Best 757 quotes in «suspense quotes» category

His chest rose and fell, his face oddly peaceful in sleep. It was strange, having the bane of her existence, keeping watch over her while she slept--and not in a jail cell.

His lips brushed over hers. She let out a sigh of relief and joy and pleasure. He pulled her tighter against him, taking her mouth with his own. She melted into him and the kiss, heart pounding, desire sparking along her nerve endings like a string of lit dynamite.

His shrill cries flood the forest like light engulfing a silhouette.

His youth was a wingless Dodo.

His uncle called him every day, demanding he get into the house, no matter what he had to do. “You don’t understand,” he’d tried to tell Bernie. “There’s this old woman who lives next door –

His type was the shy, bookish nerds, which was exactly what he’d been until he joined the Army. He’d been a late bloomer, hitting a second growth spurt after nineteen, when he’d shot up six inches in two years and packed on the muscle that made it possible for him to do his job. But the external changes hadn’t changed who he was inside, and he was still the sci-fi and fantasy loving guy who read scientific journals for fun.

Honey, I usually get $300, but I like you, so I'll just take $200.

Honey, you worry too much. Nothing is going to happen, I mean come on, you’re in the house of Mr. Hausefalle, the guru of home security! You’re probably safer over there than here."- House Trap, ch. 4: A Grave Mistake.

Hope you didn't bring any spiders into the van with you,' Simon put in. 'Hey, I'm thinking we could take you back outside and hose you down, just to make sure. You'd definitely smell better if we did, which, I mean, bonus.' Jeremy scraped both hands through his hair again, then beat them clean against his thighs. 'Believe me, Simon, if we had access to a garden hose, I'd be the first to turn it on myself. I feel foul.' 'Hate to break it to you, Archer, but that feeling is not lying to you,' Simon said with mild relish.

Hot damn, Diego Santero looked fine soaking wet. Everything about him radiated potent masculinity, from the slick, dark hair that drew emphasis to the angles of his cheeks and jaw, to the water beading off his forearms and the soaked black shirt and cargo pants that clung to every curve of muscle and flesh below.

How can you do sin with hands you used for prayers?

How dare she not give in to his "vulnerability." There was only so much rejection he could take.

How could I ever forget my best friend, the man, who had changed my destiny simply by allowing me to write about him?

How it hurts to dream, to promise, to think when you have absolutely nothing in hand. When the future is looming only by its ambiguity leaving you distressed, afraid of your destiny.. Where to go and how to know.. That suspense is serving its mystery. Let it be not my misery, I already have that anxiety void of any tranquility.

How good would Flynn be in bed – a real bed, with crisp, clean sheets? She’d seen and handled enough of his body to create a solid mental picture of him naked. Very solid. Honed, strong, with a dusting of blond hair on his tanned chest and maybe a few tattoos. Long muscular legs, a sculpted butt, a narrow waist sliding into a broad back that would undulate under her fingers as he moved against her.

How much the pain grew inside him after Ossie died until the only way to deal with it was to throw himself into the fray. And the whole time, Vanessa's body was wrapped around him like she was the only one being strong as a shield while he stripped his life bare.

How would Elijah ever understand a life that is dark more than light? Or a shadow of someone who follows her around, and when she least expects it, taps her on the back and asks, where are you going, Seraphina?

I always am in a role, lovely – for you, for them – even for myself. Yeah... Even when I’m alone, I am still in a role – and I myself am the most exacting audience I have ever had.

I am a great husband because I am very afraid she may kill me

I am an archaeologist of mature vintage. Rapid descents are not my specialty. I am the plodding type." ~ Grace Madison, PhD.

I am incognito; running away from scenes of the tested truths that I have so meticulously exacted before I am found guilty of the very things I have written.

I am sitting under the floor of my prison's computer center, in a place I should not be, cut-off from my outside support, with no clue what to do. So, what's the worst thing that could happen if I just pull this thing out?

I am the prosecutor. I represent the state. I am here to present to you the evidence of a crime. Together you will weigh this evidence. You will deliberate upon it. You will decide if it proves the defendant's guilt.

I ask you, what would you do if you could erase one bad memory and retain all that was beautiful in your life? Would you not move heaven and earth - and get loads of therapy - to have that?

I avoid intellectuals. Self-righteous people, too. They bore me with their all is pink and rosy, let’s all love each other crap, and I don’t value their opinion.

I appreciate the gesture, but you don't have to undress in order to apologize

I believe that on any trip to heaven, there are always detours through hell.

