Well, I Find A Strange Comfort In

“simon,” She Whispered, Vaguely Surprised That She Had Just Used His First Name, For She Had Never Used It Even In The Privacy Of Her Thoughts. Moistening Her Dry Lips, She Tried Once More, And To Her Astonishment, She Did It Again. “simon…” “yes?” A New Tension Had Entered His Long, Hard Body, And At The Same Time, His Hand Moved Over The Shape Of Her Skull In The Softest Caress Possible. “please… Take Me To My Room.” Hunt Tilted Her Head Back Gently And Regarded Her With A Sudden Faint Smile Playing On His Lips. “sweetheart, I Would Take You To Timbuktu If You Asked.“

She Was Yours, If You'd Truly Wanted Her," Harry Continued, A Pitiless Smile Touching His Lips. "but I Wanted Her More.

I Always Counsel Aspiring Novelists That Passion Is The Most Important Quality For A Writer To Possess - Technique Can Be Taught, But That Relentless Desire To Write Has To Come From Within.

She Had Always Maintained A Cynical Facade, Using It As A Defence Against Embarrassment, Fear, Loneliness… But At The Moment She Felt Unusually Vulnerable.

Merripen, Despite His Fear Of Heights, Had Often Climbed A Ladder To Wash The Second Floor Window For Her. He Had Wanted Her View Of The Outside World To Be Clear. He Had Said The Sky Should Always Be Blue For Her.