Blush Short Quotes

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

Ô, Wanderess, Wanderess When did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

Girls get screwed. Not that kind of screwed, what I mean is, they're always on the short end of things. The way things work, how guys feel great, but make girls feel cheap for doing exactly what they beg for. The way they get to play you, all the while claiming they love you and making you believe it's true. The way it's okay to gift their heart one day, a backhand the next, to move on to the apricot when the peach blushes and bruises. These things make me believe God's a man after all.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

Ô, Muse of the Heart’s Passion, let me relive my Love’s memory, to remember her body, so brave and so free, and the sound of my Dreameress singing to me, and the scent of my Dreameress sleeping by me, Ô, sing, sweet Muse, my soliloquy!

"Um, so, how do I work in the panties and toothbrush? I mean, it's not something you share over dinner," I pointed out, trying not to blush but feeling the heat. "He's got his tongue in your mouth," Krys began, "and he'll have his tongue in your mouth. You're on the couch, and you'll be on the couch. When he takes his tongue out of your mouth, find a way to whisper it in his ear. That'll speed things up." "Real quick," Twyla agreed on a short nod.

Are you Darah, Renee or Taylor? You look like a Taylor to me," he said, looking me up and down. I wasn't at my best, considering I was dressed for moving heavy objects in a blue UMaine t-shirt and black soccer shorts, and I had my light brown hair in a haphazard bun against the back of my neck. His eyes raked up and down twice, and for some reason the way he assessed me made me blush and want to kick him in the balls at the same time. "There must be a mistake," I said. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "That's a creative name. What do you shorten it to? Missy?

Oh, Jesus,” he said, wheezing with the effort it took to control himself. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You little innocent. I’m fluent in French, but it isn’t my first language.” It was plain by the mortified expression in those green eyes that she didn’t understand, so he explained. “Baby , if I can still think clearly enough to speak French, then I’m not totally involved in what I’m doing. It may sound pretty , but it doesn’t mean any thing. Men are different from women; the more excited we are, the more like cavemen we sound. I could barely speak English with you, much less French. As I remember, my vocabulary deteriorated to a few short, explicit words, ‘fuck’ being the most prominent.” To his amazement, she blushed, and he smiled at this further evidence of her charming prudery. “Go to sleep,” he said gently. “Lindsey didn’t even rate a replay.

You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?” “The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as– –” “My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice. “I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.” “A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself.

But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.” “But?” Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled. Shane waited. “I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.” Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.” “Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.” “Sounds rough.” “Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.” Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.

But Daniel wouldn't kiss her the way she wanted.The closer she pressed to him, the farther back he leaned. Finally he pushed her away completely. He held on only to her hands, as if the rest of her were dangerous. "Lady." He kissed the very tips of her fingers, making her shiver. "Would I be too bold to say your love makes you unmannerly?" "Unmannerly?" Luce blushed. Daniel took her back into his arms, slowly, a bit nervously. "Good Lucinda, you must not find yourself in this place dressed as you are." His eyes kept returning to her dress. "What clothes are these? WHere is your costume?" He reached into a wardrobe and flicked through the clothes pegs. Quickly,Daniel began to unlace his boots, tossing them on the floor with two thuds. Luce tried not to gape when he dropped his trousers.He wore short gray pantaloons underneath that left very little to the imagination. Her cheeks burned as Daniel briskly unbuttoned his white shirt. He yanked it off,exposing the full beauty of his chest.Luce sucked in her breath. The only things missing were his unfurled wings. Daniel was so impeccably gorgeous-and he seemed to have no idea of the effect he was having on her by standing there in his underwear. She gulped,fanning herself. "Is it hot in here?

Because life’s too short to blush, I keep my blood tucked in.

This going around with boys makes me sick," said Tacy. "I like Herbert Humphreys," said Tib. It was just like Tib to like a boy and say so. "Oh, if you have to have a boy around, it might as well be Herbert," said Betsy, who liked him too. "He wears cute clothes," said Tacy, blushing. Herbert Humphreys, who had come to Deep Valley from St. Paul, wore knickerbockers. The other boys in their grade wore plain short pants.

I have never—and I mean ever—had a real desire to let otherwise-unaccounted-for money just chill in my bank account unmolested for more than maybe a week and a half. I barely have the willpower to leave other people’s money alone for the short time it’s in my custody. Money that isn’t earmarked for some pressing (transportation/pharmaceutical/credit card balance) need?! Why, yes, I do need fourteen nearly identical blushes, thank you.

Objectifying myself could never make me happy, she said, though she was wrong. Her version of feminism was outdated, too rigid to work in the real, digital world where I was in control of my body, my content, and smart to leverage the short blush of my youth for what was permanent and sure:

The Doctor put his finger to his lips and Martha nodded and followed him as quietly as she could. Wet leaves squelched under her feet. There was movement up ahead: two teenagers, a pale boy and a nervous girl, walked into a clearing. The sun broke through the clouds and the boy started to sparkle. Martha felt the Doctor’s eyes on her and she blushed. ‘Do not judge me.’ ‘Judging is for later,’ he said, and they continued on, giving the young lovers a wide berth.

But if he had indeed blushed-and his cheeks did feel a touch warm-neither of his brothers saw it, because they didn't say anything, and if there was anything in life as certain as, say, the sun rising in the east,it was that a Bridgerton never passed up the opportunity to tease and torment another Bridgerton. "She's been talking about Penelope Featherington nonstop," Colin said with a scowl. "I tell you, I've known the girl since we were both in short pants. Er, since I was in short pants, at least. She was in..." He scowled some more, because both his brothers were laughing at him. "She was in whatever it is that young girls wear." "Frocks?" Anthony supplied helpfully. "Petticoats?" was Benedict's suggestion. "The point is," Colin said forcefully, "that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her." Anthony turned to Benedict and said, "They'll be married within a year.Mark my words." Colin crossed his arms. "Anthony!" "Maybe two," Benedict said. "He's young yet." "Unlike you," Colin retorted. "Why am I besiged by Mother, I wonder? Good God, you're thirty-one-" "Thirty," Benedict snapped. "Regardless, one would think you'd be getting the brunt of it.

came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape.

Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?" "No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply.

My cheeks are hot when he stalks right up to me, eyes narrowed. Pinched between his bloody fingers is a piece of scrap metal laced with seilgflùr from the blunderbuss—a shot that would have killed any other faery. “Really?” he says. “You were traipsing around in a low-visibility field while enemy fae are afoot,” I say defensively, hoping he can’t tell I’m blushing. “What is wrong with you?” Aithinne snickers and Kiaran casts her a sharp glance. “It’s not funny.” His sister tries to hold back a laugh, but doesn’t quite succeed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But you just . . . I’ve never seen you look like such a complete mess.” Kiaran studies her with a narrowed gaze. “And both of you look like you’ve gone three rounds with a roving band of feral cats. I’d say we’re even.” “Even? Oh, please.” Aithinne ticks off each finger. “Thus far the Falconer and I escaped through a forest of spiked trees, fought off the mara, fled from Lonnrach’s soldiers, and defeated two mortair. You were shot by accident with some weapon composed of a wooden stick with a barrel on the end—” “A blunderbuss,” I correct helpfully. Kiaran gives me a pointed look that says, Whose side are you on? “—so I’d say I win this round.” She finishes with the sort of arrogant grin that makes it very clear that this must be an ongoing competition. Sibling rivalry, it seems, is not just for humans. If Kiaran’s glare is any indication, he’s contemplating about fifty different ways of killing his own sister. “Just remember,” I whisper to him, “murder is frowned upon in most societies.” “Not mine,” Kiaran says shortly. “She’s lucky I love her.

There were twenty-three females on the Keltar estate--not counting Gwen, Chloe, herself, or the cat--Gabby knew, because shortly after Adam had become visible last night, she'd met each and every one, from tiniest tot to tottering ancient. It had begun with a plump, thirtyish maid popping in to pull the drapes for the evening and inquire if the MacKeltars "were wishing aught else?" The moment her bespectacled gaze had fallen on Adam, she'd begun stammering and tripping over her own feet. It had taken her a few moments to regain a semblance of coordination, but she'd managed to stumble from the library, nearly upsetting a lamp and a small end table in her haste. Apparently it had been haste to alert the forces, for a veritable parade had ensued: a blushing curvaceous maid had come offering a warm-up of tear (they'd not been having any), followed by a giggling maid seeking a forgotten dust cloth (which--was anyone surprised?--was nowhere to be found), then a third one looking for a waylaid broom (yeah, right--they swept castles at midnight in Scotland--who believed that?), then a fourth, fifth, and sixth inquiring if the Crystal Chamber would do for Mr. Black (no one seemed to care what chamber might do for her; she half-expected to end up in an outbuilding somewhere). A seventh, eighth, and ninth had come to announce that his chamber was ready would he like an escort? A bath drawn? Help undressing? (Well, okay, maybe they hadn't actually asked the last, but their eyes certainly had.) Then a half-dozen more had popped in at varying intervals to say the same things over again, and to stress that they were there to provide "aught, aught at all Mr. Black might desire." The sixteenth had come to extract two tiny girls from Adam's lap over their wailing protests (and had stayed out of his lap herself only because Adam had hastily stood), the twenty-third and final one had been old enough to be someone's great-great-grandmother, and even she'd flirted shamelessly with the "braw Mr. Black," batting nonexistent lashes above nests of wrinkles, smoothing thin white hair with a blue-veined, age-spotted hand. And if that hadn't been enough, the castle cat, obviously female and obviously in heat, had sashayed in, tail straight up and perkily curved at the tip, and would her furry little self sinuously around Adam's ankles, purring herself into a state of drooling, slanty-eyed bliss. Mr. Black, my ass, she'd wanted to snap (and she liked cats, really she did; she'd certainly never wanted to kick one before, but please--even cats?), he's a fairy and I found him, so that him my fairy. Back off.

Women, in short, have been trained to believe that they’re not allowed to be angry.” “Trained,” Katherine said loudly. “You’re always talking about training, like we’re dogs or something.” “It’s not polite to raise your voice,” I said, and she immediately hunched and blushed. Suze frowned. “Don’t frown,” I said to her, “you’ll get wrinkles.” Silence.

Five minutes later, a young man walking rapidly in the opposite direction pulled up short and stopped in front of Sandra. He exclaimed blithely: “I say, what luck! I wondered if I’d ever see you again.” His tone was so delighted that she blushed just a little. He stooped to the dog. “What a jolly little fellow. What’s his name?” “MacTavish.” “Oh, very Scotch.

Well?” Jules asks when Joseph and Billy are safely out of range. “What do you think of him?” Arsinoe squints. Billy Chatworth wears the clothes of an islander, but he does not wear them well. He is only an inch or two shorter than Joseph, and his sandy hair is short, almost pressed flat against his head. “He’s not nearly as handsome as Joseph is,” Arsinoe teases, and Jules blushes scarlet. “I knew he would grow into that Sandrin jawline. And those eyes.” She prods Jules in the side until she laughs and swats her away. “Anyhow, what do you think of the mainlander?” “I don’t know,” Jules says. “He said he had a cat that looked like me when he was younger. With one blue eye and one green. He said it was born deaf.” “Charming,” says Arsinoe.

You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?” “The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—” “My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice. “I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.” “A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself.

Every man has his tastes," Sebastian said sensibly. "I doubt yours are all that shocking." "What your generation considered shocking is probably different from mine." There was a short, offended silence. When Sebastian replied, his voice was as dry as tinder. "Ancient and decrepit fossil that I am, I believe the ruins of my senile brain can somehow manage to grasp what you're trying to convey. You've indulged in wanton carnal excess for so long that you're disillusioned. The trifles that excite other men leave you indifferent. No virgin's pallid charms could ever hope to compete with the subversive talents of your mistress." Gabriel glanced up in surprise. His father looked sardonic. "I assure you, my lad, sexual debauchery was invented long before your generation. The libertines of my grandfather's time committed acts that would make a satyr blush. Men of our lineage are born craving more pleasure than is good for us. Obviously I was no saint before I married, and God knows I never expected to find fulfillment in the arms of one woman for a lifetime. But I have. Which means there's no reason you can't." "If you say so." "I do say so.

