You find the wrong boy, you ask for trouble. You find the right boy, you find love.

I’m doing boy detox. Like a diet, only for my emotional health.

Chauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. "And your father?" he demanded, extending the sword. He didn't yet know all his vassals, but he was learning. He would brand the family name of this boy to memory.

Anthony raised his red plastic cup to me and shouted something, but it was too hard to hear over the music. “What?” I called back. “You look great!” A goofy smile was plastered on his face. “Oh boy,” Vee said. “Not just a pimp, but a smashed pimp.” “So maybe he’s a little drunk.” “Drunk and hoping to corner you alone in a bedroom upstairs.” Ugh.

Mr. Green Sweater looks normal, but his wingman looks hard-core bad boy,” said Vee. “Emits a certain don’t-mess-with-me signal. Tell me he doesn’t look like Dracula’s spawn. Tell me I’m imagining things.

You’re not going to drive me home?” I asked. A waste of breath, since I knew her answer. “There’s fog.” “Patchy fog.” Vee grinned. “Oh, boy. He is so on your mind. Not that I blame you. Personally, I’m hoping I dream about him tonight.

Patch backed me into a tree and kissed me, hard. I regained my breath. "Boys take not everywhere: That was a kiss.

Heat flushed Chauncey's neck; it took all his energy to curl his hands into two weak fists. He laughed at himself, but there was no humor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inflicting the nausea and weakness inside him. It would not lift until he took the oath. He would say what he had to, but he swore in his heart he would destroy the boy for this humiliation.

He's got the whole bad-boy-in-need-of-redemption thing going on, but the catch is, most bad boys don't want redemption. They like being bad. They like the power they get from striking fear and panic into the hearts of mothers everywhere

Quit calling me Grey. It makes me sound like I’m a boy. Like Dorian Gray.” “Dorian who?” I sighed. “Just think up something else. Plain old Nora works too, you know.” “Sure thing, Gumdrop.” I grimaced. “I take that back. Let’s stick with Grey.

You're the nicest boy ever,", I told him, feeling undeserving and terrible. "You didn't have to get me anything. I like thinking about you thinking about me when I'm not around.

I grew up with boys of all kinds - I have two brothers, and I was in a bagpipe band for several years.

The boy had my wolf's eyes.

Boys like him didn't die; they got bronzed and installed outside public libraries.

In that moment, Blue was a little in love with all of them. Their magic. Their quest. Their awfulness and strangeness. Her raven boys.

I had a weird, empty feeling inside me. Not a bad sort of empty. It was a sort of lack of sensation, like being in pain for a long time and then suddenly realizing that you're not anymore. It was the feeling of having risked everything to be here with a boy and then realizing that he was exactly what I wanted. Being a picture and then finding I was really a puzzle piece, once I found the piece that was supposed to fit beside me.

Or even tell me it's because you could not live without The Boy's stunning Boyfruits for another night..." Sam's face was twisted into a weird shape at the mention of his Boyfruits.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by what an incredible person this boy was, standing in front of me, and by the fact that he was mine and I was his.

and i am a boy waiting-for the heat and fruitfulness of summer,waiting to see who will walk out of those woods for me. Waiting for my lovely summer girl

No, Elenore's something else. You're beautiful. Especially when you look at me with that 'boy he's a condescending asshole' expression....Yea. Beautiful.

This is the story of a boy who used to be a wolf, and a girl who became one

Adam wasn't certain what came first with Blue--her treating the boys as friends, or them all becoming friends. It seemed to Adam that this circular way to build relationships required a healthy amount of self-confidence to undertake. And it was a strange sort of magic that it felt like she'd always been hunting for Glendower with them.

My whole life, I had thought that my story was, again and again: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and he had to risk everything to keep what he loved. But really, the story was: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and his fear ate him alive.

Boys,' she says, 'just aren't very good at being afraid.