Bite The Hand That Feeds Quotes

The proverb warns that, 'You should not bite the hand that feeds you.' But maybe you should, if it prevents you from feeding yourself.

People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.

Sometimes the hand that feeds you needs a good bite.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you - especially if you're dining alone.

The proverb warnes you'',''dont bite the hand that feeds you,''but maybe you should,''if it prevents you from feeding yourself.

There are times when parenthood seems nothing more than feeding the hand that bites you.

This book is dedicated to the rule breakers, the troublemakers, and the revolutionaries. Sometimes the hand that feeds you needs a good bite.

We set ourselves to bite the hand that feeds us

A man shouldn't bite the hand that feeds him, even if another holds out a golden spoon to him as reward after his betrayal.

People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.     142

There is something romantic about feeding a predator from the palm of your hand, I think- a creature which might bite you if it chooses, but chooses not to. But how does one turn such awful beauty to lead and ink on a page?

The critic said, but don't you feel awkward about biting the hand that feeds you? I said no, I enjoy just gnawing it up to the shoulder.

You bite the hand that feeds, Speedy said. Humans don't like that. They view it as a sign of ingratitude. I never asked anyone to feed me. That doesn't seem to matter to them.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you; especially if you're dining alone.

She will always bite the hand that feeds her because she's more comfortable being starved when it's all she's ever known.

Any immigrants found guilty of serious crime – rape, murder, violent gang membership – should be sent straight back to their country of origin. That ought to act as a deterrent. If they choose to bite the hand that feeds them, then they can fuck off. We don’t need people like that in this country.

When he heard light, rushing footfalls, he turned his head. Someone was racing along the second-floor balcony. Then laughter drifted down from above. Glorious feminine laughter. He leaned out the archway and glanced at the grand staircase. Bella appeared on the landing above, breathless, smiling, a black satin robe gathered in her hands. As she slowed at the head of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder, her thick dark hair swinging like a mane. The pounding that came next was heavy and distant, growing louder until it was like boulders hitting the ground. Obviously, it was what she was waiting for. She let out a laugh, yanked her robe up even higher, and started down the stairs, bare feet skirting the steps as if she were floating. At the bottom, she hit the mosaic floor of the foyer and wheeled around just as Zsadist appeared in second-story hallway. The Brother spotted her and went straight for the balcony, pegging his hands into the rail, swinging his legs up and pushing himself straight off into thin air. He flew outward, body in a perfect swan dive--except he wasn't over water, he was two floors up over hard stone. John's cry for help came out as a mute, sustained rush of air-- Which was cut off as Zsadist dematerialized at the height of the dive. He took form twenty feet in front of Bella, who watched the show with glowing happiness. Meanwhile, John's heart pounded from shock...then pumped fast for a different reason. Bella smiled up at her mate, her breath still hard, her hands still gripping the robe, her eyes heavy with invitation. And Zsadist came forward to answer her call, seeming to get even bigger as he stalked over to her. The Brother's bonding scent filled the foyer, just as his low, lionlike growl did. The male was all animal at the moment....a very sexual animal. "You like to be chased, nalla, " Z said in a voice so deep it distorted. Bella's smile got even wider as she backed up into a corner. "Maybe." "So run some more, why don't you." The words were dark and even John caught the erotic threat in them. Bella took off, darting around her mate, going for the billiards room. Z tracked her like prey, pivoting around, his eyes leveled on the female's streaming hair and graceful body. As his lips peeled off his fangs, the white canines elongated, protruding from his mouth. And they weren't the only response he had to his shellan. At his hips, pressing into the front of his leathers, was an erection the size of a tree trunk. Z shot John a quick glance and then went back to his hunt, disappearing into the room, the pumping growl getting louder. From out of the open doors, there was a delighted squeal, a scramble, a female's gasp, and then....nothing. He'd caught her. ......When Zsadist came out a moment later, he had Bella in his arms, her dark hair trailing down his shoulder as she lounged in the strength that held her. Her eyes locked on Z's face while he looked where he was going, her hand stroking his chest, her lips curved in a private smile. There was a bite mark on her neck, one that had very definitely not been there before, and Bella's satisfaction as she stared at the hunger in her hellren's face was utterly compelling. John knew instinctively that Zsadist was going to finish two things upstairs: the mating and the feeding. The Brother was going to be at her throat and in between her legs. Probably at the same time. God, John wanted that kind of connection.

Biting the hand that feeds you, that's what you're doing Mary Logan, biting the hand that feeds you.' Again Mama laughed, 'If that's the case, Daisy, I don't think I need that little bit of food.' With the second book finished, she stared at a small pile of second grade books on her desk. 'Well, I just think you're spoiling those children, Mary. They've got to learn how things are sometime.' 'Maybe so,' said Mama. 'But that doesn't mean they have to accept them. And maybe we don't either.

Jason and Ferrin turned. Aram, face shiny with sweat, pulled a small pair of pants over his skinny legs. His shrunken hands trembled. Ferrin struggled not to smile. He was unsuccessful. Ferrin's involuntary grin forced Jason to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Ferrin noticed and began to shake, eyes watering. Aram hastily pulled on a shirt. Then he folded his arms, glaring grumpily up at the others. "Go ahead, let it out, have a good laugh." They did. Feeding off each other, magnified by the knowledge that their laughter was so inappropriate, their mirth was uncontrollable. Ferrin buried his face, attempting to compose himself. Jason stared at the ground, trying to summon sober thoughts. "We need to go," Aram said indignantly, clambering up onto his suddenly oversized horse. Atop the huge stallion, he looked like a little jockey. Jason coughed out a final laugh. Ferrin shook quietly, wiping tears from flushed cheeks. "Finished?" Aram asked. "You two are ruthless." He looked down at himself. "I guess it's quite a contrast." "We don't mean to rub it in," Jason apologized. "We've already seen you both ways. It isn't that big of a deal." "It doesn't help that you're so shy about it," Ferrin tried to explain. "It was more your expression than anything." "Let's leave it behind us," Aram said, nudging his horse with his heels. The stallion didn't respond. Ferrin buried his face in the crook of his arm. Jason ground his teeth.

Do you know that i paid two dollars for [Doxocology] thirty-three years ago? Everything was wrong with him, hoofs like flapjacks, a hock so thick and short and straight there seems no joint at all. he's hammerheaded and swaybacked. He has a pinched chest and a big behind. He has an iron mouth and he still fights the upper. with a saddle he feels as thought you were riding a sled over a gravel pit. He can't trot and he stumbles over his feet when he walks. I have never in thirty-three years fond one good thing about him. He even has an ugly disposition. He is selfish and quarrelsome and mean and disobedient. to this day I don't dare walk behind him because he will surely take a kick at me. when I feed him mush he tries to bite my hand. And I love him.

Only one kind of species of animals bites the hand that feeds them - mankind.

Tomorrow we bite The hand that feeds us today Either way, we'll eat

don’t bite the hand that feeds you, they said. but, what if they are chewing mine off?

Last of all, I take the lard bread from my pocket and feed it to Shiloh in little pieces, letting him lick my fingers after every bite. I wrap my arms around him, pat him, run my hands over his ears, even kiss his nose. I tell him about a million times I love him as much as I love my ma. The

Feed your enemies with a long spoon so they can't bite your hand.

