Just one Line.

"Heard some guy at the end of the bar talking about the Superbowl tomorrow," Jericho put the Marlboro between his lips and leaned over for Nicole to light it. "How can they sleep the night before? All that pressure!" His words came out with a mocking laugh and a plume of smoke. "Try sleeping the night before a mission where you're outnumbered, outgunned and got a one in ten chance of getting out alive."
 
From a current work in progress...

“Hmmm,” Nova hummed, opening the box curiously. The device inside was cream colored, silky smooth rubberized plastic, shaped like a cross between a dildo and an octopus. The central body was generally formed like most intimate massaging devices, in the way that all arthropods tended to convergently evolve into a crab-shape. Call it Vibrator Carcinization.
(Deeply pleased to report that "vibrator carcinization," returns zero results on Google)
 
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I am a new author, my first story was published this week. The second chapter is coming out tomorrow. Here is a line from chapter three ...

“Bullshit! You have had eyes on her since you have known her. And don’t say anything differently.” Jane smiled. “Come on Nicholi, even I would sleep with Marni. Don’t bullshit me.”
 
I came across this while revising a story from months ago (it all adds up). It's a pretty straightforward sappy romance, the most formulaic one I ever wrote. But I like this paragraph, when the FMC first sees her counterpart.

What was really striking were those eyes. Like he didn’t belong in civilization, but out surviving in the wild somewhere, living on his wits. And there was depth there. I had gotten used to the void behind Mike’s eyes. These were the eyes of a thinker, a philosopher. In another age, I imagine he would be a hermit, living off in the wilderness, convening with his god. I had no idea what he might be doing in my office. Hermits don’t usually need accountants.
 
Finally, something's ****ing clicking!

Deathclaw WIP, female deathclaw FMC stalking her human prey
Humans believed themselves superior, but they were naught but clever meat that whimpered and mewled when stripped of their devices, more helpless than a lowly radroach.

I enjoy the word "naught" too much.
 
I'm trying to drag my muse kicking and screaming out of the cupboard of unfinished stories, where she's been hiding since January. So here goes a bit from the WIP I'm hoping she'll help me finish.
Our life together.
I had ended it. I had mercilessly cut its throat, because even if it was good in a way, it wasn’t true.
The guilt was suffocating. It hurt to breathe, to cry, to exist.
 
"You are barely over your own climax as you look down and see my face contorted in ecstasy and smiling, you rock your hips a few more times and grip my spurting manhood with your deft muscles, milking every drop from me."
 
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