I squeezed through a horde of gum-snapping girls I recognized as seniors from my school. “He did not say that!” “Yes, he did! And you wouldn’t believe what she said!” Please, someone tell me I wouldn’t be that annoying if I had girlfriends. “Sure, you will be.” I whipped around and nearly got a faceful of cotton candy. I moved the purple sugar cloud to the side and glared at my mother. She wore a white, short-sleeved blouse and a patchwork skirt. “You have to stop listening in on my thoughts without my permission, Mom. It’s not cool.” She shoved a piece of cotton candy in my mouth to shut me up. “I didn’t do it on purpose, Clarity. I was strolling along listening in to the crowd.” “Pick up anything interesting?” “Actually, I did. That detective’s son can’t stop checking out your legs. He loves this little pink dress you’ve got on. So much so that he’s actually mad at himself for it.” She shook her head. I blushed. “Did you happen to pick up anything important?” “Like a man walking along thinking, ‘I killed Victoria Happel’?” “Exactly.” “No such luck. But dear, people don’t wander around thinking about their biggest secrets all the time. The killer could be standing right next to me and all I might pick up from him is how he wants to buy some barbequed chicken.” “Have you seen Billy Rawlinson or Frankie Creedon?” I asked. Distaste turned her mouth down. “No. Why are you looking for those scoundrels?” “Billy might be a witness in the case. Or a suspect.” “I’ll keep my eyes out and my mind open.” “Thanks,” I said. “Enjoy invading everyone’s privacy.

have never—and I mean ever—had a real desire to let otherwise-unaccounted-for money just chill in my bank account unmolested for more than maybe a week and a half. I barely have the willpower to leave other people’s money alone for the short time it’s in my custody. Money that isn’t earmarked for some pressing (transportation/pharmaceutical/credit card balance) need?! Why, yes, I do need fourteen nearly identical blushes, thank you. When

forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables. They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

I was just about to get up when Dad rushed into the kitchen. He was in pajamas, which was totally bizarre. Dad never came down to breakfast until he was completely dressed. Of course, his pajamas even had a little pocket and handkerchief, so maybe he felt dressed. He had a sheet of paper in his hands and was staring at it, his eyes wide. “James,” Aislinn acknowledged. “You’re up kind of late this morning. Is Grace sleeping in, too?” Dad glanced up, and I could swear he blushed. :”Hmm? Oh. Yes. Well. In any case. Um…to the point at hand.” “Leave Dad alone,” I told Aislinn. “His Britishness is short-circuiting.” Instead of being grossed out, I was weirdly happy at the thought of my parents being all…whatever (okay, I was a little grossed out). In fact, their apparent reconciliation was maybe the one good thing to come out of this whole mess. Well, that and saving the world, obviously. Dad shook his head and held out the papers. “I didn’t come down here to discuss my personal…relations. I came here because this arrived from the Council this morning. I sat back in my chair. “The Council? Like, the Council Council? But they don’t even exist anymore. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe it’s the Council For What Breakfast Cereals You Should-“ “Sophia,” Dad said, stopping me with a look. “Sorry. Freaked out.” He gave a little smile. “I know that, darling. And to be perfectly honest, perhaps you should be.” He handed the papers to me, and I saw it was some kind of official letter. It was addressed to Dad, but I saw my name in the first paragraph. I laid it on the table so no one would see my hands shake. “Did this come by owl?” I muttered. “Please tell me it came-“ “Sophie!” nearly everyone in the kitchen shouted. Even Archer was exasperated, “Come on, Mercer.” I took a deep breath and started to read. When I got about halfway down the page, I stopped, my eyes going wide, my heart racing. I looked back at Dad. “Are they serious?” “I believe that they are.” I read the words again. “Holy hell weasel.

Galen slides into his desk, unsettled by the way the sturdy blond boy talking to Emma casually rests his arm on the back of her seat. "Good morning," Galen says, leaning over to wrap his arms around her, nearly pulling her from the chair. He even rests his cheek against hers for good measure. "Good morning...er, Mark, isn't it?" he says, careful to keep his voice pleasant. Still, he glances meaningfully at the masculine arm still lining the back of Emma's seat, almost touching her. To his credit-and safety-Mark eases the offending limb back to his own desk, offering Emma a lazy smile full of strikingly white teeth. "You and Forza, huh? Did you clear that with his groupies?" She laughs and gently pries Galen's arms off her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the eruption of pink spreading like spilled paint over her face. She's not used to dating him yet. Until about ten minutes ago, he wasn't used to it either. Now though, with the way Mark eyes her like a tasty shellfish, playing the role of Emma's boyfriend feels all too natural. The bell rings, saving Emma from a reply and saving Mark thousands of dollars in hospital bills. Emma shoots Galen a withering look, which he deflects with that he hopes is an enchanting grin. He measures his success by the way her blush deepens but stops short when he notices the dark circles under her eyes. She didn't sleep last night. Not that he thought she would. She'd been quiet on the flight home from Destin two nights ago. He didn't pressure her to talk about it with him, mostly because he didn't know what to say once the conversation got started. So many times, he's started to assure her that he doesn't see her as an abomination, but it seems wrong to say it out loud. Like he's willfully disagreeing with the law. But how could those delicious-looking lips and those huge violet eyes be considered an abomination? What's even crazier is that not only does he not consider her an abomination, the fact that she could be a Half-Breed ignited a hope in him he's got no right to feel: Grom would never mate with a half human. At least, Galen doesn't think he would. He glances at Emma, whose silky eyelids don't even flutter in her state of light sleep. When he clears his throat, she startles. "Thank you," she mouths to him as she picks her pencil back up, using the eraser to trace the lines in her textbook as she reads. He acknowledges with a nod. He doesn't want to leave her like this, anxious and tense and out of place in her own beautiful skin.

Footsteps from the stairwell startle him out of the past. He turns around as Emma's mother takes the last step into the dining area, Emma right behind her. Mrs. McIntosh glides over and puts her arm around him. The smile on her face is genuine, but Emma's smile is more like a straight line. And she's blushing. "Galen, it's very nice to meet you," she says, ushering him into the kitchen. "Emma tells me you're taking her to the beach behind your house today. To swim?" "Yes, ma'am." Her transformation makes him wary. She smiles. "Well, good luck with getting her in the water. Since I'm a little pressed for time, I can't follow you over there, so I just need to see your driver's license while Emma runs outside to get your plate number." Emma rolls her eyes as she shuffles through a drawer and pulls out a pen and paper. She slams the door behind her when she leaves, which shakes the dishes on the wall. Galen nods, pulls out his wallet, and hands over the fake license. Mrs. McIntosh studies it and rummages through her purse until she produces a pen-which she uses to write on her hand. “Just need your license number in case we ever have any problems. But we’re not going to have any problems, are we, Galen? Because you’ll always have my daughter-my only daughter-home on time, isn’t that right?” He nods, then swallows. She holds out his license. When he accepts it, she grabs his wrist, pulling him close. She glances at the garage door and back to him. “Tell me right now, Galen Forza. Are you or are you not dating my daughter?” Great. She still doesn’t believe Emma. If she won’t believe them anyway, why keep trying to convince her? If she thinks they’re dating, the time he intends to spend with Emma will seem normal. But if they spend time together and tell her they’re not dating, she’ll be nothing but suspicious. Possibly even spy on them-which is less than ideal. So, dating Emma is the only way to make sure she mates with Grom. Things just get better and better. “Yes,” he says. “We’re definitely dating.” She narrows her eyes. “Why would she tell me you’re not?” He shrugs. “Maybe she’s ashamed of me.” To his surprise, she chuckles. “I seriously doubt that, Galen Forza.” Her humor is short lived. She grabs a fistful of his T-shirt. “Are you sleeping with her?” Sleeping…Didn’t Rachel say sleeping and mating are the same thing? Dating and mating are similar. But sleeping and mating are the same exact same. He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.” She raises a no-nonsense brow. “Why not? What’s wrong with my daughter?” That is unexpected. He suspects this woman can sense a lie like Toraf can track Rayna. All she’s looking for is honesty, but the real truth would just get him arrested. I’m crazy about your daughter-I’m just saving her for my brother. So he seasons his answer with the frankness she seems to crave. “There’s nothing wrong with your daughter, Mrs. McIntosh. I said we’re not sleeping together. I didn’t say I didn’t want to.” She inhales sharply and releases him. Clearing her throat, she smoothes out his wrinkled shirt with her hand, then pats his chest. “Good answer, Galen. Good answer.” Emma flings open the garage door and stops short. “Mom, what are you doing?” Mrs. McIntosh steps away and stalks to the counter. “Galen and I were just chitchatting. What took you so long?” Galen guesses her ability to sense a lie probably has something to do with her ability to tell one. Emma shoots him a quizzical look, but he returns a casual shrug. Her mother grabs a set of keys from a hook by the refrigerator and nudges her daughter out of the way, but not before snatching the paper out of her hand.

I MEAN not to defend the scapes of any, Or justify my vices being many; For I confess, if that might merit favour, Here I display my lewd and loose behaviour. I loathe, yet after that I loathe, I run: 5 Oh, how the burthen irks, that we should shun. I cannot rule myself but where Love please; Am driven like a ship upon rough seas. No one face likes me best, all faces move, A hundred reasons make me ever love. 10 If any eye me with a modest look, I blush, and by that blushful glance am took; And she that’s coy I like, for being no clown, Methinks she would be nimble when she’s down. Though her sour looks a Sabine’s brow resemble, 15 I think she’ll do, but deeply can dissemble. If she be learned, then for her skill I crave her; If not, because she’s simple I would have her. Before Callimachus one prefers me far; Seeing she likes my books, why should we jar? 20 Another rails at me, and that I write, Yet would I lie with her, if that I might: Trips she, it likes me well; plods she, what then? She would be nimbler lying with a man. And when one sweetly sings, then straight I long, 25 To quaver on her lips even in her song; Or if one touch the lute with art and cunning, Who would not love those hands for their swift running? And her I like that with a majesty, Folds up her arms, and makes low courtesy. 30 To leave myself, that am in love with all, Some one of these might make the chastest fall. If she be tall, she’s like an Amazon, And therefore fills the bed she lies upon: If short, she lies the rounder: to speak troth, 35 Both short and long please me, for I love both. I think what one undecked would be, being drest; Is she attired? then show her graces best. A white wench thralls me, so doth golden yellow: And nut-brown girls in doing have no fellow. 40 If her white neck be shadowed with brown hair, Why so was Leda’s, yet was Leda fair. Amber-tress’d is she? Then on the morn think I: My love alludes to every history: A young wench pleaseth, and an old is good, 45 This for her looks, that for her womanhood: Nay what is she, that any Roman loves, But my ambitious ranging mind approves?

screen filled with symbols, only this time it was Arabic letters that meant nothing to him. He assumed they meant nothing to Raj as well, and was therefore surprised when Raj pointed out a short sequence. “This is the word for ‘person’ or ‘human being’.” Daniel stared at Raj. “You know Arabic?” “No, not really. I have read Nizar Qabbani in translation, and this word is a particularly beautiful shape, is it not?” “Still waters run deep, Raj. So you read Arabic love poetry. I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” Raj blushed. “Sushma is more woman than I can handle without help,” he admitted. “Qabbani writes more than just love poetry. It is quite erotic.

No one in their right mind would argue that passion and perseverance are unimportant, or that a bad day is a cue to quit. But the idea that a change of interest, or a recalibration of focus, is an imperfection and competitive disadvantage leads to a simple, one-size-fits-all Tiger story: pick and stick, as soon as possible. Responding to lived experience with a change of direction, like Van Gogh did habitually, like West Point graduates have been doing since the dawn of the knowledge economy, is less tidy but no less important. It involves a particular behavior that improves your chances of finding the best match, but that at first blush sounds like a terrible life strategy: short-term planning.

Snowbound up here with you. Without books or business to occupy my time, I wonder what I’ll do,” he added with a leer. She blushed gorgeously, but her voice was serious as she studied his face. “If things hadn’t gone so well for you-if you hadn’t accumulated so much wealth-you could have been happy up here, couldn’t you?” “With you?” “Of course.” His smile was as somber as hers. “Absolutely.” “Although,” he added, linking her hands behind her back and drawing her a little closer, “you may not want to remain up here when you learn your emeralds are back in their cases at Montmayne.” Her head snapped up, and her eyes shone with love and relief. “I’m so glad. When I realized Robert’s story had been fabrication, it hurt beyond belief to realize I’d sold them.” “It’s going to hurt more,” he teased outrageously, “when you realize your bank draft to cover their cost was a little bit short. It cost me $45,000 to buy back the pieces that had already been sold, and $5,000 to buy the rest back from the jeweler you sold them to.” “That-that unconscionable thief!” she burst out. “He only gave me $5,000 for all of them!” She shook her head in despair at Ian’s lack of bargaining prowess. “He took dreadful advantage of you.” “I wasn’t concerned, however,” Ian continued teasing, enjoying himself hugely, “because I knew I’d get it all back out of your allowance. With interest, of course. According to my figures,” he said, pausing to calculate in his mind what it would have taken Elizabeth several minutes to figure out on paper, “as of today, you now owe me roughly $151,126.” “One hundred and- what?” she cried, half laughing and half irate. “There’s the little matter of the cost of Havenhurst. I added that in to the figure.” Tears of joy clouded her magnificent eyes. “You bought it back from that horrid Mr. Demarcus?” “Yes. And he is ‘horrid.’ He and your uncle ought to be partners. They both possess the instincts of camel traders. I paid $100,000 for it.” Her mouth fell open, and admiration lit her face. “$100,000! Oh, Ian-“ “I love it when you say my name.” She smiled at that, but her mind was still on the splendid bargain he’d gotten. “I could not have done a bit better!” she generously admitted. “That’s exactly what he paid for it, and he told me after the papers were signed that he was certain he could get $150,000 if he waited a year or so.” “He probably could have.” “But not from you!” she announced proudly. “Not from me,” he agreed, grinning. “Did he try?” “He tried for $200,000 as soon as he realized how important it was to me to buy it back for you.” “You must have been very clever and skillful to make him agree to accept so much less.” Trying desperately not to laugh, Ian put his forehead against hers and nodded. “Very skillful,” he agreed in a suffocated voice. “Still, I wonder why he was so agreeable?” Swallowing a surge of laughter, Ian said, “I imagine it was because I showed him that I had something he needed more than he needed an exorbitant profit.” “Really?” she said, fascinated and impressed. “What did you have?” “His throat.