Try not to use too much of your magic yet,” Paul replied, not particularly concerned as he waved his hand, wafting smoke away. “If you do, I’ll have to force-feed you, which I doubt will be fun for either of us.” He scratched the top of his head. “Do you prefer human meat? You did almost bite off one of your coworker’s hands. I’ve gotten special council permission to do whatever is necessary to take care of you, and I would like you to be as comfortable as possible.” “Do not feed me humans,” Grith growled. “How can you feel that way towards your own species?

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

What does the radicalism of radical writers nowadays amount to? Most of it is hand-me-down bohemianism, sentimental populism, D. H. Lawrence-and-water, or imitation Sartre. For American writers radicalism is a question of honor. They must be radicals for the sake of their dignity. They see it as their function, and a noble function, to say Nay, and to bite not only the hand that feeds them (and feeds them with comic abundance, I might add) but almost any other hand held out to them. Their radicalism, however, is contentless. A genuine radicalism, which truly challenges authority, we need desperately. But a radicalism of posture is easy and banal. Radical criticism requires knowledge, not posture, not slogans, not rant. People who maintain their dignity as artists, in a small way, by being mischievous on television, simply delight the networks and the public. True radicalism requires homework—thought. Of the cleans, on the other hand, there isn't much to say. They seem faded.

Calm down, Miss.” Alexandra’s voice was cold. “Jean Louise, nobody in Maycomb goes to see Negroes any more, not after what they’ve been doing to us. Besides being shiftless now they look at you sometimes with open insolence, and as far as depending on them goes, why that’s out. “That NAACP’s come down here and filled ’em with poison till it runs out of their ears. It’s simply because we’ve got a strong sheriff that we haven’t had bad trouble in this county so far. You do not realize what is going on. We’ve been good to ’em, we’ve bailed ’em out of jail and out of debt since the beginning of time, we’ve made work for ’em when there was no work, we’ve encouraged ’em to better themselves, they’ve gotten civilized, but my dear—that veneer of civilization’s so thin that a bunch of uppity Yankee Negroes can shatter a hundred years’ progress in five. . . . “No ma’am, after the thanks they’ve given us for looking after ’em, nobody in Maycomb feels much inclined to help ’em when they get in trouble now. All they do is bite the hands that feed ’em. No sir, not any more—they can shift for themselves, now.

Has he invited you to dinner, dear? Gifts, flowers, the usual?” I had to put my cup down, because my hand was shaking too much. When I stopped laughing, I said, “Curran? He isn’t exactly Mr. Smooth. He handed me a bowl of soup, that’s as far as we got.” “He fed you?” Raphael stopped rubbing Andrea. “How did this happen?” Aunt B stared at me. “Be very specific, this is important.” “He didn’t actually feed me. I was injured and he handed me a bowl of chicken soup. Actually I think he handed me two or three. And he called me an idiot.” “Did you accept?” Aunt B asked. “Yes, I was starving. Why are the three of you looking at me like that?” “For crying out loud.” Andrea set her cup down, spilling some tea. “The Beast Lord’s feeding you soup. Think about that for a second.” Raphael coughed. Aunt B leaned forward. “Was there anybody else in the room?” “No. He chased everyone out.” Raphael nodded. “At least he hasn’t gone public yet.” “He might never,” Andrea said. “It would jeopardize her position with the Order.” Aunt B’s face was grave. “It doesn’t go past this room. You hear me, Raphael? No gossip, no pillow talk, not a word. We don’t want any trouble with Curran.” “If you don’t explain it all to me, I will strangle somebody.” Of course, Raphael might like that . . . “Food has a special significance,” Aunt D said. I nodded. “Food indicates hierarchy. Nobody eats before the alpha, unless permission is given, and no alpha eats in Curran’s presence until Curran takes a bite.” “There is more,” Aunt B said. “Animals express love through food. When a cat loves you, he’ll leave dead mice on your porch, because you’re a lousy hunter and he wants to take care of you. When a shapeshifter boy likes a girl, he’ll bring her food and if she likes him back, she might make him lunch. When Curran wants to show interest in a woman, he buys her dinner.” “In public,” Raphael added, “the shapeshifter fathers always put the first bite on the plates of their wives and children. It signals that if someone wants to challenge the wife or the child, they would have to challenge the male first.” “If you put all of Curran’s girls together, you could have a parade,” Aunt B said. “But I’ve never seen him physically put food into a woman’s hands. He’s a very private man, so he might have done it in an intimate moment, but I would’ve found out eventually. Something like that doesn’t stay hidden in the Keep. Do you understand now? That’s a sign of a very serious interest, dear.” “But I didn’t know what it meant!” Aunt B frowned. “Doesn’t matter. You need to be very careful right now. When Curran wants something, he doesn’t become distracted. He goes after it and he doesn’t stop until he obtains his goal no matter what it takes. That tenacity is what makes him an alpha.” “You’re scaring me.” “Scared might be too strong a word, but in your place, I would definitely be concerned.” I wished I were back home, where I could get to my bottle of sangria. This clearly counted as a dire emergency. As if reading my thoughts, Aunt B rose, took a small bottle from a cabinet, and poured me a shot. I took it, and drained it in one gulp, letting tequila slide down my throat like liquid fire. “Feel better?” “It helped.” Curran had driven me to drinking. At least I wasn’t contemplating suicide.

The black community had less sense of brotherhood in those days, and, worse yet, black people were almost all afraid. They feared, and justly, the power the white man had over their lives. "The Man will get you," they would warn. "You can't win." The few black people who had jobs through city appointments were the worst of all. If they showed the slight- est sign of opposing the system, they were warned, sometimes                          subtly and sometimes overtly, "Don't bite the hand that's feeding you." Many black men who could have become leaders were neutralized that way. Their jobs were the most important things to them; they held on to what they had.

Jake opened one eye and blinked confusedly at the sunlight pouring through the window high above. Disoriented, he rolled over on a lumpy, unfamiliar bed and found himself staring up at an enormous black animal who flattened his ears, bared his teeth, and tried to bite him through the slats of his stall. “You damned cannibal!” he swore at the evil-tempered horse. “Spawn of Lucifer!” Jake added, and for good measure he aimed a hard kick at the wooden slats by way of retaliation for the attempted bite. “Ouch, dammit!” he swore as his bootless foot hit the board. Shoving himself to a sitting position, he raked his hands through his thick red hair and grimaced at the hay that stuck between his fingers. His foot hurt, and his head ached from the bottle of wine he’d drunk last night. Heaving himself to his feet, he pulled on his boots and brushed off his woolen shirt, shivering in the damp chill. Fifteen years ago, when he’d come to work on the little farm, he’d slept in this barn every night. Now, with Ian successfully investing the money Jake made when they sailed together, he’d learned to appreciate the comforts of feather mattresses and satin covers, and he missed them sorely. “From palaces to a damned cowshed,” he grumbled, walking out of the empty stall he’d slept in. As he passed Attila’s stall, a hoof punched out with deadly aim, narrowly missing Jake’s thigh. “That’ll cost you an early breakfast, you miserable piece of living glue,” he spat, and then he took considerable pleasure in feeding the other two horses while the black looked on. “You’ve put me in a sour mood,” he said cheerfully as the jealous horse shifted angrily while the other two steeds were fed. “Maybe if it improves later on, I’ll feed you.

