’t catch the words. “But I would’ve listened to ye. I would’ve believed ye.
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Finally he turned his head toward her face and brushed a kiss over her cheek. love you and I believe with all my heart that you love me as well. Why can’t you say it, Hero?
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As for inspiration, I find stark fear of missing the deadline very inspiring.
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Your cousin might be a pretty face, but you, my darling, courageous, maddening, seductive, mysterious, wonderful Diana, you are the Duchess of Wakefield. My duchess.
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Do you love me Hero? His pale green eyes were full of torment. Do you love me like I love you?
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He grinned, though his face was strained. “That’s it, love. Use me to make yerself feel good.
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There are no heroes on the battlefield, my lady there are only survivors.
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I decided long ago that my family absolutely comes first, and I don't regret that. I do, however, sometimes wish I had an extra five hours or so in the day!
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Shhh,” he murmured against her mouth. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just feel.
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I write both at home and at coffee shops, and I have a terrible work ethic - I have a tendency to write most of my books right before the deadline. I'm trying to work on that, but so far, I'm not getting any more organized.
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Shh,” he whispered. “You asked me if I loved you. I do. I love you more than life itself. Nothing matters in this world but that you live. Can you do that for me? Can you live?
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Dear God. She ached, wanting something that she knew was a sin. Wanting a man who was sin itself.
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Do you think 'Duke' is a good name?' she asked. His face blanked for a second before it cleared. He glanced at the dog in consideration. 'I don't think so. He would outrank me.
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I think I do pretty well with child characters. It's hard to write kids that are realistic, not annoying, and bring something to the story.
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