I pulled at the knot again and heard threads begin to pop. “Allow me, Miss Jones,” said Armand, right at my back. There was no gracious way to refuse him. Not with Mrs. Westcliffe there, too. I exhaled and dropped my arms. I stared at the lotus petals in my painting as the new small twists and tugs of Armand’s hands rocked me back and forth. Jesse’s music began to reverberate somewhat more sharply than before. “There,” Armand said, soft near my ear. “Nearly got it.” “Most kind of you, my lord.” Mrs. Westcliffe’s voice was far more carrying. “Do you not agree, Miss Jones?” Her tone said I’d better. “Most kind,” I repeated. For some reason I felt him as a solid warmth behind me, behind all of me, even though only his knuckles made a gentle bumping against my spine. How blasted long could it take to unravel a knot? “Yes,” said Chloe unexpectedly. “Lord Armand is always a perfect gentleman, no matter who or what demands his attention.” “There,” the gentleman said, and at last his hands fell away. The front of the smock sagged loose. I shrugged out of it as fast as I could, wadding it up into a ball. “Excuse me.” I ducked a curtsy and began my escape to the hamper, but Mrs. Westcliffe cut me short. “A moment, Miss Jones. We require your presence.” I turned to face them. Armand was smiling his faint, cool smile. Mrs. Westcliffe looked as if she wished to fix me in some way. I raised a hand instinctively to my hair, trying to press it properly into place. “You have the honor of being invited to tea at the manor house,” the headmistress said. “To formally meet His Grace.” “Oh,” I said. “How marvelous.” I’d rather have a tooth pulled out. “Indeed. Lord Armand came himself to deliver the invitation.” “Least I could do,” said Armand. “It wasn’t far. This Saturday, if that’s all right.” “Um…” “I am certain Miss Jones will be pleased to cancel any other plans,” said Mrs. Westcliffe. “This Saturday?” Unlike me, Chloe had not concealed an inch of ground. “Why, Mandy! That’s the day you promised we’d play lawn tennis.” He cocked a brow at her, and I knew right then that she was lying and that she knew that he knew. She sent him a melting smile. “Isn’t it, my lord?” “I must have forgotten,” he said. “Well, but we cannot disappoint the duke, can we?” “No, indeed,” interjected Mrs. Westcliffe. “So I suppose you’ll have to come along to the tea instead, Chloe.” “Very well. If you insist.” He didn’t insist. He did, however, sweep her a very deep bow and then another to the headmistress. “And you, too, Mrs. Westcliffe. Naturally. The duke always remarks upon your excellent company.” “Most kind,” she said again, and actually blushed. Armand looked dead at me. There was that challenge behind his gaze, that one I’d first glimpsed at the train station. “We find ourselves in harmony, then. I shall see you in a few days, Miss Jones.” I tightened my fingers into the wad of the smock and forced my lips into an upward curve. He smiled back at me, that cold smile that said plainly he wasn’t duped for a moment. I did not get a bow. Jesse was at the hamper when I went to toss in the smock. Before I could, he took it from me, eyes cast downward, no words. Our fingers brushed beneath the cloth. That fleeting glide of his skin against mine. The sensation of hardened calluses stroking me, tender and rough at once. The sweet, strong pleasure that spiked through me, brief as it was. That had been on purpose. I was sure of it.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week, because I've avoided anything that requires ordering. I've made excuses (I'm allergic to beef," "Nothing tastes better than bread," Ravioli is overrated"), but I can't avoid it forever.Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath. "Bonjour, uh...soup? Sopa? S'il vous plait?" "Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris? "Ah! soupe.I mean,oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn. "And,um, the uh-chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?" Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. "Chicken and haricots verts, oui. You know,you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well." My blush deepends. Of course he'd speak English in an American school. And I've been living on stupid pears and baquettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of chicken salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food. "Merci," I say. "De rien.You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can- "NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, ANNA?" St. Clair hollers from the other side of the cafeteria. I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. St. Clair responds by grinning and giving me the British version, the V-sign with his first two fingers. Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to St. Clair. "Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time." "My pleasure. Always happy to educate." He's wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt with Napolean's silhouette on it.When I asked him about it,he said Napolean was his hero. "Not because he was a decent bloke, mind you.He was an arse. But he was a short arse,like meself." I wonder if he slept at Ellie's. That's probably why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the metro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Rashmi and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she's too good for them now. "You know,Anna," Rashmi says, "most Parisians understand English. You don't have to be so shy." Yeah.Thanks for pointing that out now.

Suppose he really is in love. What about her? She never has anything good to say about him.” “Yet she blushes whenever he enters a room. And she stares at him a good deal. Or hadn’t you noticed that, either?” “As a matter of fact, I have.” Gazing up at him, she softened her tone. “But I do not want her hurt, Isaac. I must be sure she is desired for herself and not her fortune. Her siblings had a chance of not gaining their inheritance unless the others married, so I always knew that their mates loved them, but she…” She shook her head. “I had to find a way to remove her fortune from the equation.” “I still say you’re taking a big risk.” He glanced beyond her to where Celia was talking to the duke. “Do yo really think she’d be better off with Lyons?” But she doesn’t love him…If you’d just give her a chance- “I do not know,” Hetty said with a sigh. “I do not know anything anymore.” “Then you shouldn’t meddle. Because there’s another outcome you haven’t considered. If you try to manipulate matters to your satisfaction, she may balk entirely. Then you’ll find yourself in the sticky position of having to choose between disinheriting them all or backing down on your ultimatum. Personally, I think you should have given up that nonsense long ago, but I know only too well how stubborn you can be when you’ve got the bit between your teeth.” “Oh?” she said archly. “Have I been stubborn with you?” He gazed down at her. “You haven’t agreed to marry me yet.” Her heart flipped over in her chest. It was not the first time he had mentioned marriage, but she had refused to take him seriously. Until now. It was clear he would not be put off any longer. He looked solemnly in earnest. “Isaac…” “Are you worried that I am a fortune hunter?” “Do not be absurd.” “Because I’ve already told you that I’ll sign any marriage settlement you have your solicitor draw up. I don’t want your brewery or your vast fortune. I know it’s going to your grandchildren. I only want you.” The tender words made her sigh like a foolish girl. “I realize that. But why not merely continue as we have been?” His voice lowered. “Because I want to make you mine in every way.” A sweet shiver swept along her spine. “We do not need to marry for that.” “So all you want from me is an affair?” “No! But-“ “I want more than that. I want to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake with you in my bed. I want the right to be with you whenever I please, night or day.” His tone deepened. “I love you, Hetty. And when a man loves a woman, he wants to spend his life with her.” “But at our age, people will say-“ “Our age is an argument for marriage. We might not have much time left. Why not live it to the fullest, together, while we’re still in good health? Who cares about what people say? Life is too short to let other people dictate one’s choices.” She leaned heavily on his arm as they reached the steps leading up to the dais at the front of the ballroom. He did have a point. She had been balking at marrying him because she was sure people would think her a silly old fool. But then, she had always been out of step with everyone else. Why should this be any different? “I shall think about it,” she murmured as they headed to the center of the dais, where the family was gathering. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that. For now.” He cast her a heated glance. “But later this evening, once we have the chance to be alone, I shall try more effective methods to persuade you. Because I’m not giving up on this. I can be as stubborn as you, my dear.” She bit back a smile. Thank God for that.

And while I was writing this review, I discovered that if I were going to review books I should need to do battle with a certain phantom. And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her. You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her — you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it — in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all — I need not say it —-she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty — her blushes, her great grace. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.” And she made as if to guide my pen. I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must — to put it bluntly — tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. But it was a real experience; it was an experience that was bound to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer.

Things change,” said the former Sunlord, “as we see.” And once again he looked at Dairine. “You arrive for your people’s first sight of you as Sunlord, and what do they also see, standing at your side? An alien, garbed in raiment much like that of Wellakhit royalty, wearing some other world’s life-color, gemmed like a Guarantor. The rumors are flying already. Does another world have designs on the rule of ours? Either by straightforward conquest, or more intimate means?” Dairine’s eyes went wide as what he meant sank in. “You mean they think that we—that I—You tell those people that they are completely nuts! Even if I were old enough to think about stuff like this, which I seriously am not, I have zero interest in being anybody’s queen! Especially not his—” And then Dairine stopped short as she saw the peculiar look that had appeared on both Roshaun’s and Nelaid’s faces. “Uh,” she said then, and blushed again. “Maybe there was a less tactful way I could have put that . . .” That

He liked how brave she was—that dauntless courage she’d had when she faced off against Gargoyle at the trials. The lack of hesitation to chase after Hawthorn or take out the Detonator. The bravery that veered just a bit toward recklessness. Sometimes he wished he could be more like her, always so confident in her own motivations that she didn’t mind bending the rules from time to time. That’s how Adrian felt when he was the Sentinel. His conviction that he knew what was right gave him the courage to act, even when he would have hesitated as Adrian or Sketch. But Nova never hesitated. Her compass never seemed to falter. He liked that she defied the rules of their society—refusing to bend for the Council, when so many others would have been falling over themselves to impress them. Refusing to apologize for their decision to go after the Librarian, despite the protocols, because she believed wholeheartedly that they made the right choice with the options they’d been given. He liked that she’d destroyed him at every one of those carnival games. He liked that she hadn’t flinched when he brought a dinosaur to life in the palm of her hand. He liked that she’d raced into the quarantine to help Max, despite having no clue what she was going to do when she got there, only that she had to do something. He liked that she showed compassion for Max, sometimes even indignation for the way his ability was being used—but never pity. He even liked the way she feigned enthusiasm for things like the Sidekick Olympics, when it was clear she would have rather been doing just about anything else. But no matter how long the growing list of things that attracted him to Nova McLain had become, he still found her feelings toward him to be a mystery, with an annoying shortage of evidence to support the theory that maybe, just maybe, she sort of liked him too. A smile here. A blush there. It was an infuriatingly short list. He was probably reading into things. It didn’t matter, he told himself again and again. He couldn’t risk getting too close to anyone right now.

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were admirably modeled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, indeed, the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

The two of you came this close to getting torn to shreds! Your father just found you, and he doesn’t want to lose you. Do you have any idea what he has been through to protect you since you got here?” [...] “No.” Talon’s voice was subdued, but only slightly. Teenage defiance still seethed beneath the surface. “He didn’t tell me.” I leaned back in my chair, blew out my breath, and closed my eyes. “And he probably won’t.” Tired had surrendered to exhausted. “He wouldn’t want you to worry. Because he loves you.” When Talon didn’t respond, I opened one eye and looked at him. “He hasn’t told you that, either, has he?” I asked wearily. “Not exactly.” My elbow was resting on the chair arm, and I dropped my head onto my upraised hand. I snorted. “Not exactly.” I shook my head. “Men.” I didn’t lift my head off my hand; it felt too good to be resting on something. I turned it about an inch and I could see Piaras just fine. His face was a shade or two short of a full, blazing blush. “I know you do.” His words tumbled out in a rush. “You don’t have to tell me.

These are a traveler’s snakes,” Conall countered. “But even on a larger scale, they’re different.” He smirked at Galen’s expression of mingled disgust and fear. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked again. He let out a sigh. “My girls talked to you.” Galen searched his face. “Let’s just say I have a vested interested. One that’s very close to me. And another who might be?” he asked hesitantly, and Conall raised his eyebrows. “You’re very forward. More than I’m used to.” “More than you’re used to?” Galen laughed. “Says the man who covers himself in gold powder, then stands on a stage wearing nothing but shorts leaving very little to the imagination, and three snakes?” Conall squirmed in his chair. “When you put it like that… That’s my outside personality— my stage persona. The one Henry calls The Incredible Constrictor. I hate it, but once he’s stuck on something, it’s very hard to shake him. I could have strangled him. You’d think I was the one doing the constricting.” “Do you?” Galen asked with a half smile. Conall blushed, his tan hiding some of it, but not all. “Only when encouraged,” he finally muttered back, and Galen laughed.

That's quite a pile," he said. "I suppose you want me to spin it into gold." "Well, the situation has changed just a bit," said the miller's daughter (who also had a name--it was Meredith). "If you don't, I will die. If you do, I marry the king." Now that, thought Rumpelstiltskin, has possibilities. After all, getting to be the queen was a big step up for a miller's daughter. She would surely pay him anything. And there was only one thing in the world he really wanted--a little child to love and care for. "Okay, here's the deal," he said. "I will spin the straw into gold, just like before. In return, once you become queen, you must let me adopt your firstborn child. I promise I'll be an excellent father. I know all the lullabies. I'll read to the child every day. I'll even coach Little League." "You've got to be kidding," Meredith said. "I'd rather marry you than that jerk!" "Really?" said Rumpelstiltskin, and he blushed all the way from the top of his head to the tip of his toes (which admittedly wasn't very far, because he was so short). "Sure," she said. "I like your ideas on parenting, you'd make a good provider, and I have a weakness for short men.