While the others tended the flowers outside, the kitchen was her garden, where feasts and banquets bloomed. At twenty-six, she couldn't imagine ever loving anything as much as cooking. Nothing fancy though; no big white plates and tiny morsels. Candy cooked to feed the soul. Flavor and quantity were of equal importance. She had become Thornfield's resident cook when she dropped out of high school and convinced June she was safe with knives. It's in your blood, Twig said after a bite of her first cassava cake, fresh from the oven. These are your gifts, June said when Candy served her first platter of spring rolls with mango chutney, made from homegrown vegetables and herbs. It was true; when she was cooking or baking, it was almost as if a deeper, hidden knowledge took over her hands, her instincts, her tastebuds. She thrived in the kitchen, spurred by the idea that maybe her mother was a chef, or her father a baker. Cooking soothed the incision-like cut she felt inside whenever she thought that she might never know.

The Kisser’s Handbook (The Sensitive Male Chapter) " A peck is a red poppy. Several is a bird feeding on your hand. The first kiss is the customary rose given, a bouquet received by two. On the right side of her mouth, she is your mother. On the left side, she’s the sister you never had. A simmering moist kiss is cherry pie. Awkward and dry is love; If delicate yet firm, a kiss is Ophelia’s resuscitation from drowning; Hurried and open-mouthed, moths flutter out of her body. A kiss that glides smoothly has the pleasant lightness of tea. If it smudges, prepare yourself for children. A kiss that roams the curving of the lips, the tongue still tracing the slopes even without her near is a poet’s muse. When bitten on the lower lip—I am your peach— and if she is left there biting, dangling, she’ll burn the tree. When she’s sucking your lips as if through a straw she wants you in her. Never quite touching, lips bridged by warm clouds of breath, speak in recitation: Because I am the ocean in which she cannot swim, my lover turned into the sea, Or, cradle her in the cushions of your lips and let her sleep, lovingly, in the pink.

Those aren’t the rules. She cost us a meal,” Tank said. “You cost the group a meal, you go hungry. That’s the way it’s always been.” I thought Dax was going to let them fight it out but then he spoke up. “I don’t want to feed her right now either but she’s a walking skeleton, and I need her alive. If there was one jerky, she’d get it before any of us.” He reached over and grabbed two dried meat sticks from Lucy and tried to hand me one. “I’m fine. I don’t need it,” I said, looking at Tank. Dax grabbed my hand and shoved the jerky into my palm. “I took you out of that compound for a reason. I will force-feed you that jerky before I let you starve yourself.” “Fine. I’ll eat it. Whatever. You don’t need to get so bent out of shape about it.” I was hungry as hell so it wasn’t actually a concession, but he didn’t know that. I mean hell, I knew I needed the calories and the Cement Giant wasn’t going to blow itself to smithereens. “I took a couple of bites as Dax got up and walked out of the camp. I gnawed on the stuff as I leaned against my rock. “What flavor is this? It’s really good stuff.” Lucy and Tank looked at me kind of oddly. Hey, if I was going to eat it I didn’t see a lot of reason to pretend it sucked. These people were weird.

How can people take a benefit from what he does not plant? Whatever the purpose of a person's life, he will not receive blessings through supplication and even prayer other than by means of the gift of true righteousness. And the truth teaches us to give rather than beg. Blessings are born from the hands of a sincere philanthropist. Truth is indeed present as wisdom and that is why it is called a gift because it comes down as a gift. And therefore, if you want the wisdom of truth to be present in you, then follow the example of what he has done. Be wisdom to others. Because behind every gift there is a mandate. It is only passed down or given to those who deserve it. So before you can receive the blessing of truth that is contained in all true goodness, then look within yourself first, do you really deserve it? How much have you given to other people. Help your brothers and sisters in need. Because, those who are touched by honesty, sincerity and kindness, care and affection will be compelled to do the same. Therein lies the real power of blessing. As the dog that you feed will avoid you from the bite of a poisonous snake. However, those who are unable to see the light of truth will be trapped in the stiffness, rottenness and darkness of their own souls. Those who have no gratitude will easily drown in their own greed.

He leaned over toward me, putting his fingers under my chin. He grazed my lips with his nose and then with his own lips, first gently, and then taking them into his mouth and biting them one at a time. He put his big hand around my neck, covering my throat, terrifying me with the power he had to wrap those fingers tight and suffocate me, but exciting me because I knew that he would not do it. There was too much that he wanted from me, and I did not know yet exactly what it was. He kissed me with an open mouth, my lips subsumed by his. His tongue found mine, and he pulled it into his mouth. As soon as he felt my enthrallment, he pulled away from me so that I was looking into his eyes, and I understood in that moment why he called himself my master. His eyes were intense and fathomless, an eternity of deep blue, like the sea at twilight, and they left me without a will of my own. "I want you to suck my tongue," he said. "Taste me." He put the length of it into my mouth, and I obeyed him, latching on to it. I was surprised how much it thrilled me, and for a long time, I nursed at his tongue as if I expected it to feed me. His lips and his tongue- and his entire being- hummed with a subtle but indelible current. I felt that I could stay there forever, feeding on his tongue, but he broke it off, pulling back, his hand still on my throat. "Does that feel familiar?" he asked. "No, I have never felt anything like that before," I said, disappointed that he had stopped and wanting more. I was still catching my breath, yet wanting him back inside my mouth where I could taste him again. What had he tasted like? Salt, iron, spice- like nature itself.

He patted her hand. “But I will settle for an amiable wife.” It was as close to making a declaration of his intentions as he’d come. So of course Mr. Pinter chose that inopportune moment to enter the breakfast room. “And whose amiable wife are you settling for, sir?” he said in a snide tone. His gaze dropped to the viscount’s hand resting on hers, then darkened. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand free. The viscount bristled, tightening his hand almost possessively on hers. “Do I know you, sir?” “Not yet. The name is Jackson Pinter.” He came to stand directly across the table and bent forward over it to offer his hand to Lord Basto, forcing the viscount to release her hand to take it. “Some would call me Mrs. Plumtree’s ‘lackey,’” he added with a side glance at Celia. “Though I work for Lord Stoneville.” She colored, remembering the conversation they’d had a few months ago, when she’d called him that. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. No doubt he was still smarting over her pulling a pistol on him last night. “Mr. Pinter does investigations of all kinds,” she explained. “For money.” Mr. Pinter’s slate-gray eyes bore into her. “Some of us cannot live on our family’s fortune, my lady.” “While some of us are very fond of biting the hand that feeds them.” If he could throw her past words at her, then she could throw back what he’d said to her months ago. She was surprised when a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “A hit direct, madam. Perhaps I should get out of the line of the fire while I still have my head.” “Perhaps you should refrain from putting yourself in the line of fire in the first place,” she quipped. “An officer of the law ought to know better.” “Know better than what?” Oliver asked as he entered with the duke at his side. Generally, she liked being in a room full of men. But when it was her brother, two suitors, and the only man whose kisses had ever affected her, there was a bit too much manliness in the air for her taste. “Your sister and I were just having one of our usual discussions,” Mr. Pinter said. “You mean she was raking you over the coals again?” Oliver said. “I believe the coal raking was mutual this time,” she said lightly. Oliver snorted. She could feel the viscount’s gaze on her, and the duke seemed to be watching both her and Mr. Pinter. It was very unsettling.

