“Come on. What woman hasn't had to wrap her lips around something unsavory and sell it to the croud?”

“Your mother’s coming,” he said.“I know—she probably heard us arguing. Do something!”“What?”“Anything!”“Fine!” He grabbed her around the waist, dragged her body flush against his, and ducked his head. His lips crushed hers as his hands wrapped around her tightly so they were plastered against each other, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, breasts to chest.”

“I'm not a philosopher, Harry," [Michael] said. "But here's something for you to think about, at least. What goes around comes around. And sometimes you get what's coming around." He paused for a moment, frowning faintly, pursing his lips. "And sometimes you are what's coming around.”

“I held her tight, my hands coming up to wrap over her shoulders, wishing I could wrap myself around her heartache.”

“If a man hasn't what's necessary to make a woman love him, it's his fault, not hers.”

“This was the mark of deep infatuation, he thought: the desire to watch a woman talk just to see her lips move, to be around her.”