You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.” “That’s because I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I’d think that you wouldn’t either.” She colored. “And why do assume it would be such a thing? Is it so hard to believe that a man might genuinely care for me? That he might actually want to marry me for myself?” “Why would anyone wish to marry the reckless Lady Celia, after all,” she went on in a choked voice, “if not for her fortune or to shore up his reputation?” “I didn’t mean any such thing,” he said sharply. But she’d worked herself up into a fine temper. “Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn’t even bear to kiss me properly again today-“ “Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t kiss you ‘properly’ today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.” That seemed to draw her up short. “Wh-What?” Sweet God, he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. “I knew that if I got his close, and I put my mouth on yours…” But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn’t help himself. Not anymore. He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her. She tore her lips from his. “Mr. Pinter-“ she began in a whisper. “Jackson,” he growled. “Let me hear you say my name.” Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. “Y-you don’t have to pretend-“ “I’m not pretending anything, damn it!” Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted. When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. “Please, Mr. Pinter-“ “Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. “Say my Christian name.” Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. “Jackson…” His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn’t pushing him away, so to hell with trying to be a gentleman. He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room. So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he walked after her. She didn’t stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. “Last night you claimed this wouldn’t happen again.” “I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he’d been craving her for months. And how that he’d suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more. When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he’d been coveting. With a shiver, she slid her hands up his chest. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I want you,” he admitted, damning himself. “Because I’ve always wanted you.” Then he covered her mouth with his once more.

He was taking another hit from his short-and-squat of Goose when his eyes skipped to the arched doorway of the room. Jane hesitated as she glanced inside, her white coat opening as she leaned to the side, as if she were looking for him. When their eyes met, she smiled a little. And then a lot. His first impulse was to hide his own grin behind his Goose. But then he stopped himself. New world order. Come on, smile, motherfucker, he thought. Jane gave a short wave and played it cool, which was what they usually did when they were together in public. Turning away, she headed over to the bar to make herself something. “Hold up, cop,” V murmured, putting his drink down and bracing his cue against the table. Feeling like he was fifteen, he put his hand-rolled between his teeth and tucked his wife-beater tightly into the waistband of his leathers. A quick smooth of the hair and he was . . . well, as ready as he could be. He approached Jane from behind just as she struck up a convo with Mary—and when his shellan pivoted around to greet him, she seemed a little surprised that he’d come up to her. “Hi, V . . . How are—” Vishous stepped in close, putting them body to body, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist. Holding her with possession, he slowly bent her backward until she gripped his shoulders and her hair fell from her face. As she gasped, he said exactly what he thought: “I missed you.” And on that note, he put his mouth on hers and kissed the ever-living hell out of her, sweeping one hand down to her hip as he slipped his tongue in her mouth, and kept going and going and going . . . He was vaguely aware that the room had fallen stone silent and that everything with a heartbeat was staring at him and his mate. But whatever. This was what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it in front of everyone—and the king’s dog, as it turned out. Because Wrath and Beth came in from the foyer. As Vishous slowly righted his shellan, the catcalls and whistling started up, and someone threw a handful of popcorn like it was confetti. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Hollywood said. And threw more popcorn. Vishous cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make.” Right. Okay, there were a lot of eyes on the pair of them. But he was so going to suck up his inclination to bow out. Tucking his flustered and blushing Jane into his side, he said loud and clear: “We’re getting mated. Properly. And I expect you all to be there and . . . Yeah, that’s it.” Dead. Quiet. Then Wrath released the handle on George’s harness and started to clap. Loud and slow. “About. Fucking. Time.

His gaze was locked on the young woman approaching beside Lady Withram. Short, no more than five feet, with a pretty face, shiny, long, wavy midnight hair and more curves than his shield. He noted all that in an instant, his eyes traveling with appreciation over each asset before settling on her eyes. They were a color he’d never seen before in eyes, a combination of pale blue and green, almost teal with a darker rim circling the unusual irises. They were absolutely beautiful . . . and presently brimming with anxiety and fear. Before he’d even realized he was going to do it, Ross found himself moving around the table to approach the girl. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on his arm and peered solemnly down into her unusual eyes before announcing, “Well worth the wait.” He was pleased to see some of her fear dissipate. Just a little, but it was something. She blushed too, ducking her head as if unused to and embarrassed by such a compliment . . . and her fingers were trembling where they rested on his arm. She did not strike him as a light-skirt, nor was she sour faced or ugly, but she had the finest eyes he’d ever seen, and he wanted to see more of them, so Ross turned and escorted her to the table. He didn’t miss the audible sighs of relief from her parents at their backs. Nor did he miss Gilly’s muttered, “Bloody hell. He’s done fer now.” Judging

Bast fidgeted. Kvothe laughed, a fond expression wiping the irritation from his face. “So is describing a beautiful woman as easy as looking at one for you?” Bast looked down and blushed, and Kvothe laid a gentle hand on his arm, smiling. “My trouble, Bast, is that she is very important. Important to the story. I cannot think of how to describe her without falling short of the mark.” “I…I think I understand, Reshi,” Bast said in conciliatory tones. “I’ve seen her too. Once.” Kvothe sat back in his chair, surprised. “You have, haven’t you? I’d forgotten.” He pressed his hands to his lips. “How would you describe her then?” Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. “She had perfect ears.” He made a delicate gesture with his hands. “Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of…something.” Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself. “Her ears?” he asked as if he couldn’t be sure if he had heard correctly. “You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears,” Bast said matter-of-factly. Chronicler laughed again, seeming to find it easier the second time. “No,” he said. “No, I’m sure I don’t.” Bast gave the story collector a deeply pitying look. “Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it. They were exceptionally fine.” “I think you’ve struck that chord well enough, Bast,” Kvothe said, amused.

Legs? Check. I am five foot seven, after all. They’re slender but not too skinny. I run every morning, so my legs have always been slightly muscled, but in a feminine way — at least I hope they look feminine; bulky is not a word I’d want someone to use. I think the not too short, but short enough to still be very stylish, pleated and thickly cuffed navy blue shorts show my legs off nicely. My cork and white wedges with a cute little bow at each ankle are the perfect finishing touch. A simple dove-gray ribbed tank completes the outfit and hugs my curves. Maybe there is something to Mel’s theory after all.  My golden-blonde hair is sun-kissed in the summer, and its soft waves cascade to the middle of my back. I usually have it up, but tonight Melanie insisted that I leave it down and wavy. I let her play Barbie, and I can’t say I hate it. The real show-stopper, though, is my eyes. They’re a bright, vibrant green. They look almost fake, but as I lean into the mirror to get a closer look, I catch small little flecks of gold around the outside that I know no contact lens could replicate. I have always loved my eyes. I have my mother’s eyes. I’ve seen them in the few pictures I have from my childhood. Even if my eyes were the murkiest, dingiest, dullest brown, I still would have loved them, as long as they were my mother’s. It’s really the only thing I have left of her.  I gave in on the hair and let Melanie have a field day, but I insisted on keeping my makeup simple — a soft pale pink blush, clear lip gloss, and a light dusting of gold eye shadow is all I need. A quick swipe of some mascara, and the look is complete.

I turned and there he stood, wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. A modest shapechanger, how refreshing. You wouldn’t even know that he had changed, save for the glistening sheen of dampness on his skin. He looked me over slowly, judging, taking my measure. I could blush demurely or I could do the same to him. I chose not to blush. A couple of inches taller than me, the Beast Lord gave an impression of coiled power. Easy, balanced stance. Blond hair, cut too short to grab. At first glance he looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, but his build betrayed him. His shoulders strained his T-shirt. His back was broad and corded with muscle, showing the power and strength a man developed in his early thirties. “What kind of a woman greets the Beast Lord with ‘here, kitty, kitty’?” he asked. “One of a kind.” I murmured the obvious reply. Eventually I had to look him in the eye. Better sooner than later. The Beast Lord had a strong square jaw. His nose was narrow with a misshapen bridge, as though it had been broken more than once and hadn’t healed right. Considering the regenerative powers of the shapechangers, someone must’ve pounded his face with a sledgehammer. Our stares met. Little golden sparks danced in his gray eyes. His gaze made me want to bow my head and look away. He regarded me as if I was an interesting new snack. “I’m the lord of the Free Beasts,” he said. “I figured.” Perhaps he expected me to curtsy. He leaned forward a little, puzzling over me as if I were an odd-looking insect. “Why would a knight-protector hire a no-name merc to investigate the death of his diviner?” I gave him my best cryptic smile.

For a brief moment she considered the unfairness of it all. How short was the time for fun, for pretty clothes, for dancing, for coquetting! Only a few, too few years! Then you married and wore dull-colored dresses and had babies that ruined your waist line and sat in corners at dances with other sober matrons and only emerged to dance with your husband or with old gentlemen who stepped on your feet. If you didn't do these things, the other matrons talked about you and then your reputation was ruined and your family disgraced. It seemed such a terrible waste to spend all your little girlhood learning how to be attractive and how to catch men and then only use the knowledge for a year or two. When she considered her training at the hands of Ellen and Mammy, se knew it had been thorough and good because it had always reaped results. There were set rules to be followed, and if you followed them success crowned your efforts. With old ladies you were sweet and guileless and appeared as simple minded as possible, for old ladies were sharp and they watched girls as jealously as cats, ready to pounce on any indiscretion of tongue or eye. With old gentlemen, a girl was pert and saucy and almost, but not quite, flirtatious, so that the old fools' vanities would be tickled. It made them feel devilish and young and they pinched your cheek and declared you were a minx. And, of course, you always blushed on such occasions, otherwise they would pinch you with more pleasure than was proper and then tell their sons that you were fast. With young girls and young married women, you slopped over with sugar and kissed them every time you met them, even if it was ten times a day. And you put your arms about their waists and suffered them to do the same to you, no matter how much you disliked it. You admired their frocks or their babies indiscriminately and teased about beaux and complimented husbands and giggled modestly and denied you had any charms at all compared with theirs. And, above all, you never said what you really thought about anything, any more than they said what they really thought. Other women's husbands you let severely alone, even if they were your own discarded beaux, and no matter how temptingly attractive they were. If you were too nice to young husbands, their wives said you were fast and you got a bad reputation and never caught any beaux of your own. But with young bachelors-ah, that was a different matter! You could laugh softly at them and when they came flying to see why you laughed, you could refuse to tell them and laugh harder and keep them around indefinitely trying to find out. You could promise, with your eyes, any number of exciting things that would make a man maneuver to get you alone. And, having gotten you alone, you could be very, very hurt or very, very angry when he tried to kiss you. You could make him apologize for being a cur and forgive him so sweetly that he would hang around trying to kiss you a second time. Sometimes, but not often, you did let them kiss you. (Ellen and Mammy had not taught her that but she learned it was effective). Then you cried and declared you didn't know what had come over you and that he couldn't ever respect you again. Then he had to dry your eyes and usually he proposed, to show just how much he did respect you. And there were-Oh, there were so many things to do to bachelors and she knew them all, the nuance of the sidelong glance, the half-smile behind the fan, the swaying of hips so that skirts swung like a bell, the tears, the laughter, the flattery, the sweet sympathy. Oh, all the tricks that never failed to work-except with Ashley.

It cannot be effaced from a man's soul what his ancestors have preferably and most constantly done: whether they were perhaps diligent economizers attached to a desk and a cash-box, modest and citizen-like in their desires, modest also in their virtues; or whether they were accustomed to commanding from morning till night, fond of rude pleasures and probably of still ruder duties and responsibilities; or whether, finally, at one time or another, they have sacrificed old privileges of birth and possession, in order to live wholly for their faith—for their "God,"—as men of an inexorable and sensitive conscience, which blushes at every compromise. It is quite impossible for a man NOT to have the qualities and predilections of his parents and ancestors in his constitution, whatever appearances may suggest to the contrary. This is the problem of race. Granted that one knows something of the parents, it is admissible to draw a conclusion about the child: any kind of offensive incontinence, any kind of sordid envy, or of clumsy self-vaunting—the three things which together have constituted the genuine plebeian type in all times—such must pass over to the child, as surely as bad blood; and with the help of the best education and culture one will only succeed in DECEIVING with regard to such heredity.—And what else does education and culture try to do nowadays! In our very democratic, or rather, very plebeian age, "education" and "culture" MUST be essentially the art of deceiving—deceiving with regard to origin, with regard to the inherited plebeianism in body and soul. An educator who nowadays preached truthfulness above everything else, and called out constantly to his pupils: "Be true! Be natural! Show yourselves as you are!"—even such a virtuous and sincere ass would learn in a short time to have recourse to the FURCA of Horace, NATURAM EXPELLERE: with what results? "Plebeianism" USQUE RECURRET.

them.” “Okay, Arceus and Calvin,” I said. “Yes?” they answered. “I need you guys to get horses and track down Team Scorpion. Once you have their location, we will assemble a team and attack their hideout.” Arceus nodded. “It sounds like a good plan.” “But what if they just keep running and they never stop?” asked Calvin. “They have to stop sometime,” said Shadow. “Plus, they have to stash their loot somewhere.” Calvin nodded. “Okay, we’ll head to Thane’s stable. I’ll pick up Rose too, she can help us track them.” “Good idea,” I said. Before leaving, Arceus turned to Cindy and said, “Alas, our time reunited was so short, and now we must part again, my love.” “Uh, why are you calling me that? I’m not your love,” Cindy replied. “Oh, but you are, darling. I love you, so therefore, you are my love.” “You love me…?” Cindy had a shocked expression on her face. “Yes, of course. If not for you, I would have left this town a long time ago.” “Really?” "To be honest, I hate this town. There's always some troubling event going on here. But this is your hometown, and I know you love it so. Therefore, I will gladly fight to my dying breath to defend it if I must.” Cindy blushed. “Um… that’s… very sweet of you…” “Well, we should head out now. Until we meet again, my love.” Arceus hugged Cindy and then he left with Calvin to go to the stable. “What should we do in the meantime?” asked Devlin. “We’ll go home and check up on everyone. We gotta make sure they’re okay.” “And then?” “We’ll prepare for the assault on Team Scorpion’s hideout.” Knight-Captain Devlin nodded. We made our way back to town. When we arrived, we saw a bunch of villagers by town hall. They were drowning the mayor with questions. “Who were those jerks?!” a villager asked. “What did they want?!” asked another. “I thought this place was safe!” yelled a new villager. “How are you going to protect us from them?!” The questions went on and on. The mayor lost the crowd, he had no control over them whatsoever. They were becoming restless.