After Marcus had wiped her perspiring body with a cool, damp cloth, he dressed her in his discarded shirt, which held the scent of his skin. He brought her a plate containing a poached pear, and a glass of sweet wine, and even allowed her to feed him a few bites of the silky-soft fruit. When her appetite was sated, Lillian set aside the empty plate and spoon, and turned to snuggle against him. He rose on one elbow and looked down at her, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Are you sorry that I wouldn’t let St. Vincent have you?” She gave him a puzzled smile. “Why would you ask such a thing? Surely you’re not having pangs of conscience.” Marcus shook his head. “I am merely wondering if you had any regrets.” Surprised and touched by his need for reassurance, Lillian toyed with the dark curls on his chest. “No,” she said frankly. “He is attractive, and I do like him… but I didn’t want him.” “You did consider marrying him, however.” “Well,” she admitted, “it did cross my mind that I would like to be a duchess— but only to spite you.” A smile flashed across his face. He retaliated with a punishing nip at her breast, causing her to yelp. “I couldn’t have borne it,” he admitted, “seeing you married to anyone but me.” “I don’t think Lord St. Vincent will have any difficulty finding another heiress to suit his purposes.” “Perhaps. But there aren’t many women with fortunes comparable to yours… and none with your beauty.” Smiling at the compliment, Lillian crawled halfway over him and hitched one leg over his. “Tell me more. I want to hear you wax lyrical about my charms.” Levering himself to a sitting position, Marcus lifted her with an ease that made her gasp, and settled her until she straddled his hips. He stroked a fingertip along the pale skin that was exposed at the open vee of the shirt. “I never wax lyrical,” he said. “Marsdens are not a poetic sort. However…” He paused to admire the sight of the long-limbed young woman who sat astride him while her hair trailed to her waist in tangled streamers. “I could at least tell you that you look like a pagan princess, with your tangled black hair and your bright, dark eyes.” “And?” Lillian encouraged, linking her arms loosely around his neck. He set his hands at her slender waist and moved them down to grasp her strong, sleek thighs. “And that every erotic dream I’ve ever had about your magnificent legs pales in comparison to the reality.” “You’ve dreamed about my legs?” Lillian wriggled as she felt his palms slide up her inner thighs in a lazy, teasing path. “Oh yes.

It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?” She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest. “You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.” I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.” “I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself. “What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask. “What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me. “Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.” Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear. “If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way. “Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact. I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes. “Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.” Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed. Friday,

Which is the best among all kinds of dogs?.... A hotdog. Coz it feeds the hands that bites it.

From the data presented in the preceding chapters and in this comparison of the primitive and modernized dietaries it is obvious that there is great need that the grains eaten shall contain all the minerals and vitamins which Nature has provided that they carry. Important data might be presented to illustrate this phase in a practical way. In Fig. 95 will be seen three rats all of which received the same diet, except for the type of bread. The first rat (at the left) received whole-wheat products freshly ground, the center one received a white flour product and the third (at the right) a bran and middlings product. The amounts of each ash, of calcium as the oxide, and of phosphorus as the pentoxide; and the amounts of iron and copper present in the diet of each group are shown by the height of the columns beneath the rats. Clinically it will be seen that there is a marked difference in the physical development Qf these rats. Several rats of the same age were in each cage. The feeding was started after weaning at about twenty-three days of age. The rat at the left was on the entire grain product. It was fully developed. The rats in this cage reproduced normally at three months of age. The rats in this first cage had very mild dispositions and could be picked up by the ear or tail without danger of their biting. The rats represented by the one in the center cage using white flour were markedly undersized. Their hair came out in large patches and they had very ugly dispositions, so ugly that they threatened to spring through the cage wall at us when we came to look at them. These rats had tooth decay and they were not able to reproduce. The rats in the next cage (illustrated by the rat to the right) which were on the bran and middlings mixture did not show tooth decay, but were considerably undersized, and they lacked energy. The flour and middlings for the rats in cages two and three were purchased from the miller and hence were not freshly ground. The wheat given to the first group was obtained whole and ground while fresh in a hand mill. It is of interest that notwithstanding the great increase in ash, calcium, phosphorus, iron and copper present in the foods of the last group, the rats did not mature normally, as did those in the first group. This may have been

Never bite the hand that feeds you, especially if it holds a pistol! You

She’s read many detailed accounts of the hungries’ feeding, but never observed it at first hand (the feeding of the test subjects, under artificial and controlled conditions, was an entirely different thing). She finds it striking that the hungries who fed on the man in the car continued to eat until his body was non-viable–until there was almost no flesh left on his upper torso and he had been virtually decapitated. This is counterintuitive. Caldwell would have expected the hungry pathogen to be better adapted. She would have expected Ophiocordyceps to manipulate the cells of the host’s hypothalamus more skilfully, suppressing the hunger drive after the first few bites so that the newly infected have a robust chance of survival. That would obviously be far more efficient, since a viable new host will become a new vector in its turn, providing increased opportunities for the pathogen to multiply quickly within a given ecological range. Perhaps

to share our democratic ideals with the rest of the world. We fund and train subversive elements to overthrow dictators in nations around the world, and when these groups bite the hand that feeds them, we call them terrorists. We then use those terrorists as an excuse to—

Enough, imp, do you want to hear why I seek your troublesome hand, or not?” His arms gripped her tighter, savoring the feel of her warm flesh despite his ire. She sobered immediately, her chin lifting back to its previous angle to display her scorn. “Very well, I shall listen most attentively.” Ian felt a twinge of regret for destroying the light mood, temporary though it was. He sighed and bent to whisper in her ear. “I decided that if I married within the peerage, the gossip would weaken and gradually cease.” Her tantalizing scent spurred his hunger even further and he fought to regain his composure. “After all, no lady would marry a monster. And if I treat my bride well enough, perhaps she will vouch for my good character as well. Since you did not seem to be afraid of me, and I quite like you, I concluded, why not save your reputation as well?” Instead of placating her as he had hoped, Ian’s explanation brought Angelica’s temper to a boil. Her eyes seemed to shoot onyx sparks. “Your magnanimity quite overwhelms me, Your Grace. But surely you realize that when you made your offer, I did not accept?” He’d had enough of her ingratitude and vituperative tongue… and her intoxicating scent. It was well past time for him to feed. “I will call upon you tomorrow evening to sort out the details of our engagement. I pray I find you in a better humor then.” Before the music ended, he promised in a low voice, “You will be more than willing to accept soon enough.” As

The Hand that Feeds You Don't bite the hand that feeds you ~ unless you're in a haunted house and the fucking hand isn't attached to anything.

Do not bite the hands that feed you and do not feed the mouth that bites you

Sweetness, Always" Why such harsh machinery? Why, to write down the happenings and people of every day, must poems be dressed up in gold, in old and grim stone? I prefer verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh, soft verses with the intimacy of beds where people have loved and dreamed. I prefer poems stained by hands and everydayness. Verses of pastry that melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love. I long for eatable sonnets, poems of flour and honey. Vanity keeps nudging us to lift ourselves skyward or to make deep and useless tunnels underground. So we forget the joyous love-needs of our bodies. We forget about pastries. We are not feeding the world. In Madras a long time since, I saw a sugary pyramid, a tower of confectionery— one level after another, and in the construction, rubies, and other blushing delights, medieval and yellow. Someone soiled his hands to cook up so much sweetness. Brother poets from here and there, from earth and sky, from Medellín, from Veracruz, Abyssinia, Antofagasta, do you know how to make a honeycomb? Let’s forget about all that stone. Let your poetry fill up the equinoctial pastry shop our mouths long to devour— the mouths of all the children and the poor adults also. Don’t go on without seeing, relishing, understanding so many hearts of sugar. Don’t be afraid of sweetness. With us or without us, sweetness will go on living and is infinitely alive, and forever being revived, for it’s in the mouth, whether singing or eating, that sweetness belongs. Pablo Neruda, Paris Review, Issue 57 Spring 1974

the single greatest threat to organizational resilience: the unwillingness or inability of senior leaders to write off their own depreciating intellectual capital. This failing would be less dangerous if subordinates felt empowered to challenge C-suite dogma, but most middle managers are disinclined to bite the hand that feeds them. Thus myopia, like authority, trickles down.

