Best 757 quotes in «suspense quotes» category

I had turned to leave and he had called after me. “Miss Maria, I kin no other woman who could be wearing men’s trousers and be dripping such as ye are and look quite so lovely. It’s a right shame your mother is marrying you off to that great sot!” I had turned to call back to him, “I doubt very much we will have to worry about that after today!

I know.” The two words ghosted against the skin of her neck, sending goose bumps down her spine. “But I want to touch you. I want to put my hands all over you. I want to kiss every inch of you and taste you as you come apart in my arms. I want to feel you wrapped around me with nothing but my name on your lips and the sheets a tangled mess beneath us. I want…” He exhaled heavily into her ear. “I want. I want. I want!

I kissed her, a long hard kiss. Because baby didn't know it, but baby was dead, and in a way I couldn't have loved her more.

I hate phones," he grumbled into her neck. "Seriously, I wanna go back in time and murder Alexander Graham Bell." He sat up with a groan. "Or was it Edison who invented the phone? I can never remember." She had to laugh. "I'm pretty sure it was Bell.

I know you, Ruth Ann Carver. I know you better than you know yourself. You think you do things right. You think you're a paragon of right living. This is a self-told lie, one bolstered by your coddling parents and grandparents.

I'll carry you." But she was already holding on, and though she knew she'd have to soon, she didn't see how she'd ever be able to let go of him.

I like to write literature that reads like pulp fiction.

I lock onto the most entrancing, dark eyes staring at me. I can’t bring myself to look away. They're like a well I've fallen into, and I'm willing to refuse a bucket to safety. I'm mesmerized by the depth in them. On the surface, I can see the facade he puts in place with the confidence he portrays, but his smile never reaches his eyes. Beneath the water lies a murky past. A past filled with hurt that I can feel akin to." ~ Hannah

I lock onto the most entrancing, dark eyes staring at me. I can’t bring myself to look away. They're like a well I've fallen into, and I'm willing to refuse a bucket to safety. I'm mesmerized by the depth in them. On the surface, I can see the facade he puts in place with the confidence he portrays, but his smile never reaches his eyes. Beneath the water lies a murky past. A past filled with hurt that I can feel akin to." ~ Hannah, Tragically Broken, The Broken Series

I’ll always come back to you,” he said. “Always.

I'm giving serious thought into eating yor wife” - Hannibal Lecter

I’m also suddenly all over the idea of lust. Previously, I had scoffed at it. Sure, I looked at people and could see they were hot, or sexy, or desirable. But it had all been in my head—it wasn’t a feeling in my body. It wasn’t a force of nature, taking my breath away. It wasn’t something that made me wonder if I could actually keep my body in check, keep it from hurling itself against someone, primal and hungry and out of control.

I'm just not sure that I'm good enough for her. She's a top shelf drink, I'm a house poured shot.

I’m going to make an exception for you. If you want to study me – every inch of me – I’m willing to be your lab rat.” “Well, I’d need to have research questions if it’s going to be a valid scientific endeavor.

Impertinent submissive,” Raoul snapped, and his dark brown eyes turned mean. “Nothing new for this one. You're doing a lousy job of bringing her to heel, Marcus.” “Bring me to heel? Like I'm a dog?” Without thinking, Gabi instinctively yanked away and snapped out, “Bite me.

I'm dangerous for you, Abby.

I mean, how could anyone start something like this and not know how it turns out?

I'm sorry about the screaming. I thought you were him.

I'm sorry. I just meant that all this is new to me. I get lost sometimes." I give her my most honest expression.

I’m trying to be an adult. I’m trying to be responsible. I’m trying not to call home crying. But it’s hard. It’s hard when every morning feels like a hangover. It’s hard when I hear voices every time I go to sleep. It’s hard when the only thing that would make me feel better is to crawl in bed with the one person who truly knows me, but I’m more afraid of her than the bears or the perverts or whoever the hell visits her when I’m away.

Indignation is often the best defense.

Inevitably, his vision verged toward the fantastic; he published a scattering of stories - most included in this volume - which appeared to conform to that genre at least to the degree that the fuller part of his vision could be seen as "mysteries." For Woolrich it all was fantastic; the clock in the tower, hand in the glove, out of control vehicle, errant gunshot which destroyed; whether destructive coincidence was masked in the "naturalistic" or the "incredible" was all pretty much the same to him. RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK, THE BRIDE WORE BLACK, NIGHTMARE are all great swollen dreams, turgid constructions of the night, obsession and grotesque outcome; to turn from these to the "fantastic" was not to turn at all. The work, as is usually the case with a major writer was perfectly formed, perfectly consistent, the vision leached into every area and pulled the book together. "Jane Brown's Body" is a suspense story. THE BRIDE WORE BLACK is science fiction. PHANTOM LADY is a gothic. RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK was a bildungsroman. It does not matter.