Dom stood dumbfounded as Jane disappeared into the street. Then he hurried to catch up to her, to get some answers. She knew. How the blazes did she know? The answer to that was obvious. “So, Nancy told you the truth, did she?” he snapped as he fell into step beside her. Jane didn’t reply, just kept marching toward the inn like a Hussar bent on battle. “When?” he demanded. “How long have you known?” “For nine years, you…you conniving…lying--” “Nine years? You knew all this time, and you didn’t say anything?” “Say anything!” She halted just short of the innyard entrance to glare at him. “How the devil was I to do that? You disappeared into the streets of London as surely as if you were a footpad or a pickpocket.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Oh, I read about your heroic exploits from time to time, but other than that, I neither heard nor saw anything of you until last year, when you showed up at George’s town house. It was only pure chance that I happened to be at dinner with Nancy that day. As you’ll recall, you didn’t stay long. Nor did you behave as if you would welcome any confidences.” Remembering the cool reception he’d given her, he glanced away, unable to bear the accusation in her eyes. “No, I suppose I didn’t.” “Besides,” she said, “it hardly mattered that I knew the truth. I assumed that if you ever changed your mind about making a life with me, you would seek me out. Since you never did, you were clearly determined to remain a bachelor.” His gaze shot back to her. “It was more complicated than that.” She snorted. “It always is with you. Which is precisely why I’m happy I’m engaged to someone else.” That sent jealousy roaring through him. “Yet you let me kiss you.” A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “You…you took me by surprise, that’s all. But it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.” The blazes it wouldn’t. He intended to find out if the past was as firmly in the past as she claimed. But obviously he couldn’t do it here in the street. He glanced up at the gloomy sky. Or right now. She followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes,” she said in a dull voice. “It looks like we’ll have a rainy trip back.” She headed into the innyard. “Perhaps if we hurry, we can reach Winborough before it starts. Besides, we’ve got only three hours until sunset, and it’s not safe to ride in an open phaeton after dark.” She was right, but he didn’t mean to drop this discussion. He needed answers, and once they were on the road, he meant to get them.

We can’t walk through the house like this--we’ll make a mess.” Ryder’s jeans are soaked through and caked with mud. I’m wearing shorts, but my bare legs are spattered all over. “We’re going to have to strip here,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave it all in a pile. I’ll toss it in the wash after lunch.” He just stares at me, wide-eyed. “What? Now?” “Yeah, you go first,” I say, amused by the blush that’s creeping up his neck. “Geez, Ryder. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your underpants before.” I have vague memories of Ryder running around Magnolia Landing’s lawn wearing nothing but superhero undies. And after all the years of shared beach houses and hotel suites, well…like I said, we were more like siblings when we were little. “If it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll turn around,” I offer. “Nah, it’s fine.” He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. And then I remember why this was a bad idea. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his tanned, sculpted chest, his narrow waist, and jutting hip bones. Oh, man. What was I thinking? I swallow hard as he unbuttons his jeans and slides down the zipper. Boxers or briefs? That’s all I’m thinking as he peels down the wet denim--slowly, as if he’s enjoying this little striptease. He steps out of them gracefully and tosses them into a heap beside his shirt before straightening to his full height, facing me. Oh. My. God. I exhale sharply. The answer is boxer briefs, heather-gray ones. And right now they’re clinging to him wetly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He looks like a god. A six-foot-four, football-playing god, and I am staring at him with my mouth hanging open like some kind of pathetic freak. Snap out of it. “Sorry,” I say, averting my gaze. My cheeks are burning now. I probably look like a clown. That’s what happens when a fair-skinned redhead like me blushes. “If you…um…want to shower. I mean, you know--” “I’ll just go put on something dry for now. We really need to eat and then get that stuff out of the barn.” I just nod, biting my lower lip. I can’t even look at him. This is crazy. “Your turn to strip,” he says, and my gaze shoots up to meet his. He’s smiling now, his dimples in full effect. “Ugh, just go and change.” I cover my eyes with one hand and flap the other toward the hall. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five,” he says. “Great.” I let my hand drop only when I hear his footsteps move away. Then yeah, I’ll admit it--I allow myself a nice long look at his backside as he walks away from me. And let me tell you, it was well worth the look.

Like,” he repeats with distaste. “How about I tell you what I don’t like? I do not like postmodernism, postapocalyptic settings, postmortem narrators, or magic realism. I rarely respond to supposedly clever formal devices, multiple fonts, pictures where they shouldn’t be—basically, gimmicks of any kind. I find literary fiction about the Holocaust or any other major world tragedy to be distasteful—nonfiction only, please. I do not like genre mash-ups à la the literary detective novel or the literary fantasy. Literary should be literary, and genre should be genre, and crossbreeding rarely results in anything satisfying. I do not like children’s books, especially ones with orphans, and I prefer not to clutter my shelves with young adult. I do not like anything over four hundred pages or under one hundred fifty pages. I am repulsed by ghostwritten novels by reality television stars, celebrity picture books, sports memoirs, movie tie-in editions, novelty items, and—I imagine this goes without saying—vampires. I rarely stock debuts, chick lit, poetry, or translations. I would prefer not to stock series, but the demands of my pocketbook require me to. For your part, you needn’t tell me about the ‘next big series’ until it is ensconced on the New York Times Best Sellers list. Above all, Ms. Loman, I find slim literary memoirs about little old men whose little old wives have died from cancer to be absolutely intolerable. No matter how well written the sales rep claims they are. No matter how many copies you promise I’ll sell on Mother’s Day.” Amelia blushes, though she is angry more than embarrassed. She agrees with some of what A.J. has said, but his manner is unnecessarily insulting. Knightley Press doesn’t even sell half of that stuff anyway. She studies him. He is older than Amelia but not by much, not by more than ten years. He is too young to like so little. “What do you like?” she asks. “Everything else,” he says. “I will also admit to an occasional weakness for short-story collections. Customers never want to buy them though.” There is only one short-story collection on Amelia’s list, a debut. Amelia hasn’t read the whole thing, and time dictates that she probably won’t, but she liked the first story. An American sixth-grade class and an Indian sixth-grade class participate in an international pen pal program. The narrator is an Indian kid in the American class who keeps feeding comical misinformation about Indian culture to the Americans. She clears her throat, which is still terribly dry. “The Year Bombay Became Mumbai. I think it will have special int—” “No,” he says. “I haven’t even told you what it’s about yet.” “Just no.” “But why?” “If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit that you’re only telling me about it because I’m partially Indian and you think this will be my special interest. Am I right?” Amelia imagines smashing the ancient computer over his head. “I’m telling you about this because you said you liked short stories! And it’s the only one on my list. And for the record”—here, she lies—“it’s completely wonderful from start to finish. Even if it is a debut. “And do you know what else? I love debuts. I love discovering something new. It’s part of the whole reason I do this job.” Amelia rises. Her head is pounding. Maybe she does drink too much? Her head is pounding and her heart is, too. “Do you want my opinion?” “Not particularly,” he says. “What are you, twenty-five?” “Mr. Fikry, this is a lovely store, but if you continue in this this this”—as a child, she stuttered and it occasionally returns when she is upset; she clears her throat—“this backward way of thinking, there won’t be an Island Books before too long.

You are my friend, Prairie Flower. If I tell you what is in my heart, will you promise never to tell?" Prairie Flower laid a hand on Jesse's shoulder, pulling it away quickly when her friend flinched in pain. "I will not betray my friend." Taking a deep breath, Jesse lifted her head. "When Rides the Wing comes near to me, my heart sings.But I do not believe that he cares for me.I am clumsy in all of the things a Lakota woman must know.I cannot speak his language without many childish mistakes. And..." Jesse reached up to lay her hand on her short hair, "I am nothing to look at.I am not..." Prairie Flower grew angry. "I have told you he cares for you.Can you not see it?" Jesse shook her head. Prairie Flower spoke the unspeakable. "Then,if you cannot see that he cares for you in what he does,you must see it in what he has not done. You have been in his tepee. Dancing Waters has been gone many moons." "Stop!" Jesse demanded. "Stop it! I..just don't say any more!" She leaped up and ran out of the tepee-and into Rides the Wind, who was returning from the river where he had gone to draw water. Jesse knocked the water skins from both of his hands. Water spilled out and she fumbled an apology then bent stiffly to pick up the skins, wincing with the effort. "I will do it, Walks the Fire." His voice was tender as he bent and took the skins from her. Jesse protested, "It is the wife's job." She blushed, realizing that she had used a wrong word-the word for wife, instead of the word for woman. Rides the Wind interrupted before she could correct herself. "Walks the Fire is not the wife of Rides the Wind." Jesse blushed and remained quiet. A hand reached for hers and Rides the Wind said, "Come, sit." He helped her sit down just outside the door of the tepee. The village women took note as he went inside and brought out a buffalo robe. Sitting by Jesse,he placed the robe on the ground and began to talk. "I will tell you how it is with the Lakota. When a man wishes to take a wife..." he described Lakota courtship. As he talked, Jesse realiced that all that Prairie Flower had said seemed to be true.He had,indeed, done nearly everything involved in the courtship ritual. Still, she told herself, there is a perfectly good explanation for everything he has done. Rides the Wind continued describing the wedding feast. Jesse continued to reason with herself as he spoke. Then she realized the voice had stopped and he had repeated a question. "How is it among the whites?How does a man gain a wife?" Embarrassed,Jesse described the sparsest of courtships, the simplest wedding.Rides the Wind listened attentively. When she had finished, he said, "There is one thing the Lakota brave who wishes a wife does that I have not described." Pulling Jesse to her feet, he continued, "One evening, as he walks with his woman..." He reached out to pick up the buffalo robe.He was aware that the village women were watching carefully. "He spreads out his arms..." Rides the Wind spread his arms,opening the buffalo robe to its full length, "and wraps it about his woman," Rides the Wind turned toward Jesse and reached around her, "so that they are both inside the buffalo robe." He looked down at Jesse, trying to read her expression.When he saw nothing in the gray eyes, he abruptly dropped his arms. "But it is hot today and your wounds have not healed.I have said enough.You see how it is with the Lakota." When Jesse still said nothing, he continued, "You spoke of a celebration with a min-is-ter.It is a word I do not know.What is this min-is-ter?" "A man who belives in the Bible and teaches his people about God from the Bible." "What if there is no minister and a man and a woman wish to be married?" Jesse grew more uncomfortable. "I suppose they would wait until a minister came.

joke around—nothing serious—as I work to get my leg back to where it was. Two weeks later, I’m in an ankle-to-hip leg brace and hobbling around on crutches. The brace can’t come off for another six weeks, so my parents lend me their townhouse in New York City and Lucien hires me an assistant to help me out around the house. Some guy named Trevor. He’s okay, but I don’t give him much to do. I want to regain my independence as fast as I can and get back out there for Planet X. Yuri, my editor, is griping that he needs me back and I’m more than happy to oblige. But I still need to recuperate, and I’m bored as hell cooped up in the townhouse. Some buddies of mine from PX stop by and we head out to a brunch place on Amsterdam Street my assistant sometimes orders from. Deacon, Logan, Polly, Jonesy and I take a table in Annabelle’s Bistro, and settle in for a good two hours, running our waitress ragged. She’s a cute little brunette doing her best to stay cheerful for us while we give her a hard time with endless coffee refills, loud laughter, swearing, and general obnoxiousness. Her nametag says Charlotte, and Deacon calls her “Sweet Charlotte” and ogles and teases her, sometimes inappropriately. She has pretty eyes, I muse, but otherwise pay her no mind. I have my leg up on a chair in the corner, leaning back, as if I haven’t a care in the world. And I don’t. I’m going to make a full recovery and pick up my life right where I left off. Finally, a manager with a severe hairdo and too much makeup, politely, yet pointedly, inquires if there’s anything else we need, and we take the hint. We gather our shit and Deacon picks up the tab. We file out, through the maze of tables, and I’m last, hobbling slowly on crutches. I’m halfway out when I realize I left my Yankees baseball cap on the table. I return to get it and find the waitress staring at the check with tears in her eyes. She snaps the black leather book shut when she sees me and hurriedly turns away. “Forget something?” she asks with false cheer and a shaky smile. “My hat,” I say. She’s short and I’m tall. I tower over her. “Did Deacon leave a shitty tip? He does that.” “Oh no, no, I mean…it’s fine,” she says, turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…um, kind of a rough month. You know how it is.” She glances me up and down in my expensive jeans and designer shirt. “Or maybe you don’t.” The waitress realizes what she said, and another round of apologies bursts out of her as she begins stacking our dirty dishes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Really. I have this bad habit…blurting. I don’t know why I said that. Anyway, um…” I laugh, and fish into my back pocket for my wallet. “Don’t worry about it. And take this. For your trouble.” I offer her forty dollars and her eyes widen. Up close, her eyes are even prettier—large and luminous, but sad too. A blush turns her skin scarlet “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, please. It’s fine, really.” She bustles even faster now, not looking at me. I shrug and drop the twenties on the table. “I hope your month improves.” She stops and stares at the money, at war with herself. “Okay. Thank you,” she says finally, her voice cracking. She takes the money and stuffs it into her apron. I feel sorta bad, poor girl. “Have a nice day, Charlotte,” I say, and start to hobble away. She calls after me, “I hope your leg gets better soon.” That was big of her, considering what ginormous bastards we’d been to her all morning. Or maybe she’s just doing her job. I wave a hand to her without looking back, and leave Annabelle’s. Time heals me. I go back to work. To Planet X. To the world and all its thrills and beauty. I don’t go back to my parents’ townhouse; hell I’m hardly in NYC anymore. I don’t go back to Annabelle’s and I never see—or think about—that cute waitress with the sad eyes ever again. “Fucking hell,” I whisper as the machine reads the last line of

They sat next to me on the couch, and watching that beautiful little angel’s face, with her blushing cheeks, with her dark and curly hair, I started laughing like a child.