Aye, I feared as much,” muttered Mora as she sat down across from Bridget and took a hearty drink of cider. “That big fool. He hasnae completed the mating. Tisnae good. Nay, ’tisnae good at all. Especially if that bitch Edmee finds out.” “Mora, what are ye talking about? The marriage has been consummated. Quite thoroughly.” “Ah, lass, the laird obviously waits to be sure ye have fully accepted him, accepted him for what he is, all that he is. He hasnae given ye the bite yet.” Bridget frowned, not certain she liked the implications of that. “He does bite me.” “Love bites, wee nips, but nay the bite. Being that he is a halfling, mayhap he doesnae have to. I hadnae considered that. Halflings are always different in some way from Purebloods.” After taking a long drink of cider to calm her rising temper, Bridget said, “Tell me, Mora, what ye mean by the mating and the bite. Ye keep starting to tell me, then wander off the subject, and, weel, end up talking more to yourself than to me.” “Pardon. Tis nay widely kenned. Tis one of the MacNachtons’ most closely guarded secrets. I learned of it because, weel, a wee bit o’er twenty years ago I was in love with a Pureblood. Ye ken my son David, aye?” “David is the son of a Pureblood? But he has reddish hair. I have seen him about during the day as weel.” “Aye, he is more our kind than theirs, but the MacNachton blood is in him. He is a strong, healthy lad, always was. And, though he can go about in the daylight, he has to be most careful, avoiding the full heat of the day and such as that. Seems way back in his father’s line one of his ancestors mated with a halfling. The wee added bit of our blood is what has made my David so blessed. The laird has seen that my lad is educated and he will be verra important to the clan. Already is in many ways.” “Can ye tell me who his father is, or is that a secret?” “Jankyn.” Mora laughed briefly at Bridget’s obvious shock, then sighed. “Aye, Jankyn doesnae look a day older than our son, aye? But he is my age. And that was some of the problem. Oh, I did love that lad.” “Jankyn is easy to love, e’en when ye wish ye had a thick stick in hand to clout him o’er the head.” Mora grinned and nodded, then grew serious. “It was both wondrous and awful, heaven and hell. Twas a delight when I was with him and a pure torment when I thought on the years ahead. I could see it as it is now all too clearly, with me as I am and him still looking like a bonnie lad of twenty. Ah, but he said he wished to marry me, and I was sorely tempted. Was near to saying aye when he told me the secret about the mating, about the bite.” Mora nodded when Bridget touched her own neck. “Aye, for ones such as us, ’tisnae just a wee thing, is it? We cannae heal as they can. We arenae as strong. Mayhap I just didnae love him enough. I couldnae do it. My heart, my body, aye. My blood? To let him feed on me, e’en just a wee bit? Nay, I couldnae. E’en when I kenned I carried David, I couldnae, and, being a Pureblood, Jankyn couldnae swear that he wouldnae do it. He couldnae be sure he would be able to stop himself from completing the mating.” “It has to be the neck? He couldnae just take a wee sip from somewhere else?” “Nay, I dinnae think so. Tis like this—when ye are together as mon and wife, just as he spills his seed, he bites ye and has a wee taste.” “Every time?” Bridget asked in alarm, thinking of all the times Cathal had nipped at her neck while they made love. “Wheesht, nay. Just the once.” “Oh, thank God. If ’twas every time, I wouldnae last out the week.” She blushed when Mora laughed heartily. “Aye, the laird does have the fever for ye. Nay, lass, ’tis just the once. Tis done on the wedding night. As the mon gives ye his seed, gives ye a part of him as it were, he takes a wee bit from ye. Tis a blending and ’tis what binds him to ye as a mate.” Bridget

Same time as every day, Fyl..." she fussed, the rest of the bridge crew seeming to hold their breaths. "TWELVE THIRTY!" came the chorus. The next hour dragged by, in about the same way as the hour before that. At twelve twenty-five, Commander Ortez found himself stepping out of an elevator into an equally mundane grey steel corridor on his way to the mess hall. Turning a corner, he met with a stream of crewmen milling around between shifts. Some off-duty personnel were lounging around in civvies, which consisted mostly of re-revamped 60's hippy fashions. Of all the places on the ship, the mess was the most spacious, (i.e.: it was a big mess.) The command officer’s balcony overhung the rest of the crew dining area. Ortez sat at his usual place, wincing as he remembered to get someone to fix the springs in his chair. An ensign, 3rd class dressed in chef’s white, served him with a plate of what either ended up feeding the chefs latest pet - or strangling it. Marnetti, Barnum and the sciences officer Commander Jaris Skotchdopole filed in, not necessarily in that order, and found seats. After a few bites, Marnetti -- who was the first officer and navigator, put up a hand and signalled a waiter. The lad approached fearfully, appreciating the highlight of his day.

Weren’t you fucking somebody else last week, Friday?” I blurt out. I want to take it back immediately because it hangs there in the air between us like a bomb about to explode. “What?” she asks, and her voice goes soft. “Last week it was a different guy who took you to lunch.” I grumble to myself and get up, pretending to clean the counter. She thinks it over. “You mean Cody?” “How many are there?” She blinks hard. What the fuck? Friday never cries. Ever. I take a step toward her, and she steps back, putting her hand up like she’s going to push the air around me back. “How dare you?” she breathes. A tear falls over her lashes, and she swipes it away and then looks down at the back of her wet hand like she doesn’t know what the fuck a tear is. “Friday,” I say. I step toward her again. I soften my voice because I have no idea what to do. I have never seen this Friday before. I have only seen the one who can eat my balls for lunch. Hell, she’ll feed my balls to me if I piss her off enough. And make me like it. Four years and I have never seen her shed a tear. She turns around and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I lean my ear against the door and listen, but I can’t hear anything over the sound of the fan. I knock. She doesn’t answer. “Dammit,” I swear. I lean my forehead against the door. “Leave her alone,” I hear from behind me. I turn around because Logan is talking. “I can’t,” I say to him. I knock again, but she doesn’t answer. “Just leave her the fuck alone,” he says again. He’s pissed, I can tell. “You have a client.” He waves toward my customer like he’s Vanna Fucking White. “Work to do. So, you might want to get to it.” I heave a sigh and look at my client. “Just a moment,” I say. “Take your time,” he says with a grin. He’s loving the show, apparently. I pull my keys from my pocket and fit the key in the lock. I hesitate long enough for Logan to notice. “You shouldn’t,” he warns. I know I shouldn’t, but I am. I turn the key and let myself into the room. I find Friday washing her face. “What the fuck, Paul!” she cries. She turns back to the mirror and dabs beneath her eyes. She looks at me in the mirror. “Get out.” I close the door behind me and lean against it. “Why are you crying?” “I don’t know,” she bites out. But another tear slides down her cheek. “Fucking hormones,” she says as she swipes it away. All this because she has her period? I know better than to say that out loud. “Oh,” I say instead. She turns to face me, hitching her hip against the sink. She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, which pushes them up and makes little pillows over the top of that low-cut dress she’s wearing. My God. I look up at her face. She smirks at me. I like a smirking Friday a lot better than one who’s crying because I don’t know what do with tears. Not from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I blurt out when she just glares at me. “Yes, you did.” “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you did.

