Have ye ever known a female who wasna a bit of a witch in her own sweet way?
Do ye always drool like that? Is it a family trait, lass?
What the feckin’ hell is PMS, I’d like to ken?””Petty Male Shit,” she yelled.
Driving a stolen plane will be nothing compared to the ride with a fired-up Scot.
He was so damn hard, he could chip the ice from his truck’s windshield with his rigid pecker.
I think…I shall call ye Beauty, for I shall be yer beast.
The little woman, wearing a pink and black zigzag-striped pantsuit over a black turtleneck, resembled a skinny zebra who’d OD’d on Pepto-Bismol.
Ye have taught me something I never understood.””What? How to get rid of Parisian Pink Pecker Disease?
If ye wear underwear, it’s a skirt. If ye dinna, it’s a kilt.
Take me inside. Show me if a fireman knows how to start a fire.
Her breathing hitched and his all but seized in his lungs for the want of her, the taste of her, the feel of her under his hands. His lips whispered against the curve of hers, where her cheek ended and her very sexy mouth began.
You always were the hot head. You got a temper in you that can’t be tamed, yet you also got a soft spot for stray dogs, kids in trouble and damsels in distress. See why folks label you a complex conundrum.
A smart woman knows when to listen to her man.” Her man? “He is most definitely not my man. He’s not my type.” “Type? If he was any more your type, he’d have you sitting in his lap.
Ice Man, his friends had called him. She’d give him a different nickname, like Sex on a Stick or Horny Toad.
She tugged on his hair. “I’ll have you know I’m no weakling.” He grinned and kissed her forehead. “No, it takes a strong woman to kill a truck.
Och, my potion is boiling. I need to say good night and keep an eye on the pot. Ye canna overboil newt’s eyeballs.