Gentlemen," Lily informed the room at large, "I came to tell you I must abandon the game to show my new guest 'round the house. Lansdale, perhaps you would take my place at the table?" "He will, but not half so attractively," someone remarked. There were assorted chuckles around the room. Lansdale, a middle-aged man of unusually short stature but possessing a handsome aquiline face, regarded Sara with bold interest. "Perhaps, Lady Raiford, you would keep to the billiards game and allow me to show your guest around." Sara blushed at the suggestion, while several of the men laughed. Rolling her eyes, Lily addressed a remark to Sara. "Watch out for that one, my lamb. In fact, don't trust a single of these men. I know them all, and I can vouch for the fact that underneath those attractive exteriors is a pack of wolves." Sara could see how Lily's remark pleased the men, who clearly liked to think of themselves as predators, paunches and receding hairlines notwithstanding.

The lovely young lady in the mirror was not a stranger, nor was she Lady Overlooked. Once again, Brierly had found some essential core of her model and designed the whole dress around it. Brierly had gathered Nissa’s brown hair in a loose pile on top of her head, with a curl spilling over here and there. The comb secured a single rose just verging on full bloom. Nissa still looked short and sturdy but—endearingly so. A friendly elf. Youthful, but not childish. The dress flattered and concealed the correct curves. Not even Aunt Perturbance would mistake her for fifteen tonight. Nissa blushed–ith pleasure at her appearance, yes–but mainly that her childhood heroine would think so highly of her as to craft such a masterpiece. That she would know her so well as to reflect the true Nissa, but love her so well as to reflect the best possible Nissa.

Is RECON another acronym?” asked Mudflap. (RECON is not an acronym. It’s short for reconnaissance, because reconnaissance is a tough word to spell correctly.) “Um,” said Josh. “Yes. Yes, RECON is an acronym. Now—” “What does it stand for?” asked Splinters. Josh sighed. “Well . . . it . . . stands for . . .” Josh stared at the ceiling of his barracks. He felt instinctively that this was an important test of his leadership. Josh firmly believed that good leaders never admit when they don’t know something. And the fact was, Josh didn’t know what this acronym stood for. (Again, it wasn’t an acronym.) He began to blush a pale plum color. This was a tough spot. What could he do? “RECON stands for . . . Really . . .” He was off to a good start! “Enormous . . . Counterstrike . . .” O. O. O. “On . . .” Aha! Josh was almost there. He screwed up his eyes and willed all his blood to his brain. Josh’s face darkened and became the shade of a turnip. Just one letter left! His eyes lit up. The word came to him like a gift from his ancestors, inscribed in his mind with the ballpoint pen of principals past. “NIMBUSES!

In the course of our personal and professional lives, we often run into situations that appear puzzling at first blush. We cannot see for the life of us why Mr. X acted in a particular way, we cannot understand how the experimental results came out the way they did, etc. Typically, however, within a very short time we come up with an explanation, a hypothesis, or an interpretation of the facts that renders them understandable, coherent, or natural. The same phenomenon is observed in perception. People are very good at detecting patterns and trends even in random data. In contrast to our skill in inventing scenarios, explanations, and interpretations, our ability to assess their likelihood, or to evaluate them critically, is grossly inadequate. Once we have adopted a particular hypothesis or interpretation, we grossly exaggerate the likelihood of that hypothesis, and find it very difficult to see things any other way.

To begin with I want you to take down your hair and look into the mirror.” “Why?” I asked even as I did what he said. It was mortifying to see myself naked and framed from behind by the big, blond vampire. Mortifying but strangely erotic too. With my hair down around my shoulders in a red-gold cloud, I looked very young and very vulnerable. Corbin’s skin was as pale as mine but he was so big he dwarfed me, making me feel like a doll or a little girl in his lap. “Because I want you to see yourself the way I see you. Addison, do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” “What?” I met his eyes in the mirror. “What are you talking about?” “I said you’re beautiful.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “Is that really so surprising?” I frowned. “Frankly, yes. I mean, I don’t hate my body but no one is going to be asking me to model any new fall fashions anytime soon.” He arched an eyebrow. “And why is that?” I ticked reasons off on my fingers. “I’m too short for one thing. Not to mention my breasts are too small.” “They are perfect for your size.” His large hands cupped the undercurves of my breasts and I felt myself blushing again as my body reacted to his touch. “Your nipples are quite beautiful,” he murmured, brushing them gently with his thumbs and sending sparks of pleasure all through me. “Such a pale, innocent pink. I wondered what color they would be.” “My thighs are too big,” I said, trying desperately to get my mind off of my now-erect nipples. Corbin continued to tease them in that slow, lazy way as though he had forever to touch me. “And I’m not toned enough—I’m too soft.” He shook his head. “My darling, I have been hard and cold for over four hundred years. Let me assure you, there is no such thing as too soft.” He placed a hand on my lower belly, right above the sensitive mound of my pussy. “The feel of your skin, the flutter of your pulse when I touch you, the scent of your arousal are all incredibly beautiful and erotic. See yourself for what you are and revel in your beauty.

And that one guy, Martin that everyone liked, well he had a gash above his right eye and bruising near his jawline making him look even more corrupt. It took a moment for me to remember hearing he was a boxer. He caught me staring and stared back. No blinking. No movement. Just staring. Staring. I looked away blushing. From my periphery I could see him raise a hand to the cut above his eye then quickly shove his fists into the front pockets of his jeans. I turned my head to catch his eyes fall to the floor. It looked like he was focused on the leg of a barstool, but I think I saw a smile split his face.

Girls get screwed. Not that kind of screwed, what I mean is, they're always on the short end of things. The way things work, how guys feel great, but make girls feel cheap for doing exactly what they beg for. The way they get to play you, all the while claiming they love you and making you believe it's true. The way it's okay to gift their heart one day, a backhand the next, to move on to the apricot when the peach blushes and bruises. These things make me believe God's a man, after all.

The issue of how kin and group selection relate illustrates one striking aspect of the levels of selection debate in biology, which explains why it has captured the attention of philosophers. The debate involves a curious mix of empirical and conceptual questions, often intertwined. At first blush, the levels question may seem purely empirical. Given that natural selection can occur at more than one level, surely we just need to find out the level(s) at which it does occur, or has done in the past? With enough empirical data, surely the question can be straightforwardly answered? In fact, matters are not so simple. Certainly, the debate is responsible to empirical data, but there is more to it than this. For not infrequently, one finds authors who agree about the basic biological facts in a given case, but who disagree about how to identify the level(s) of selection. Such disagreements are not the ‘normal’ scientific ones that can be resolved by collecting data, but have a conceptual, and in some cases even an ideological, dimension.

His smile becomes wider, and he takes a step closer, eyes me up and down, and then he whispers in my ear, his voice low and so sexy. "What if I tell you that I think you're pretty cute when you're flustered?" Wait. Does he like me? I must be dreaming. I want to squeal, but instead, I blush and rely on humor to hide my true feelings. "I'm definitely going to have to talk to the owner about that one. We have policies in place regarding sexual harassment, you know." "We could break them." "What are you saying?" "I think you had me that first day I walked into the kitchen. I've been dreaming about seeing you in those shorts again.

When they teach virtue, of course they delight me; but when they show how far my own character falls short of those models of virtue, your pupil blushes sadly often, and is angry with himself

In Nanaimo, at the age of fourteen, Warren discovered on his own: acid, how to drive, the collected works of Too Short. Clara, an older neighborhood girl, taken, as the girls often were and might always be, by the sight of Warren’s large eyes and hopeful smile, introduced him to gangster rap, while Laura gave him his first tab of acid one night when they sat on the steps of the Silver City Theater. Clara would pinch his cheeks and tell him how cute he was, and he’d blush but enjoy the affection because he knew it so rarely.

A little girl, perhaps five years of age and bursting with enthusiasm, broke away from her mother and ran toward me, stopping a couple of feet short, suddenly aware that she was in the midst of strangers. She was holding a purple flower, her dark hair held back by a woven headband, her large blue eyes round with alarm. “It’s all right,” I said to her, believing she intended to give the flower to me. “Don’t be afraid.” She looked at me curiously, then took a tentative step--not toward me, but toward Narian. He watched her draw closer, his expression uncertain, as though he were trying to determine the girl’s motivations. When she stood before him, he knelt down to accept the flower, while the crowd held its collective breath, and I wondered if they thought he would harm her. “You’re brave like my papa,” she said, and the people chuckled. The girl blushed, not used to such attention. A smile flicked across Narian’s face. “And you’re beautiful like the woman I love.” He touched her cheek, and the girl giggled, then ran back to her mother. A sprinkling of applause broke out, which Narian acknowledged with a nod. When I caught his eye, I beamed at him, suddenly envisioning our future. He would be the father of my children someday, and a wonderful father he would be.

Anthropic Principle implies that when we look at the world around us, it would seem, at least at first blush, that the universe was somehow designed to support and nourish human life. This concept, which is very prevalent in the world of secular science and philosophy, didn’t originate with Christian scholars. But the evidence points so overwhelmingly toward this apparent design in the universe that it’s virtually undeniable by experts of every religious and nonreligious stripe. This has sent skeptics scurrying to find some sort of natural explanation for this apparently supernatural phenomenon. Here are a few of the hard facts:         Raise or lower the universe’s rate of expansion by even one part in a million, and it would have ruled out the possibility of life.       If the average distance between stars were any greater, planets like earth would not have been formed; any smaller, the planetary orbits necessary for life would not have occurred.       If the ratio of carbon to oxygen had been slightly different than it is, none of us would have been here to breathe the air.       Change the tilt of the earth’s axis slightly in one direction, and we would freeze. Change it the other direction, and we’d burn up.       Suppose the earth had been a bit closer or further from the sun, or just a little larger or smaller, or if it rotated at a speed any different from the one we’re spinning at right now. Given any of these changes, the resulting temperature variations would be completely fatal.   So the lesson we can draw from the Anthropic Principle is this: someone must have gone to a lot of effort to make things just right so that you and I could be here to enjoy life. In short, modern science points to the fact that we must really matter to God! Being the ever-obedient

She wore a dress so short she’d make a hooker blush.

You’re very attractive,” I said, certain I would have been blushing had I the blood to do so. “That is, for someone who is encased in flesh.” Nice pink envelope you have there, I thought. She

Yes, he has, but I would like to ask you a question. Do you ever take time to eat? Would you like to join me for dinner? My treat?" Avery asked, again he was met with more uncertainty. The question must have thrown Kane off. After another moment of pause, Markie interrupted them, bringing the bottle of wine to the table. Avery went through the steps of tasting and accepting before Kane answered the question. "Thank you for the invitation, but I must regrettably decline. Enjoy yourself, and this bottle of wine's on me." Kane's skin was pale, probably from the long winter months. The slight blush never left his cheeks as he nodded and left the table. Kane's response wasn't quite a rebuff, but definitely a no, without any excuse as to why. What did that mean? Yet somehow, Avery recognized those few short moments had set them on a new course. One Avery had no idea about, but was more than happy to play along with.

Got your stuff?" Nora's checks flushed. "Um, yeah, but..." "What?" "My hand hurts so much, and I need two hands to do my button. Could you...um..." He furrowed his brow, unsure what she meant as she trailed off, blushing more now. Following her gaze, he glanced down at her pants. Sure enough, her jeans were on but unbuttoned, revealing a peek of the tiny green short-shorts from her uniform. He chuckled and reached forward, buttoning her jeans for her. "I've never put pants on a woman before, but I'll make an exception this time." "I appreciate your sacrifice," she said sarcastically, and Kane decided then and there that he wanted to see her smiling like that all the time.