You are overset.” He placed the tray on the low table before them and resumed his place beside her, his expression one of resolute determination. He passed her a cup of tea, from which she ventured one sip, while a peculiar, distracted expression came over Benjamin’s face. A little patient silence stretched until he blinked and aimed a frown at her. “You will eat something, Maggie Windham. If I have to feed it to you in small bites, you will eat.” The idea of him feeding her with his own hands… It had inordinate appeal, and now that he was here, Maggie’s dyspepsia seemed to be abating. He fed her a bite of sandwich sporting butter, mustard, thinly sliced ham, and a tangy yellow cheddar. “I don’t think the ham is agreeing with me. Something about the smokiness.” He removed the ham from the sandwich and popped the meat into his mouth. “Did you get any rest at all last night?” “Some.” “Maggie…” He took her empty teacup and set it aside, then studied her for a long moment. “Come here.” She scooted over the few inches necessary to accept his embrace, all of her upset and misgivings going quiet at the feel of his arms around her. She would miss his embrace—miss it sorely, for all her remaining days and nights. “It will be all right, my love.

He skimmed his knuckles over her jaw before roaming lower to the satiny column of her neck, then back up again. "Surely you could stay for dinner? You said yourself your aunt is away. I can't believe you would prefer eating alone." Her frown increased. "No, but-" "Then stay. My cook sets an excellent table. Delicious fare designed to tempt any palate. Tell me your favorites and I'll send word to her to make them especially for you." Sliding his arm around her back, he bent and pressed his mouth to the base of her throat. "Do you like roast beef?" "Ahh, I..." "Too heavy, you're right," he stated, dropping kisses against her skin in a leisurely pattern. "What about venison? Unless you are worried it might be gamey. Hmm, I agree." Her eyelids fluttered, one hand coming up to catch in the fabric of his coat. Working his way up, he paused and breathed a gentle gust of warm, brandy-scented air into her ear. She shuddered, a tiny moan escaping her lips. "Partridge, perhaps? In a sweet vermouth with plump raisins and orange peel. How does that sound?" "Delightful." He smiled, wondering if she was referring to the food or his kisses. He definitely hoped the latter. "Or I know," he whispered, brushing his mouth ever so lightly against hers. "Lobster and oysters. Light and delicate, with a taste as fresh as the sea. Shall we try that? I could feed them to you bite by delectable bite.

Time to cut the cake, newlyweds." Caroline ushers us over to the sweet little two-tier cake, round and covered in white fondant with what appear to be traditional henna tattoo patterns drawn on it in pale gold. We take the mother-of-pearl-handled knife, apparently the one Caroline and Carl used at their wedding, and, his hand on mine, cut a small slice. We feed each other a generous bite, marveling at the tender almond cake with the poached apricots and white chocolate mousse, light-as-air buttercream scented with vanilla and orange blossom water.

We cannot bring ourselves to bite the hand of the master who feeds us.

Unhappiness grows slowly. It lingers inside you, silently, surreptitiously. You nourish it, feeding it scraps of yourself every day—it is the dog kept locked away in the back patio that will bite your hand off if you let it. Unhappiness takes time, but eventually it takes over completely.

I know you don't like mangoes." A faint curl of humor danced on his lips. "You know?" How? How did he know this? "I've been feeding you this whole time, remember?" With his hot buttered voice, it sounded dirty, illicit. "I remember." I sounded far too breathless. He clearly noticed, that small private smile moved to his eyes. "You never eat the mango slices when I put them in any meals." Understanding hit me, and I recalled that while I'd had breakfast fruit trays with mangoes, they'd stopped being included after the second time. Wide eyed, I silently gaped back at him. Lucian's long clever fingers delicately picked up a cream puff. "Which is why I made some of these with vanilla-ginger cream." Had I been gaping before? My mouth fell wide open. Behind me, I heard Dougal sigh, as if impressed. But I could only stare at Lucian, who looked smug but oddly shy as well. "You did that for me?" I croaked. His broad shoulder moved under his jacket. "That, and the combination of vanilla, ginger, and mango mirrored what Delilah and Saint had wanted in their original cake." I could fall for this man. Fall hard. Maybe I already had, because my heart was too big, beating too fast. He gave me another small, barely there smile, his pale eyes gleaming with something soft and intent. "Come now, honeybee," he murmured. "Try my cream." I sputtered out a shocked laugh, and my face flamed, but as he'd commanded, I opened my mouth. Lucian's nostrils flared. His hand shook a little as he lifted the cream puff and placed it one the edge of my lips. I opened my mouth wider, my tongue flicking out for that first sweet taste. Rich, almost nutty caramel, the gentle crust of pastry, a burst of smooth light cream with a hint of vanilla and ginger spice. Slowly, I chewed, my eyes locked with his, my body tight, and my mouth in heaven. He stayed with me, feeding me another bite, cream getting on his thumb. My tongue slipped over the blunt end, and he grunted. Hard.

Do not bite the hand that feeds you until it is no longer feeding you.

Once the hand that feeds you fails, you are free to bite away!

and do less. This morning, Penelope wanted to hold my hand as I was making coffee and making oatmeal. In the mornings, I find myself wanting to rush through the routine and get her fed and dressed and myself fed and dressed and everyone off to their respective places so we can get the day started. But this morning, I remembered: This moment right here is my day. My day is already happening. I’m not waiting for it to start. It’s started, and this little peanut wanting to hold my hand is part of it. So I held hands with her and slowed down the whole process. Making coffee with one hand is harder, but it’s way sweeter with my girl by my side. Then she wanted to eat her oatmeal while sitting on my lap. And it turned out that she wanted me to feed it to her. And in the middle of it, she decided we should also read some books between bites. None of this was in my morning plan. But when I sank into it and decided to fully inhabit the moment sitting with her on the floor with the oatmeal and the books, it was so sweet! I have no idea how long we were sitting on the

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, as the saying went. Unless it’s also holding the key to your cage. That might actually be worth it.

Do you remember when you told me that you’d bought something ridiculously luxurious, and it was a mango?” he asks. “I was so fucking jealous of you. I wished that I could feel what that was like. I wanted to want something like that. I wanted to have that so badly.” I don’t have answers to any of his problems. I don’t even have solutions to mine. But this one thing? This, I can handle. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some mangoes.” We pull off the freeway a few miles later and follow the computer’s directions to a little grocery store. Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting in a rest stop, cutting our mangoes to bits. “Here,” I tell him. “Trade me. Pretend you’re me. Let me tell you what it was like when I had that mango.” He shuts his eyes obligingly. “I didn’t have a lot of money,” I tell him. “And that meant one thing and one thing only—fried rice.” He smiles despite himself. “Kind of a stereotype, don’t you think?” “Whose stereotype? Rice is peasant food for more than half the world. It’s easy. It’s cheap. You can dress it up with a lot of other things. A little bit of onion, a bag of frozen carrots and peas. A carton of eggs. With enough rice, that can last you basically forever. It does for some people.” “It actually sounds good.” “If you have a decent underlying spice cabinet, you can break up the monotony a little. Fried rice with soy sauce one day. Spicy rice the next. And then curry rice. You can fool your tongue indefinitely. You can’t fool your body. You start craving.” He’s sitting on the picnic table, his eyes shut. “For me, the thing I start craving first is greens. Lettuce. Pea shoots. Anything that isn’t coming out of a bag of frozen veggies. And fruit. If you have an extra dollar or two, you buy apples and eat them in quarters, dividing them throughout the day.” I slide next to him on the table. The sun is warm around us. “But you get sick of apples, too, pretty soon. And so that’s where I want you to imagine yourself: sick to death of fried rice. No respite. No letting up. And then suddenly, one day, someone hands you a debit card and says, ‘Hey. Here’s fifteen thousand dollars.’ No, I’m not going to buy a stupid purse. I’m going to buy this.” I hold up a piece of mango to his lips. He opens his mouth and the fruit slides in. His lips close on my fingers like a kiss, and I can’t bring myself to draw away. He’s warmer than the sun, and I feel myself getting pulled in, closer and closer. “Oh, God.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “That’s so good.” I feed him another slice, golden and dripping juice. “That’s what it felt like,” I tell him. “Like there’s a deep-seated need, something in my bones, something missing. And then you take a bite and there’s an explosion of flavor, something bigger than just the taste buds screaming, yes, yes, this is what I need.” I hand him another piece of mango. He bites it in half, chews, and then takes the other half. “That’s what it felt like,” I say. “It felt like I’d been starving myself. Like I…” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Like there was something I needed,” I say softly. “Something I’ve needed deep down. Something I’ve been denying myself because I can’t let myself want it.” My voice trails off. I’m not describing the taste of mango anymore. My whole body yearns for his. For this thing I’ve been denying myself. For physical affection. For our bodies joined. For his arms around me all night. It’s going to hurt when he walks away. But you know what? It’ll hurt more if he walks away and we leave things like this, desperate and wanting, incomplete. My voice drops. “It’s like there’s someone I’ve been denying myself. All this time.

