4
" Yesterday I was talking to a friend, and she mentioned there was a difference in me. She asked if I was happy, and commented that she noticed I seemed less excited about life. When I probed deeper, she commented I used to be excited about writing, my play, etc. Not that I needed to explain, but I felt she needed to hear this:" I am not one of those writers who cranks out book after book. Yes, when I was writing my first book and when I was working on my play, I was all in. It felt like a calling. I was driven to do it...but I'm so much more than a writer. I'm in a new phase of my life. I'm exploring other interests. My focus is different-no less exciting-but different all the same. I'm comfortable with that, and I need you to be comfortable with it, too. I'm contented. I like that word better than happy. I'm always up to something. Don't be distracted by my seriousness. That usually means I'm thinking. If something were wrong, I have no trouble reaching out for help. I'm keenly in touch with myself." I say this to say, folk will measure you by a past accomplishment (or failure in some cases) and forever hold you to that standard. It's okay to change your path...to follow your dreams...to allow room for another passion. You don't need anyone's permission. "
6
" I moaned then, tilting my head back to give him better access. His hands clamped on my waist, then moved—one going to cup my rear, the other sliding between us.
This—this moment, when it was him and me and nothing between our bodies …
His tongue scraped the roof of my mouth as he dragged a finger down the center of me, and I gasped, my back arching. “Feyre,” he said against my lips, my name like a prayer more devout than any Ianthe had offered up to the Cauldron on that dark solstice morning.
His tongue swept my mouth again, in time to the finger that he slipped inside of me. My hips undulated, demanding more, craving the fullness of him, and his growl reverberated in my chest as he added another finger.
I moved on him. Lightning lashed through my veins, and my focus narrowed to his fingers, his mouth, his body on mine. His palm pushed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and I groaned his name as I shattered "
― Sarah J. Maas , A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2)