Bibliophile: a person who collects or has a great love of books
“Our situation wasn’t conventional. Fuck, it was toxic, and like an addict, I couldn’t fathom giving it up. I needed her to be here, always. She was the perfect fit for me. There was a thin line between love and obsession, and she’d had me walking it since she was seventeen years old. The worst of things were almost over, and when it was, I would spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her.”
He’s thirty. I’m nineteen. He’s my bodyguard. I’m the daughter of a senator.
“We’re Penn and Cope,” I tell him, with a peck to his lips. “Best fucking friends. Like always. Two tornadoes. But instead of bouncing off each other and wreaking havoc alongside the other, we’ve become one. Unstoppable.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I state, moving to my tiptoes. His hand keeps getting tighter, and my knees threaten to buckle. “That’s your first mistake.” He gives me a cruel smirk that makes him look like the beautiful bastard he is. My hands grip his wrist that holds me in place. “The … second?” He’s almost cutting my air off. “Playing me...”
“We were best friends before we were enemies, therefore my love for him will always be stronger than my animosity.”
Five sexy full-length novels about the bullies we love to hate from dark romance authors holding a degree in bad boys...
“Love is opening yourself up like a book, letting someone see your secrets with every paragraph and page exposed, knowing that the person you’re showing it to can walk away any minute.”
“Come on, beautiful,” he groans. “Quit teasing me and sit on it.” I’m positive I must have a contact high because that’s the only way to explain why the actual fuck my step-cousin is summoning me to sit on his penis. “Gross. What is wrong with you?” Shielding my vision with my hands, I proceed to back away. Unfortunately, I knock into the coffee table so hard I see stars. “Dammit,” I yelp, gripping my throbbing calf. “You’re not Hayley.” Talk about stating the obvious. “No shit, Sherlock.” I make the huge mistake of looking up. “Oh, my God, dude. Can you please put your wiener away?” “Sure thing,” the pervert says, rising from the couch. “As soon as you tell me who the hell you are and why you’re in my house.” He has got to be kidding me. “Seriously?” I point to myself. “I’m Dylan.” He tilts his head to the side, like he’s having trouble understanding why my name would have any significance to him. “Your cousin,” I grit through my teeth and he blanches. Eureka.
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Surrounded by violence and hatred, I was born with a target on my back. The monsters sought after me, slowly tainting my soul. A person can only withstand so much before they snap. I’m a grenade and they pulled the pin. Tick, tock; the clock’s running out. We all come into this world, sentenced to death. And when he calls, we have to answer. As for me, I’ll be making the calls. I am Death.
Confessions of a Bibliophile 