He should have placed Shea in a trance and demanded that she sleep while he did this thing, but the truth was, he simply couldn’t bear their separation, and he wanted her close, where he could protect her. And he wanted her happy. Women! Shea heard his disgruntled complaint clearly in her mind. A small smile tugged at the corners of her reluctant mouth. “Am I complicating your life, Jacques?” she asked sweetly, hopefully. He stopped so abruptly that she was jerked to a halt. Jacques caught her wet hair in his fist and pulled her head back so that the rain ran along her soft skin like honey. “The truth is, Shea, you make me feel so much, I do not know if I can stand it sometimes.” His mouth found hers almost blindly, desperately, feeding voraciously as if he might devour her, take her into his body forever. Nothing can ever happen to you! His hands were biting into her skin, his body taut with tension, his mind a whirling confusion of fear and determination and so much hunger. Almost without thought Shea reacted instinctively, her slender arms circling his neck, her body soft and pliant against the aggression in his, her mind calm and loving, a warm, safe haven for his fragmented, tortured mind. She kissed him without reservation, pouring every ounce of love and support she could into her response. He lifted his head reluctantly and rested his forehead on hers. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Jacques. I think you’re having anxiety attacks.” She tousled his hair as if he were a small boy, gave him a teasing grin. “Do Carpathians have shrinks, too?” He laughed softly, astonished that he could do so when he had been so terrified only moments earlier. “You are as disrespectful as a woman can get.” “I’m not just any woman, silly, I’m a doctor and terribly brilliant. Everybody says so.” “Do they now?” He held her tight against his hard frame, thinking to take her into his very body, his arms protectively sheltering her.

He found hunger, weakness, fear for his recovery, his sanity, fear of who and what he was. Guilt that she had slept instead of watching over him. An urgent need to complete her work, her research. Compassion for him, terror that he would not heal and that perhaps she had made his suffering worse. Fear they would be found before he was strong enough to go his own way. His eyebrows went up. Our way is the same. She sat up gingerly, swept back her tangled, wild hair. “You could have said you speak English. How do you do that? How can you talk in my head instead of aloud?” He simply watched her curiously with his black, fathomless eyes. Shea eyed him warily. “You aren’t getting ready to bite me again, are you? I’ve got to tell you, there isn’t a place on my body that isn’t sore.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Just out of curiosity, your rabies shots are up to date, aren’t they?” His eyes were doing something to her insides, causing a flood of warmth where it shouldn’t be. His gaze dropped to her lips. The shape of her mouth fascinated him, along with the light so clearly shining from her soul. He raised a hand to cup her cheek, to feather his thumb along her delicate jawline; his fingertip traveled up to her chin to find the satin perfection of her full lower lip. Her heart somersaulted and heat rushed low, pooling into a distinct ache. His hand slid around to the nape of her neck. Slowly, inexorably, he forced her head down toward his. Shea closed her eyes, wanting, yet dreading his taking her blood. “I’d hate to have to feed you every day,” she muttered rebelliously. And then his mouth touched hers. Featherlight, a skimming brush Shea felt right down to her toes. His teeth scraped her lower lip, teasing, tempting, enticing. Darts of fire raced through her bloodstream. Her stomach muscles clenched. Open your mouth for me, stubborn little red hair. His teeth tugged; his tongue followed with a soothing caress. Shea gasped as much at the tender, teasing note as at the feel of his lips on hers. He took advantage immediately, fastening his mouth to hers, his tongue exploring every inch of her velvet-soft interior.

Yes.” His voice is hoarse in response. “That. Always that.” And he slides his arm around me, pulls me close, and kisses me. He tastes sweet like mango. Like he’s bigger than my taste buds, like he’s precisely the luxury I have been craving. I let my eyes shut and tilt my head back, falling into his embrace. And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment. His tongue is sure against mine, touching me with insistent strokes. His hand clamps around me, holding me in place. And he holds me like I matter, like I’m the entire world. “I can’t touch you,” I say. “My hands are sticky.” “That,” he says, “is what washing machines are for.” He reaches out and takes hold of my fingers and then, very deliberately, he wipes them on his shirt. The sun is hot against my shoulders; Blake is sweet to the taste and tempting to the touch. I’m not sure how long we stay there, kissing in the sun and the wind, stopping only long enough to feed each other bites of fruit. Long enough for me to touch him all over, to feel his body hard and lean through his shirt. The air smells of new beginnings—crisp and clear, untouched by any worries. He touches me like the middle of the story, strong and sure. But despite the mango on his tongue, he tastes almost bittersweet, because the end is coming. It’s coming, but it’s not here. Not yet. “Let’s get home,” I tell him. “Let’s go home and find a bed.” I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place. And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.

