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“I was worst to the one I loved best.”
― Hannah Kent, Burial Rites

“A picture may be worth a thousand words, but those well-arranged words are worth a multi-million-dollar motion picture.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich

“There are few things better than losing yourself in a book. And if you're lucky enough to have that adventure continue in a series, it's like chocolate ganache on the icing on the cake.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich

“Derian pulled the blanket snug around himself. “This is my added assurance.â€�

Eena wrinkled her nose as if she thought his answer was odder than his actions. “It’s your what?�

“If you recall the last time we were here standing in this very spot, you pelted me with neumberries.� He held up a single berry before popping it into his mouth. “I doubt you would risk soiling your blanket, so I figure wrapping it around me this way I’m pretty much assured safety from any potential attack.�

He winked playfully, and she laughed out loud.

“I’m afraid you don’t know me half as well as you think,� she announced. Aiming low, she flung a sizable berry at his calf. It hit its mark.

“Whoa, whoa!� He lowered the blanket to cover his legs.

“You can’t hide yourself entirely, Derian,� she said, aiming for his face. He ducked, raising the blanket like a shield in the process.

Another round of ammunition pelted his ankles before he decided it was time to fight back. Eena found herself bound up in her own blanket, arms wrapped securely at her sides. She laughed nonstop, unable to move within his strong hold. Derian leaned forward until their noses touched, and then he kissed her giggles silent. He kept her in the blanket, snug and close to him, but Eena managed to wriggle an arm free and drape it around his neck, holding his lips in reach. She uttered a quick count in between kisses.

“Seven,� she breathed.

Derian paused, his mouth a whisper away from hers. It tickled when he spoke.

“No, no, Eena.�

“No what?�

“No counting. Not today. No ground rules.�

She barely uttered a partial “’kay� before his mouth covered hers again. His hot breath tasted like breakfast. He fixed his hands on each side of her face, and the blanket fell to the ground. As the intensity of their kisses grew hungry, he gripped her cheeks more securely. Eena could feel the air electrifying around them. Her heartbeat drummed—excited and anxious.

“Derian…� she breathed. But he didn’t stop.

She felt his hand move to support her neck while the other slid down her back, urging her closer. She brought her arms together and pressed against his chest, somewhat objecting to the intimacy.

“Derian…� she tried again. But he covered her mouth with his own.

She pushed more firmly against him without success. Her protest weakened as his kisses softened. The fervor subsided, and she could feel her wild pulse even out. Amidst a string of supple kisses, Derian’s breathing slowed. He planted his lips on her forehead for a moment before squeezing her tenderly. She snuggled up against his warm chest.

“One ground rule,� he whispered in her ear. “We stop when you say ‘when.’�

“When,� she uttered.

“Okay,� he agreed.

Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she stepped back to look up questioningly at the captain. “Wasn’t there a leftover sandwich in that basket from last night?�

His lips formed a guilty smile as he confessed, “Yes—and it was delicious.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Eena, The Two Sisters

“Campbell Road, so he had been told by long-serving colleagues, and some of The Bunk’s inhabitants, was home to the most notorious criminals: thieves, prostitutes, fraudsters â€� every sort of rogue and vagabond drifted through this slum. Unbelievable as it seemed to Franks, some had settled and been resident a very long while. If a couple of women â€� one who looked like she’d had seven bells beaten out of her â€� wanted to set about a well-known brass, it didn’t take a genius to work out that one of their old men was playing away. Bickerstaff might be a stickler for doing things by the book but, in the great scheme of things, this was a petty domestic incident. The Bunk community had its own system of justice. Franks agreed with it: leave them be to shovel up their own shit.”
― Kay Brellend, The Street