I’d like to be with you,” she said, “but only if you’re comfortable with it. It’s not going to hurt the baby—you can call the doctor and ask her yourself. Or talk to Z—he and Bella were together while she was pregnant. She told me so. Talk to whoever you need to, but please rethink where you’re at. Being with you has to have a place in all this.” As he cracked his knuckles like he was considering things, she stared at the tattoos that ran up his inner forearms. She tried to imagine a son of hers with a set of those and reached out, turning one of his hands over so she could run her fingertips across the symbols. “Will he get these, too?” So many names, she thought. “Or because I’m his mother, is he not allowed—” “Fuck that shit. He can abso get them—and I’ll have V do it. But only if he wants them.” “I’m surprised.” “About?” “How much I want him to. I want him to be just like you.” There was a long pause and Wrath had to clear his throat. “That’s just about the best compliment anyone’s ever paid me.” “I don’t know. . . . I just feel like you’re the perfect man.” “Now you’re making me blush.” She laughed in a rush. “It’s true.” “I curse. Constantly. I have a short temper. I order people around—including you.” “You’re also a great fighter. Great lover—although my son will never, ever have sex—nope, not going there, and if we have grandchildren, they will be immaculately conceived. Wait, where was I—oh, yeah, so you’re also very loyal. You’ve never looked at another woman.” Wrath put his index finger up. “And that would be true even if I could see.” “And you’re smart. Great-looking—” He leaned in. “Are you trying to butter me up so I’ll have sex with you?” “Is it working?” “Maybe.” He kissed her lips softly. “Just give me a little time. Only yesterday you were rushed to the doc’s because you were throwing up.” She ran her hand down his cheek and his hard jaw. “I’ll wait for you. Always.” -Beth & Wrath

First of all, I simply refuse to believe that you're not absolutely incredible between the sheets." Ignoring her blush, he carried on. "Being good in bed is all about wanting to be there with the person that you're with... if you're enjoying yourself and feeling desired, then you'll be nothing short of spectacular, baby. I know that. Second, yeah, OK... sex is about pleasing the other person, but not in a 'slave pleasing her master' kind of way. It's not a fucking chore, and it sure as hell ain't a wifely duty or obligation. It ain't about fulfiling someone's expectations – it's all about wanting to give and take, in equal measure. Because baby, if you ain't going out of your mind with pleasure, then I'm the one doing something wrong. Not you." Claire

2. Stutter. I can be on the phone for hours with my best friend, but if confronted by a cute guy, wham! I get power outage, my brain is short circuited. You'd be lucky to get anything out of me besides "er...um...uh..." and a ton of blushing. 3.Stumble. I trip over my own feet. Yeah it's easy to do that when you're five feet seven and gangly, but I managed to make the dance teacher cry when I was five years old. Or even worse, I knock things over and spill things over and spill food.

Her relationship with Paul went back much further, of course. It wasn’t as though they became friends because of Matt’s death. In fact, that night long ago when she met Matt, it had been Paul across the room who’d first caught her eye. He was so tall, his legs so long and hands so big, it was hard for him not to stand out in a crowd. There was that willful, sandy hair that had to be kept short because it would defy any kind of styling. Not that Paul was the kind of man to fuss with his hair—it was obvious even from a distance that he stuck to basics. It was his masculinity she noticed; he looked like a lumberjack who’d cleaned up to go into town. He had an engaging smile; one tooth in front was just a little crooked and he had a dimple on the left cheek. Heavy brown brows, deep chocolate eyes—details she discovered a bit later, of course. She hadn’t even noticed Matt… But it was Matt who put the rush on her, swept her off her feet, made her laugh, made her blush. While Paul hung back, shy and silent, Matt charmed her to her very bones. And shortly after the charm, he made her desire him madly, love him deeply. He was hardly a consolation prize—he was one of the best men in the world. And a devoted husband, so in love with her. She loved Paul before Matt’s death, grew to love him more deeply afterward. When little Mattie was born, she said to Paul, “I will never love anyone but Matt.” But as the weeks passed she realized that she didn’t have to stop loving Matt any more than Paul should. Matt would be with them both forever. And it was like the natural order of things that Paul should step in now.

work vehicles and a lone motorcycle, her SUV had the road to itself, which meant she would get there faster. Indeed, the familiarity of turning onto Caroline’s street was a lifeline. Once she parked in front of the mint-over-teal Victorian, she put Tad on her hip and hurried up the walk. The squeak of the screen was actually reassuring. And the smell of time when she stepped inside? Heaven. “Mom?” Caroline ran barefoot from the kitchen, stopped short, and put a hand to her heart. “Mother and child,” she breathed and slowly approached. Her hair was a wavy mess, and her face blushed in a way that made her look forty, but her eyes, moist now, held adoration. Wrapping a firm arm around Jamie, she said by her ear, “We will not mention the show. It has no place in this house with us right now, okay?” Jamie hadn’t even thought about the show, and certainly couldn’t think of it with Caroline’s soft, woodsy scent soothing her nerves and giving her strength. “Mom,” she began, drawing back, but Caroline was studying Tad. “Oh my. A real little boy. Hey,” she said softly and touched his hair. Jamie felt the warmth of the touch, but Tad just stared without blinking. “I think I know you. Aren’t you Theodore MacAfee the Second?” Those very big eyes were somber as he shook his head. “Who, then?” “Taddy,” came the baby voice. “The Taddy who likes cats?” Caroline asked, to which he started looking around the floor, “or the Taddy who likes pancakes?” “Pancakes, please,” Jamie inserted. “I promised him we’d eat here. Mom—” She broke off when Master meowed. Setting Tad on the floor, she waited only until he had run after the cat before turning back to her mother and holding out her left hand. Caroline frowned. “You’re shaking.” She had steadied the hand with her own before she finally focused on that bare ring finger. Wide eyes flew to Jamie’s. In that instant, with this first oh-so-important disclosure, it was real. Jamie could barely breathe. “I returned it. Brad and I split.” “What happened?” Caroline whispered, but quickly caught herself. Cupping Jamie’s face, she said, “First things first. I don’t have a booster seat for Tad.” “He’ll kneel on a chair. He looks like Dad. Do you hate him for that?” Tad was on his haunches on the other side of the room, waiting for Master to come out from under the spindle legs of a lamp stand. “I should,” Caroline confessed, “but how to hate a child? He may have Roy’s coloring, but he’ll take on your expressions, and soon enough he’ll look like himself. Besides,” she gave a gritty smirk, “it’s not like your father gets the last laugh. If he thought I was a withered-up old hag—” “He didn’t.” “Yes, he did. Isn’t that what booting me off Gut It! was about?” “You said we weren’t talking about that,” Jamie begged, knowing that despite this nascent reconciliation, Gut It! remained a huge issue. Not talking about it wouldn’t make it go away, but she didn’t want the intrusion of it now. Caroline seemed to agree. She spoke more calmly. “Your father’s opinion of me went way back to our marriage, so this, today, here, now, is satisfying for me. How happy do you think he is looking down from heaven to see his son at my house, chasing my cat and about to eat my grandmother’s pancakes, cooked by me in my kitchen and served on a table I made?” The part of Jamie that resented Roy for what he had made Caroline suffer shared her mother’s satisfaction. She might have said that, if Caroline hadn’t gone from bold to unsure in a breath. “I’m not equipped yet, baby. Does Tad need a bottle for his water?” “No. He’s done with bottles. Just a little water in a cup will do, since I forgot the sippy.” In her rush to get out of the house, she had also left Moose, which meant she would have to go back for him before dropping Tad off, which meant she would be late for her first appointment, which she couldn’t reschedule because she had back-to-backs all day, which meant she would have to postpone to another day, which

E-13 No wonder it makes a man blush. No wonder a real true preacher look upon his congregation and try to lead them before the throne of God, and visit their homes and find them smoking cigarettes, telling dirty jokes to each other, entertaining in the back yard with beer parties, walking around on the streets, their young women, and middle age, and so forth, and even grandmother with little shorts on. Mother out on the street with a baby on one arm, dressed sexy enough to attract the attention of any bootlegger that walked the street, and calling themselves Christians? It would make any true man of God blush to bring such a person in the Presence of God. Right. ( "A Blushing Prophet" Preached on Sunday evening, 25th November 1956 at the Branham Tabernacle in Jeffersonville, Indiana, U.S.A. - See Paragraph E-13 ).

But, my lady, you seem to have an altogether different admirer who can’t take his eyes off you. And, at this particular moment, he doesn’t appear at all pleased that you are enjoying yourself in my arms.” She started to look to see to whom he was referring, when he stopped her quickly. “Don’t look, kitten. Then he’ll know we’re discussing him.” “Who?” “You mean you don’t know? You haven’t noticed him watching you all evening? All season?” “Freddie, WHO?” “Blackmoor, of course.” “You’re touched.” Alex laughed, shaking her head. “He’s not been watching me all season, and if he has been watching me tonight, it’s only because he feels obligated to. He’s my chaperone for the evening.” Freddie laughed shortly. “Really? Your chaperone? It seems to me that your family are the ones who are touched, Alex. They’re practically feeding you to the lion.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Freddie. Blackmoor has no interest in me other than pseudobrotherly admiration.” “Oh? I’ve two sisters myself, if you’ll remember, Alex. And I’ve never looked at one of them quite the way he’s looking at you right now.” It took all of Alex’s strength not to look. “Which is how, precisely?” “As though he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss you or kill you.” She gasped, a blush coming to her cheeks. “Freddie!” “Don’t shoot the messenger, sweet.” “You’re sorely mistaken.” “Perhaps.

Anders disentangled himself from Valerie’s clinging arms and took a step back. He paused to take several breaths, attempting to give his brain a chance to recover before turning toward Lucian. Once he faced the man, he simply asked, “What did you say?” “I said I’d rather my wife not look out our French doors and see your bare ass if you don’t mind,” Lucian said succinctly. Anders glanced down at himself, relieved to see that, as he’d thought, he hadn’t yet achieved undoing and dropping his drawers. Trying for dignity he straightened his shoulders and said, “I assure you my self-control would have kicked in before things went that far.” “Yeah right,” Lucian snorted. “One more minute and you would have been bare-assed and giving Valerie a good seeing to right there on the porch rail.” Grimacing, he added, “For future reference, I don’t recommend it. Leigh got some nasty slivers off that rail some months ago. It’s too rough for such endeavors.” Anders glanced over his shoulder to Valerie with concern at this news. The shorts she was wearing weren’t especially long and he had no doubt her upper legs at least had been ground into the wood as he’d dry humped her. “Are you all right?” Blushing brightly, she nodded. “I think so.” “I’ll check later.” Anders had meant that to be reassuring, but Valerie’s blush went from a becoming rosy color to the red of a tomato and her wide eyes shot to Lucian with embarrassment. “And that is precisely why we need help at the moment,” Lucian said dryly to Valerie, obviously having read enough of their minds to know that was what Anders had been trying to show her. He clarified, however, by adding, “I’ve lost most of my best Enforcers to life mate brain . . . which means more often than not, they’re as brainless as cats in heat. Even I suffer from it on occasion. We’ll need help for the next year or so until the worst of it passes.” “Oh,” Valerie breathed.

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds. She waved, flashed a thumbs-up, then waved again as they sailed on, leaving laughter in their wake. With her teeth still gritted in a smile, she said, “This will be all over the Cove five seconds after they get back. Sooner if they have radio signal.” She turned back to Cooper, who was grinning shamelessly, hands linked behind his head now, as if preparing for his plank walk. “Very funny,” she said, trying to ignore how the posture made his biceps flex and showed off the definition in his six-pack. She couldn’t help but note that some of the blueberries had slid all the way down to the waistband of his cargo shorts, leaving streaks of blue on his skin, like arrows pointing to where she should go to resume their little game. She realized she was staring when her eyes slid a little lower still and--she jerked her gaze back to his, realizing he’d made her blush again. She typically wasn’t much of a blusher either. But she didn’t usually find herself playing food Twister with a half-naked man. Rather than finding a mocking smile waiting for her, the curve of his lips was amused, maybe even a little affectionate. Like she was being cute or something. She’d show him cute. Then she met his eyes and saw there was nothing amused or even borderline condescending to be found there. Incendiary was the word that came to mind.

„Say, Pythias… Are you trying to flirt with me?“ „Have been for years.“, they sip from their coffee, „You’re catching on only now?“ There is this blush Pythias enjoys seeing on Damon’s face. He already reminds him of a painting which came to life but especially this rush of blood to his face turns him almost human instead of ethereal. There are still streaks of the paint from their art session clinging like nettles on his beautiful face. „I mean, how could I not? I owe you my life, but instead I’ve sworn my friendship to you. My lifelong loyalty and my heart. It is all I can offer you and I would hand it over to you even without anything in return. Although it would be nice to get at least a fragment of my affection back.

Don’t mention it, Darling. After the way your pussy treated me last night, it’s the least I can do.” For some reason, it’s not the act that made me blush but the reminder of it in the daylight. Will we ever do that again? All of us? I want to. I want to very badly and just the thought of it happening again has my nipples pebbling beneath my borrowed clothes and a thrill sinking between my thighs. I haven’t had sex like that in, well, ever, and I’ve had a lot of sex in a very short amount of time, all things considered.