He nodded against my neck and his hands came around to cup my breasts, grinding into me again from behind. I ground back. He moaned, slipping a hand down the front of my panties. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered against my ear, moving against me. Oh my fucking God… What didn’t I like? It had been so long and I was so deprived I was afraid he was going to finish me right there. My body began to tremble at the build. I couldn’t take it anymore. He seemed to sense it because he pulled his fingers back right before I disintegrated in his hand, and he laid me down on the bed, sliding over me. He hovered on his forearms and ran a thick, muscular thigh up between my legs until it hit my core and I sucked in air against his lips. Oh my God, he was so good at this… And he fucking knew it. He smiled and kissed me, his tongue darting in my mouth, his rough hands canvassing my skin like he wanted to feel every inch of me. I did the same. It felt so good to touch him. My eyes had spent so much time learning his body, and my hands wanted to map him. I ran fingers along his chest, over the curve of his broad freckled shoulders, down the muscles of his back, along the valley of his spine. I breathed in his scent as I grabbed his firm ass and pulled him into me and he groaned, rubbing hard against my leg. I couldn’t believe this was real, that I got to touch him, that he was kissing me, that there was nothing between us but my thin G-string. His bare skin pressing into mine was the most exquisite feeling of my life, a million nerve endings connecting with his, little electrical shocks that merged into one huge surge. He sat up and kneeled between my legs, picking up my foot and putting it on his shoulder. The view was fucking spectacular. The definition of his chest continued down with a line of hair into a V muscle that pointed at his divine penis like an arrow. I reached out and took him in my hand and his breathing went ragged. My gaze came back up to his hooded eyes. He kissed my ankle and I watched him do it, biting my lip, stroking him, my need unraveling into something so starved I wanted to beg him to have mercy on me and just fuck me already. I thought of the way he’d touched me in the car, his strong hands massaging my calf, and I couldn’t help but feel like he was continuing something he started earlier. He ran his palms from my ankle, behind my knee, up my thigh, and he hooked my panties in his thumbs and pulled them down and off. Then he balled them in his hand, shut his eyes, and put them to his nose, breathing in. When his eyes opened again, they’d gone primal. He came at me like a wild animal. He lowered onto me, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle of his body tense, and I lifted my hips. He held my gaze as he eased himself in, slow and deliberate, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, feral with need, frantically urging him deeper. One… Two… I wasn’t going to last a minute and it was all overload, his naked body pressed to mine, the feel of him inside me, rhythmically thrusting against my core, deeper and deeper, his quivering breath over my collarbone, his hips grinding between my legs, his scent, his sounds, the heat of his skin, the rocking of the bed, the moaning in my throat—my back arched and I fell apart at the same time he did, clutching at everything, pulling him into me, pulsing with his release. He collapsed on top of me and I was decimated. I lay there like a rag doll, twitching with aftershocks. He gasped for breath, his face by my ear. “Holy…fucking…shit,” he panted. I just nodded. I couldn’t even speak. I’d never had sex that good. Never in my life—and I’d had my share of good sex. It was like we’d been foreplaying for weeks and I’d been sexually malnourished, starving, waiting for him to feed me.

She will always bite the hand that feeds her because she's more comfortable being starved when it's all she's ever known....

Dogs, for sure, and people, if they are wise, do not bite the hand that feeds.

As the old saying goes, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” But that depends on what the hand is feeding you and what the other hand is doing while you’re eating.

I would like to draw your attention away from your image in the eyes of another and instead to your mouth, which is filled with teeth. It is never too late to bite the hand that feeds.

The closeness and connection of feeding a complete stranger a plate of food that you had made with attention and care, created with your own two hands, to witness the reaction on their faces when they took the first bite and felt the flavors and textures on their tongue—it was a satisfaction built out of the greatest simplicity, even if it was just a plate of fried food.

She tore a small bite of bread and offered it to him. His eyes never leaving hers, he leaned forward to feed from her hand. He took her fingers into his mouth and gently nibbled them before he pulled away. He swallowed the bread. “Are you seeking to tame me, Adara?” “Nay, my prince. I seek only to claim you. I don’t mind your wildness in the least.” He was struck dumb by her playfulness as she stepped past him to join Corryn, who was ordering a group of men about. Christian took a deep draught of the wine she’d neglected. “You’d be better off to pour that down your breeches,” Phantom said as he joined him. “What say you?” “The look of you says it all. You’re aching to taste her again.” Outwardly, Christian scoffed even though he knew that attitude for the lie it was. “You are mistaken.” Phantom paused beside him. “Nay, Christian. Lie to yourself if you must, but never to me.” Christian frowned at him. “Why are you still here? It’s not like you to travel with a group.” “You offered me land.” “Which I know means nothing to you. Not really. Why have you always been at my back all these years?” “I respect you, Christian. You should be king, and if you are determined to seek your throne, then I am determined to help you.” Christian couldn’t have been more stunned by his words. “What has gotten into you?” “I wish I knew. Promise me that should I discover what it is, you’ll exorcize it.” Christian laughed. “I wish the same promise from you.” Phantom looked back at Adara, who was busy castigating her fool. “I know what plagues you, my brother, but from that I hear there is no cure.

Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them,

Wild animals bite the hand that feeds them. Clever people consume the entire body.

You try this before?” he asks. I shake my head. I’ve had versions of it back home, but the sight and aroma of this one renders all others imposters. I reach for a fork, but he snatches it out from under my hand and stabs a piece, bringing it to my mouth. I look from his eyes to the fork and back again. He can’t seriously think he’s feeding this to me. I reach for it but he pulls away. I check to make sure Luca and the chef’s have their backs to us. “You’re insane,” I say before hesitantly taking a bite. He mutters something I don’t even try to decipher because the juice from the tomato explodes in my mouth and my eyes close involuntarily as I savor it. The spice of pepper, the crunch of sea salt, the sweet, almost mint flavor of basil. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe you just threw that together.” Assuming he made it for me, I grab the fork from him and taste more. “Seriously,” I say between bites, “incredibile.Bruno watches me eat, obviously pleased. He takes a step toward me and opens his mouth, somehow still smiling. He wants me to feed him. With my fork. I should probably put up a fight but as if in a trance, I offer him a little sliver of tomato and cheese. He leans forward to take it, eyes on mine the whole time. Holy. Crap. I never ever thought anything about eating could be sexy. I was wrong. So very wrong.

People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them"---Eric Hoffer.

Han breaks a tangerine into sections and feeds them to her one by one. Then he cuts a lemon in half, sprinkles a spoonful of sugar over the cut top, and bites into it. Sirine looks around at the wandering palms and the dusty street. Just that morning the radio weatherman had said it would be an Indian summer scorcher. She slices open an avocado and sprinkles it with coarse salt before handing it to Han.

At this point the room erupted – question after question raining down on Helen. It was a sustained assault but Helen had no choice but to weather it, however damaging or provocative the questions were. She needed the public to be vigilant, so she needed the press onside. It was a bitter pill to swallow but the situation was critical now. Sometimes in life you have to feed the hand that bites you.

There are times when parenthood seems like nothing more than feeding the hand that bites you.” —Peter De Vries

I will bite the hand that feeds me, that refuses to love me, that leaves me.

This is it,” Orion breathed and we turned to read the words as he held out the book. A spell was laid out to strip the newly acquired Elements from King, the answer right there before us. We needed Vampire blood to pull it off as part of a potion which Ryder immediately started writing down the ingredients to. To speed the process up, a Vampire could feed on the vessel once the Elements had been stripped away while the spell was being chanted to draw the stolen magic out of them faster, but it wasn’t necessary. But if a Vampire didn’t do that then it would take a lot longer to rip the stolen magic out of the host and that would give King more time to fight back. One glance at Elise told me she was fully planning to drain every last drop of stolen power out of King the moment she could and I swallowed down the fear that sparked in me. “There’s a warning here,” Orion said gravely, pointing to a small footnote at the base of the page. “It says that though a Vampire can drain the stolen power faster, they must act quickly to release it into the sky where it belongs. If not, the power will work to corrupt them, feeding into their bloodlust and making a demon out of them.” “We shouldn’t risk it,” I said, reaching for Elise’s hand. “We can just contain King and use the spell to force the magic out of them without you draining it.” “And what if that takes too long?” Elise demanded. “Our girl won’t be corrupted by the power,” Leon said confidently, reaching out to brush his fingers through her hair. “I just have to release it the moment I steal it. Simple,” she agreed but as I cast a look at Orion he didn’t seem at all convinced. “Dark magic lures you in unlike anything you could possibly understand without having experienced it,” he warned. “I’d think very carefully about doing this before you charge in and attempt it.” “Okay,” Elise agreed, raising her hands in surrender. “I won’t bite the fucker to drain them unless everything starts going to shit and I don’t have any other choice.” “I think that’s for the best, bella,” Dante agreed.

Bite The Hand That Feeds