I cadged a complimentary green matchbook with a gold bird icon from the Bell canning jar. Later we'd use the matches to light our spliffs. My fingertips tapped the stem to the gizmo that dinged a bell. Nobody came out. Wrong signal, so I did two bell rings. No response prompted me to tap out a series of bell rings.

I can also speak to small woodland creatures,” he grins at me.

I can't find the words." She stared daggers at him. "Don't hurt yourself trying.

I can’t believe I ever thought reading to her was a chore. I’d sit here some nights, fidgeting, thinking of all the things I needed to do, my voice hoarse, reluctant to read, ‘just one more chapter,’ wishing I could escape to my glass of wine. What did I have to do that was so important? What could be more important than reading my daughter a bedtime story?

I can't help frowning. "But Madison designed that cocktail dress herself...

Ice Man, his friends had called him. She'd give him a different nickname, like Sex on a Stick or Horny Toad.

I can't sing. And I can't dance. But I can write.

I closed the door and sank into my desk chair. My heart was pounding even harder. I felt like someone who had just staggered out of her car after an accident on a freeway. This was different from the cockroach and the books and the Barbie. I’d been injured. Someone had tried to physically harm me.

I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I didn't burn down anyone’s house! I didn’t. I wouldn’t!” Maddie looked at Jacob. “You know I wouldn’t. I didn’t kill you when I had the chance!

I didn't look over my shoulder; there wasn't a sound behind me on the pavement, but I knew he was coming slowly after me. The crawl of the skin up and down my back told me. Little needles of warning that gathered at the back of my skull told me. I'd never known until then that the jungles aren't so very far behind us, after all, and tails, and four feet instead of two. Where else did those symptoms come from? ("Don't Wait Up For Me, Tonight")

I do not possess the ability to draw or paint. I can’t sing or dance. I can’t knit or sew. But I am an artist. I have the ability to put onto paper, words that tell an intriguing story. I am a writer. A writer is someone who, with just words, can paint a beautiful picture. A writer can open up a world of imagination you didn’t realize was possible. When you open up a book and become so consumed in the story, you feel like you’re a part of it… you’re standing next to that character and feeling the same way that character feels, That’s the art of a writer. I am an artist. My inspiration is the world around me. My paintbrush is my words. My easel is my computer. My canvas is the mind of my reader.

I don't believe in writer's block. Who can function working seven days a week at job. It's the same with writing. Take a break and let the words come to you. It rarely comes if you force it and if it does, you'll probably regret what you wrote down on paper.

I don’t believe he was deliberately taking indecent pictures, they’re too artistic; he’s managed to capture that magical moment when a child’s mind spins into a make-believe world. But actually, what Jack did is steal something – a child’s innocence – whilst creating something darker that will resonate with the adults looking at these photos: themes of sexuality and death, the leitmotifs that run through fairy tales, the stories that we tell ourselves about our children.

I don't correct her to let her know her backdoor wisdom yanks me deep into another country, where water runs uphill.

I don't know how the Wolfman knows all this, but he's not wrong. My warm cheeks turn scalding hot. "Your shame is a good sign. You may break sooner than I thought. The breaking is good. It purifies.

I don’t mind my friends calling me “Thornes,” but the fact of people calling me “Prickly Thornes” draws the line.

I don't want you to say anything. I want you to listen. You know, being confident isn't the same as being right.

Idrith didn’t want to go back to his cold lonely room, with all its unanswered questions. He took the glass and sat down. For a long while they sat without speaking, watching the flames and sipping their drinks. Idrith would have felt at peace if it weren’t for the book in Harmion’s lap.

If all goes well, we will be back in time for a proper memorial service [for your father], Ben. I promise." Ben looked up, and all the bitterness was gone from his eyes, replaced somehow by both resignation and determination. "And if all doesn't go well?" he asked, tightening his grip on Coralee's trusting hand as he led her outside to the driveway. Kira's flawless features morphed into something like a smile, yet wholly without happiness or humor. "Then you'll all be meeting up with [your father] soon enough, I expect. Either that, or you shall wish it was so.

If anyone ever saw me, they might call me a spirit, or an angel, or a ghost. They would try to describe me, but they’d be wrong. Even I didn’t know what I was. I only knew one thing—I needed to keep Michael safe.

If anyone views himself as being totally perfect in the actual sense of the word, he is undoubtedly imperfect in God's eyes. For the thought alone is one of presumption, impurity and imperfection. One may rightly strive for perfection pertaining to character and spirit, but must bear in mind that he will never reach its purest form within this human body. The fact that he has strived for it until the end has made him 'perfect' in the eyes of God.

If God gave Abraham a ram to prevent his slaying Isaac, He might stick a donkey in the bush for me to ride up this infernal mountainside.” ~ Grace Madison, PhD.