Pinked Quotes & Sayings

His friends liked to hunt. Sometimes I went along."
"And here I thought you only fired at people," Celia called over from the other side of him.
"I rarely need to shoot in the course of performing my duties. But I do have to use my pistol occasionally." He slanted a glance at her. "Unlike you, my lady, I don't carry mine for show."
Her cheeks pinked, but she merely sniffed and halted to reload again. So did he.
He probably should stop tormenting her about her damned pocket pistol, but it still shook him. Powder or no powder, such a weapon could easily provoke a man to attack her.
Still, Jackson admitted that it probably wouldn't have that effect on this lot. They didn't seem the bullying sort, just the coax-a-woman-into-their-bed sort. — Sabrina Jeffries

I knew one person in the entire city of New York. Looking back, I should have been terrified, but I was just excited to living in New York on my own and acting professionally. — Rachel Boston

Clarke shifted so she was leaning against Bellamy. He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned back, so they were both looking up at the sky. The roar of the fire was enough to muffle the voices of everyone around them, and with their eyes tilted upward, it almost felt like they were the only two people on Earth. — Kass Morgan

Entrepreneurs, because they need money, they are willing to share their crystal ball with someone like me. That's the best thing ever. — Ron Conway

Somehow Rabbit can't tear his attention from where the ball should have gone, the little ideal napkin of clipped green pinked with a pretty flag. — John Updike

As if sensing his thoughts, Elizabeth looked up. Her pale face still showed signs of strain. He winked at her to see if he could bring out the dimple in the left corner of her smile. It worked. Her skin pinked up, and the dimple briefly appeared. That seldom-seen dimple really did something to his heart. The tiny indentation changed her from the proper Miss Hamilton to his Elizabeth. — Debra Holland

I can tell by your eye shadow, you're from Brooklyn, right? ... Me too. My mother has plastic covers on all the furniture. Even the poodle. Looked like a barking hassock walking down the street. — Elayne Boosler

There are cultural and societal prejudices that make it hard for us to write. It has been my experience that for some men, the struggle to write involves the prejudice that it is not "manly" to reveal the inner life, the secrets of the heart and of the imagination. For many women, the struggle to write is at base a struggle against the idea that women's lives are not of interest as literature. I have a friend whose husband once said after her first book had been published, "You sit there writing as if your life had some significance. — Pat Schneider

The rain had stopped and the sky was absurdly pretty, a single layer of floury cloudlets pinked and peached by the rising sun. Only the juvenile, the mad, and the newly in love noticed. The rest of the city got its head down and ploughed tearily into another day of neurosis. — Glen Duncan

Half-sloshed mums're rolling their eyes at sun-pinked dads burning bangers on barbecues. — David Mitchell

He dismounts his albino steed, the horse's pinked nostrils flaring, dirty mane matted with ice. — Blake Crouch

Brooke fussed over the wounded lady as they transferred her to the pallet, going so far as to plant a kiss on her brow to praise her bravery.
"What a kiss," Portia complained. "As if I were a child."
Brooke cupped her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly. He released her only when Portia's faint growl of protest melted to a pleased sigh. "There, was that better?"
"Quite." Portia's cheeks pinked.
"All right, then. Now be a good little girl, and lie still."
She swatted at him feebly as he and Denny lifted the pallet - Brooke carrying the end at Portia's head, and Denny lifting her feet. — Tessa Dare

His cheeks were all pinked up. Travel agreed with him, and she might have known: people like Quinn, always running from themselves, loved the road. — Monica Wood

The tiny body was slippery, and he held her tightly, afraid she'd slither out of his grip. He rotated the infant face-up, holding her about ten inches away from his face. The top of her head had a slight cone shape. Her blue-tinged hands pinked. The baby's eyes were open, alert and seemingly amazed.
They connected with his.
A jolt of intense feeling, of recognition, flowed between them. As he gazed on the scrunched features of the infant, love surged through him. He'd never felt such a feeling before, and his chest ached with the joyful pressure. Caleb wanted to curl her to his chest and keep her safe. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling a scent that surprised him with its sweetness.
"My baby?" Maggie asked.
The infant broke eye contact with Caleb and turned her face toward the sound of her mother's voice. He blinked back moisture from his eyes and grinned. "You have a beautiful daughter. — Debra Holland

Those pinked-skinned Jesus freaks that made the laws and owned the prisons were makin' more money off the drug game than we ever did. — Connor Pritchard

Insurgencies are easy to make and hard to stop. Only a few ingredients need to combine to create an insurgency; like oxygen and fire, they're very common and mix all too often. The recipe is, simply, a legitimate grievance against a state, a state that refuses to compromise, a quorum of angry people, and access to weapons. — Richard Engel

Back in the sitting room, Wylan was lighting the lamps. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished," said Jesper. "But Da's asleep. I'm not sure we're allowed to ring for food." He cocked his head to one side, peering at Wylan. "Did you have her make you better-looking?"
Wylan pinked. "Maybe you forgot how handsome I am."
Jesper raised a brow.
"Okay, maybe a little. — Leigh Bardugo

She came back pinked, sun-dazed and slow moving, with spume-salted hair and a sandy butt, displaying upon a narrow palm, with a child's innocence, a small and perfect white shell, saying in a voice still drugged with sun and heat, "It's like the first perfect thing I ever saw, or the first shell. It's a little white suit of armor with the animal dead and gone. What does it mean when things look so clear and so meaningful? Silly little things." I sat on a low stool, hating the phone. — John D. MacDonald