I’m sorry, Bill, I thought you said something about aliens? Did you give up the menthols for marijuana? Or maybe they now have flavored joints as well?

I'm named after my great grand-mother...while you've never heard of her, in my mind she's practically a celebrity.

I'm never afraid, I'm just preparing for pain.

In near panic, I craned my neck to gaze over the cabin’s roofline a bursting fireball.

In Paris, the dance was everything. The dance of romance was what a man could remember in his old age. Didn’t all young Americans come to Europe in search of that kind of romance?

Insane love. Loving insanity. Insanity and love...

In the distance, he could see a large star made out of red and green lights on the side of a barn, a reminder that Christmas was coming.

In the temple, I sit on the cool floor next to Grandfather, beneath the stern benevolence of the goddess's glance. Grandfather is clad in only a traditional silk dhoti--no fancy modern clothes for him. That's one of the things I admire about him, how he is always unapologetically, uncompromisingly himself. His spine is erect and impatient; white hairs blaze across his chest.

In the ten houses the police had scouted, I hadn't sensed anything more dangerous than a pot that prevents over-boiling.

In the stillness, our eyes do all the silent talking. Our chests move with heavy breathing and desire pours out through our pores. It's unmistakable.

I only have secrets that keep you safe, Darlin

I really doubt it’s a stroke of luck that she’s turned up in your life again.

I realized my sorrow, the regret of a restless, doomed spirit, rang in my voice. For the first time I wondered if my fate was to helplessly watch violence until I became as mad as the men who committed the murders.

I really don't know how he does it. How he can take any situation and seduce its pants off. It's a talent really.

I said be still, old bat.” He felt her body relax. “Good. I told you years ago when we first found her that if she ever stepped foot into this state, she was as good as dead. Do you think I lied?

I shut up. I don't fight, I don't scream. Shame rides alongside my terror. But somewhere deep, deep inside, I hear Mom tell me to trust my gut. My gut tells me I am blind and I am lost, and if I fought for freedom now, it would end in my death. I listen to my gut. Because I want to live.

I remain steady in my belief that well-written literary fiction doesn’t have to be high-brow; it has to embrace ideas about destiny in a storyline that holds the readers’ attention. From his classic presentation at the 200th anniversary writers’ conference of North American Review, the nation’s oldest literary magazine, where he poked fun at his own early novels for their obscurity, implying clarity in the digital age equals salvation. Then he toyed with the digital age itself: Some nut will find a way to blow up the electric grid. All these electronic gadgets that rely on electricity will go dark. The batteries will run down. We’re talking Cormac McCarthy darkness, black on black . . . except for one distant flicker of light. It’s on a beach probably Australia. Survivors will make their way through the dark and find the light from a single candle. Next to the candle will be a lad with a note book scribbling away with the last pencil on earth. He’s writing about what happened. He hopes someone will read what he writes. That’s what writers do. They hope.

I spent most summers in Italy as a child either in Tuscany or at the Amalfi coast.

I strive to keep the space between the pages and the reader emotionally taut.

In the mind of the public, she seemed endowed with an almost supernatural power to commit heinous acts, now matter the time or place.

I should put a bullet in you right now, you stubborn jackass.” “Good. I’ll have a scar to match the last time you stabbed me,” he snapped.

I stood on the outside of disaster, looking in.

It feels as though it were just yesterday Grandfather exited my life like a bullet, leaving a bleeding hole behind.

I studied his face, and as I did, I realized that he was studying me, our thoughts tangling in mid-air for a moment.

I thought about the current contamination of beaches, raw sewage spilling into oceans and streams, the hole in the ozone, forests being stripped, the toxic-waste dumps, the merry plunder of mankind added to the drought and the famine that nature dishes up annually as a matter of course. It's hard to know what's actually going to get us first. Sometimes I think we should just blow the whole planet and get it over with. It's the suspense that's killing me.

I think about the story I always tell her – of the kind lady who gave her to us. I suppose that must be how she imagines her father – as a kind man who gave her away too, as if she were a gift. Only now he wants her back.

It didn't take a professional to end a life- Riley

It’s as if he’s trodden in my footsteps, seen what I’ve seen, felt what I’ve felt, as I’ve criss-crossed the moors countless times.