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His lips tasted cool and sharp, peppermint, winter, but his hands, soft on the back of my neck, promised long days and summer and forever.
Maggie Stiefvater
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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Hands
Soft
Back
Romance
Long
Winter
Peppermint
Lips
Tasted
Cool
Promised
Summer
Neck
Days
Sharp
Forever
Necks
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It seemed like the best weapons in my life had always been the most innocuous: empty plastic bins, a blank CD, an unmarked syringe, my smile in a dark room.
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I am standing here in the shed, and I'm waiting to see if my seeds are going to poke out ofthe dirt. I don't know if it's too early to look for signs of life or if, this time, winter has claimed my family for good.
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It was a sort of ferocious, quiet beauty, the sort that wouldn't let you admire it. The sort of beauty that always hurt.
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Now I am the unknown, the unknowable.
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Sam reached his hand toward mine and I automatically put my fingers in his.
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I want you. Feeling the grip of his hand in mine, the brush of skin on mine, seeing the way he moved in front of me, equal parts human and wolf, and remembering his smell - I ached with wanting to kiss him.
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Silence was never a wrong answer.
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The way Gansey saw it was this: if you had a special knack for finding things, it meant you owed the world to look.
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She recognized the strange happiness that came from loving something without knowing why you did, that strange happiness that was sometimes so big that it felt like sadness. It was the way she felt when she looked at the stars.
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Are you high? Why are you never wearing a shirt? I sleep naked, Cole said. He put both milk and sugar in my coffee. As the day goes on, I put on more and more clothing. You should've come over an hour ago.
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I think every now and then about Sean’s thumb pressed against my wrist and daydream about him touching me again. But mostly I think about the way he looks at me – with respect – and I think that’s probably worth more than anything.
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...the sound of our lack of conversation amplified by the echo of our footsteps on the stone around us.
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whether they'll write the story of my life as a tragedy or an epic fantasy... I was wondering if it was going to be a kiss at the end, or sad music and a sweeping camera shot over the fields I once roamed freely. I'm hoping for the kiss, but expecting the sweeping camera shot.
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Clutter is my natural habitat.
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Are you sure you want to go out with someone with that kind of history? ...He could have a psychotic break. I read that people get those when they're twenty-eight.
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Strange what love taught you about your faults.
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