Desire makes life happen. Makes it matter. Makes everything worth it. Desire is life. Hunger to see the next sunrise or sunset, to touch the one you love, to try again. 'Hell would be waking up and wanting nothing,' he agrees.

— Karen Marie Moning

Don’t lose yourself in anger, Mac. It’s gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you - only your body doesn’t have the good grace to quit breathing.

— Karen Marie Moning

Driving a hot car is a lot like sex to me, or a lot like I keep thinking sex should be: A total body experience, overwhelming, to all the senses, taking you places you've never been, packing a punch that leaves you breathless and touches your soul. The Viper was way more satisfying than my last boyfriend.

— Karen Marie Moning

Dying is overrated. Human sentimentality has twisted it into the ultimate act of love. Biggest load of bullshit in the world. Dying for someone isn't the hard thing. The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain... Try living for someone. Through it all-good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That's the hard thing.

— Karen Marie Moning

Failure is always new information, and those who are willing to suffer it repeatedly make it a stepping-stone to success.

— Karen Marie Moning

Fear and doubt are major stampedes.

— Karen Marie Moning

Fine. Okay. I killed her. But I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t kill her, kill her.”“Oh, I see. As long as you didn’t kill her, kill her, then that’s okay.

— Karen Marie Moning

Friends don’t build cages for each other.

— Karen Marie Moning

Grief shared was grief lessened.

— Karen Marie Moning

He calls me his Queen of the Night. He shows me the wonders in this incredible city. Furthermore, he encourages me to find my own way, and to choose what I think is right or wrong. And the sex, God, the sex! I never knew what sex was until him! It’s not soft music and candlelight, a choice, a deliberate action. It’s as involuntary as breathing, and as impossible not to do. Furthermore, it’s slammed up against a wall in a dark alley, or flat on my back on cold concrete because I can’t stand one more second without him. Furthermore, it’s on my hands and knees, dry-mouthed, heart-in-my-throat, waiting for the moment he touches me, and I’m alive again. Furthermore, it’s punishing and purifying, velvet and violent, and it makes everything else melt away, until nothing matters but getting him inside me and I wouldn’t just die for him—I’d kill for him, too. Like I did tonight.

— Karen Marie Moning