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I wondered what one wore to visit a vampire. The chic red sweater set didn't go so well with my darker hair, and I was afraid it might be construed as a flirtatious invitation to color me bloodier.

Karen Marie Moning

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Karen Marie Moning
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: November 1
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Well
Vampire
Sweaters
Red
Chic
Afraid
Invitation
Color
Darker
Hair
Invitations
Didn
Wore
Flirtatious
Wells
Wondered
Construed
Might
Visit
Sweater

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Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.
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Like is an emotion. Emotions”—he raised a hand, made a fist, clenched it tightly—“are like holding water. You open your hand, there’s nothing there. Better to be a weapon than a woman.
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Life equaled love plus passion squared. Loving and being passionate about what one did was what made life so precious.
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He was on me before my brain processed the fact that he was coming for me.
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The White Mansion isn't boring, lass. Never boring. It's the grand demesne the Unseelie King built for his concubine. It's a living, breathing love story, testament to the brightest passion that ever burned between our races. You can follow the scenes through if you've time enough and are willing to risk getting lost for a few centuries.
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My heart has jet lag.
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Caring is love. And love fights! Love doesn't look for the path of least resistance.
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It's a sponge and I'm a sponge and for a second there all our sponge parts are one and I don't just have square pants, everything about me is squarish because I'm part of a wall.
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He knows what I'm thinking. Always. We're connected. The atoms between us ferry messages back and forth.
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And then what? Said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Lane, I didn't mean to wrinkle your lovely blouse. May I press that for you?' Or perhaps you gouged it with one of your pretty pink nails? I was really beginning to wonder what his hang-up with pink was, but I didn't resent the sarcasm in his voice.
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Are we, like, having a conversation? Did you just, like, ask me for advice and listen with an open mind? If so, then yes, I would call this a conversation
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You could ask me to teach you.” “Huh?” This night is getting weird in a hurry. “Teach me like you’re teaching a class or something? What are you going to call it: ‘You Too Can Be a Sociopath 101’?” “It would be more like a graduate-level class.” I start to snicker. His sense of humour sneaks up on you. Then I remember who’s talking and bite it off.
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Lust is a thing of the blood. Doesn't need head or heart.
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When he comes, he makes a noise deep in his throat that is so raw and animal and sexual that I think if he merely looked at me and made that noise, I might explode in an orgasm.
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A lamb in a city of wolves.
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Even now, my back was still arched with sensual invitation, my bottom was questing up like a cat in heat, and my every move was supple, sinuous. I was one great big come-hither.
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He made a lousy passenger, barking instructions I ignored
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Hope is a critical thing. Whithout it, we are nothing. Hope shapes will. The will shapes the world.
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Goor or evil, right or wrong, he mattered to me.
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I felt the electricity of his body behind me as he reached around me and took the card from my hand. He didn't move away, and I battled the urge to lean back into him, seeking the comfort of his strength. Would he wrap his arms around me? Make me feel safe, if only for a moment, and if only a delusion?
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