pot-of-gold

If I am your rainbow, then you are my pot of gold.

Every sacrifice is another colour of your Rainbow!

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the hottest bitch of all?

Are ya trying' to kill me, lass?" "Kill you? No." Maggie leaned closer, her hands drifting up and cradling his face as she rolled her hips again in one wicked pass. "Torture you? Maybe.

Me father always said if ya can find a lass who's brilliant in the kitchen and in the bed ya best not let her go.

I'll not be lyin' if I tell ya that I fancy ya a bit myself." "The fancy feelings are mutual." A grin curved her lips right before Declan pressed a kiss to them.

You might be a fairy tale leprechaun man but at the heart of it you're still a man who won't talk about anything.

She tipped back her glass and finished it. "Ah, lass. You drink like you're Irish already." She smirked. "I am Irish already. Always have been.

Wait," she whispered breathlessly. "I want us to come together." "What's wrong with you comin' twice, luv?

I shall ne'er chase rainbows again, Knowing no pot o' gold awaits at the end. My Irish treasure is not there. For ye, my love, abide with me here.