No one in his family could remember talking about it. Must have been dreadful, they agreed. And, being Walkers, and Bushes, they didn't bring it up. It was only years later, when he got into politics and had to learn to retail bits of his life, that he ever tried to put words around the war. His first attempts, in the sixties, were mostly about the cahm-rah-deree and the spirit of the American Fighting Man. The Vietnam War was an issue then, and Bush was for it. (Most people in Texas were.) He said he learned "a lot about life" from his years in the Navy—but he never said what the lessons were. Later, when peace was in vogue, Bush said the war had "sobered" him with a grave understanding of the cost of conflict—he'd seen his buddies die. The voters could count on him not to send their sons to war, because he knew what it was. Still later, when he turned Presidential prospect, and every bit of his life had to be melted down to the coin of the realm–character–Bush had to essay more thoughts about the war, what it meant to him, how it shaped his soul. But he made an awful hash of it, trying to be jaunty. He told the story of being shot down. Then he added: "Lemme tell ya, that'll make you start to think about the separation of church and state . Finally, in a much-edited transcript of an interview with a minister whom he hired as liaison to the born-again crowd, Bush worked out a statement on faith and the war: something sound, to cover the bases. It wasn't foxhole Christianity, and he couldn't say he saw Jesus on the water—no, it was quieter than that.... But there, on the Finback, he spent his time standing watch on deck in the wee hours, silent, reflective, under the bright stars... "It was wonderful and energizing, a time to talk to God. "One of the things I realized out there all alone was how much family meant to me. Having faced death and been given another chance to live, I could see just how important those values and principles were that my parents had instilled in me, and of course how much I loved Barbara, the girl I knew I would marry…” That was not quite how he was recalled by the men of the Finback. Oh, they liked him: a real funny guy. And they gave him another nickname, Ellie. That was short for Elephant. What they recollected was Bush in the wardroom, tossing his head and emitting on command the roaring trumpeted squeal of the enraged pachyderm; it was the most uncanny imitation of an elephant. Nor were "sobered" or "reflective" words that leapt to Bar's mind when she remembered George at that time. The image she recalled was from their honeymoon, when she and George strolled the promenades, amid the elderly retirees who wintered at that Sea Island resort. All at once, George would scream "AIR RAID! AIR RAID!" and dive into the shrubs, while Bar stood alone and blushing on the path, prey to the pitying glances of the geezers who clucked about "that poor shell-shocked young man." But there was, once, a time when he talked about the war, at night, at home, to one friend, between campaigns, when he didn't have to cover any bases at all. "You know," he said, "it was the first time in my life I was ever scared. "And then, when they came and pulled me out ..." (Him, Dottie Bush's son, out of a million miles of empty ocean!) "Well." Bush trailed off, pleasantly, just shaking his head.

She looked over her shoulder at the ship’s bow. The smallest and highest section of the deck at the front of the vessel, the forecastle, had but one lone figure standing atop it. The flying jib front sail billowed above and ahead of him, stretching out into the endless blue of the sea and sky. Gavin stood with his hands braced on the railing, his tall figure displaying his broad shoulders and narrow waist while showing off his powerful thighs. The glint of a short sword shimmered at his hip. Excitement flared within her again. “My pirate,” she whispered with a dreamy smile. My lover, she silently added with a blush.

They grew so close, Carter said, that when they went to events together they rode in the same car, and “we kind of hate to get there,” because they enjoyed talking so much. They talked regularly on the phone, and in 2006, shortly before he passed away, Ford called Carter and said he had an important favor to ask his friend and fellow president: “Would you deliver the eulogy at my funeral?” Carter’s answer, of course, was yes, but only if he would do the same at his funeral. “A few months later,” Carter said, “I was grieved but honored to fulfill my promise.” Carter blushed at the memory and called their friendship “intimate and pure.

Are you decent?" "Depends who you ask." "You are not naked. I'm crushed." "It's chilly in here." "I could stoke the fire." "Believe me," she purred, "you do." He grinned at her jest, but Kate refused to blush and sent him a sultry, sparkling look. Mistresses, after all, could say that sort of thing. Then he swept into the room, bringing her breakfast on a tray like her very own cavaliere servente. "Hungry?" "For what?" she shot back. "My goodness," he drawled. "I've created a monster. I'm so pleased." She laughed as he set the large tray on the bed, then sauntered over to her at the window nook. At once, he leaned down, captured her face between his hands, and gave her a long, luscious kiss after their short separation. Though he had only been gone about twenty minutes, Kate had missed him desperately. She sighed with pleasure, caressing his arms, as Rohan slowly ended the kiss. "Done being sore yet, by chance?" he whispered with a wicked gleam in his pale eyes. "Almost." "Very well, replenish your strength.

Eric?” “Yes?” “If your phone was in your pocket, then what’s that in your hand?” A short, yet awkward silence ensued— “There he is! That’s the pervert who stole my underwear!” —At least, it did until a horde of girls ran up and one of them pointed at Eric before shouting. “Uh-oh.” Eric leapt from his seat. “Here, hold these.” He shoved what he’d been holding into Lindsay’s hands and then bolted. “GET BACK HERE, YOU DAMN PERVERT!” “YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!” Eric shouted back at the girls. Unfortunately, because he had turned his head to do so, he wasn’t watching where he was going and tripped over a chair. The girls used that opportunity to swarm him like hungry piranhas. Soon, the perverted young man’s screams filled the air. Throughout it all, Lindsay sat there, blinking as she looked down at the item in her hands. It was an article of clothing. To be more precise, it was a pair of panties. She stared at the white lace garment in her hands, trying to resist the temptation. Don’t do it, Lindsay. You’re better than this. You’re better than Eric. You don’t want to do this. But she did. She did want to do this. After discreetly looking around to make sure no one was watching her, Lindsay held the panties up to her face and took several deep whiffs. “These… these smell really good,” she mumbled before noticing her audience. Alex and Andrew were gawking at her, their jaws wide enough that a fist could have passed through them, and their eyes the size of hockey pucks. Lindsay blushed and went back to her salad. The rest of lunch was very awkward.

Does this car have Bluetooth?” Oliver chuckles. “Yes, Princess Estelle, is it up to par with your inspection?” I stop moving my hand over the dash and set it back on my lap, feeling a blush creep into my face. “I liked your old car better,” I say. Oliver’s eyebrows hike up and he turns to gape at me. “You like my beat-up Maxima better than this?” I shrug. “It was more cozy. This reminds me of the Batmobile, and there’s nothing wrong with the Batmobile, but I like cozy.” He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, but starts to look for my phone to hook up to Bluetooth. He already knows it’s because I want to play my own music—I don’t even have to explain. I used to bring my own CD whenever I was in the car with him. Oliver listens to two things: heavy rock and rap, and while I’m okay with both, I prefer the classics. The Steve Miller Band hasn’t even gotten to the hook before they’re interrupted by a call from Mia. Oliver looks at me with a question in his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” I say. He presses the button, and before I say hello, Mia’s frantic voice comes through. “What underwear are you wearing?” she asks. My face goes hot for the second time this morning. From the corner of my eye, I see Oliver bite down on his lip. “What?” I ask. “Mia, you’re on speaker phone!” “I don’t care. This is an emergency. Do you not hear the shrill tone in my voice? What are you wearing under your clothes?” My eyes snap to the side of Oliver’s face, then out the front window, and finally, I pull my shirt slightly and look down, because I completely forgot what underwear I have on. “Can you disconnect the phone?” I say to Oliver, who shakes his head in refusal. “Please. This is like . . . monumentally embarrassing.” “Just answer,” he whispers. “Who’s that?” Mia asks. “Oliver. We’re in his car, and you’re on the fucking Bluetooth.” She laughs. “Oh my God! I am so sorry, Bean!” “What?” I shout. “He’s not the one being harassed!” “Oh, but now he is. So tell me—underwear?” “White lace bra and matching boy shorts,” I say, almost through my teeth, not missing the way Oliver’s eyes snap to me with an approving look. I want to slap him for it, but I know nothing good would come of that, so I just cross my arms over my chest like a petulant child.

Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Where to?” he finally asks in English.

Ruhi blushed. She had a peculiar way of being embarrassed. She would restrain a smile and look at my wrist, or my ring, or my sleeves, or my shirt collar - just about any place that would keep her gaze away from my eyes.

reduction in the risk of embarrassment and feelings of unease in social interaction. No one can see you blush, hear your voice go squeaky, or feel your damp palms. But then again, nor can you pick up on these all-important cues for working out how the other person might be reacting. In 2012, the British communications watchdog Ofcom produced its ninth annual Communications Market Report. The director of research for Ofcom, James Thickett, was acutely aware of the significance of the decline that year’s report found in the number of mobile calls, which dropped by 1 percent, and in the number of landline calls, which decreased by 10 percent. He concluded: In just a few short years, new technology has fundamentally changed the way that we communicate. Talking face-to-face or on the phone are no longer the most common ways for us to interact with each other. In their place, newer forms of communications are emerging which don’t require us to talk to each other, especially among younger age groups. This trend is set to continue as technology advances and we move further into the digital age.2

effect are base lies, I'll have you and your friend know! However—" he yawned again "—I've been up all day and so, purely coincidentally, I do find myself just a bit sleepy at the moment. The which being so, I think I should take myself off to bed. I'll see you all in the morning." "Good night, Alistair," she said, and smiled as he sketched a salute and disappeared into the night with a chuckle. "You two are really close, aren't you?" Benson observed quietly after McKeon had vanished. Honor raised an eyebrow at her, and the blond captain shrugged. "Not like me and Henri, I know. But the way you look out for each other—" "We go back a long way," Honor replied with another of her half-smiles, and bent to rest her chin companionably on the top of Nimitz's head. "I guess it's sort of a habit to watch out for each other by now, but Alistair seems to get stuck with more of that than I do, bless him." "I know. Henri and I made the hike back to your shuttles with you, remember?" Benson said dryly. "I was impressed by the comprehensiveness of his vocabulary. I don't think he repeated himself more than twice." "He probably wouldn't have been so mad if I hadn't snuck off without mentioning it to him," Honor said, and her right cheek dimpled while her good eye gleamed in memory. "Of course, he wouldn't have let me leave him behind if I had mentioned it to him, either. Sometimes I think he just doesn't understand the chain of command at all!" "Ha!" Ramirez' laugh rumbled around the hut like rolling thunder. "From what I've seen of you so far, that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Dame Honor!" "Nonsense. I always respect the chain of command!" Honor protested with a chuckle. "Indeed?" It was Benson's turn to shake her head. "I've heard about your antics at—Hancock Station, was it called?" She laughed out loud at Honor's startled expression. "Your people are proud of you, Honor. They like to talk, and to be honest, Henri and I encouraged them to. We needed to get a feel for you, if we were going to trust you with our lives." She shrugged. "It didn't take us long to make our minds up once they started opening up with us." Honor felt her face heat and looked down at Nimitz, rolling him gently over on his back to stroke his belly fur. She concentrated on that with great intensity for the next several seconds, then looked back up once her blush had cooled. "You don't want to believe everything you hear," she said with commendable composure. "Sometimes people exaggerate a bit." "No doubt," Ramirez agreed, tacitly letting her off the hook, and she gave him a grateful half-smile. "In the meantime, though," Benson said, accepting the change of subject, "the loss of the shuttle beacon does make me more anxious about Lunch Basket." "Me, too," Honor admitted. "It cuts our operational safety margin in half, and we still don't know when we'll finally get a chance to try it." She grimaced. "They really aren't cooperating very well, are they?" "I'm sure it's only because they don't know what we're planning," Ramirez told her wryly. "They're much too courteous to be this difficult if they had any idea how inconvenient for us it is." "Right. Sure!" Honor snorted, and all three of them chuckled. Yet there was an undeniable edge of worry behind the humor, and she leaned back in her chair, stroking Nimitz rhythmically, while she thought. The key to her plan was the combination of the food supply runs from Styx and the Peeps' lousy communications security. Her analysts had been right about the schedule on which the Peeps operated; they made a whole clutch of supply runs in a relatively short period—usually about three days—once per month. Given

Part: 1 July This one more of how where I remember these days. Photos online, and cam videos all that are my memories- of me to others. Part: 2 August Compare… them then and now- naked slut girl or 1940s modesty. I remember having the old photo album spread out on the bedroom floor. Oh! Wow! Look at this one… do you like how she was remembered better than me? (Photo) Part: 3 It's- September More of the same- I have become a cam-whore!!! Nothing more… Part: 4 OCTOBER …And yah- a, ah- pics that would make you blush, and hard, you boys would love to see me, now, wouldn’t you? Part: 5 NOVEMBER Making cummie videos is my life. Part: 6 DECEMBER Coming 7 hours out of the day is taking time away from other things. Part: 7 WAKING UP …After fraping till- I passed out all hot gross and sweaty, I did not remember falling asleep- with mom and dad- sis and the world seeing me as my door to my trashed bedroom- all jammed open- and’s- and’s- AND’S- did not care at this point. (SAY IT WITH exhausted SLURRING.) JANUARY yet how- ga-gives- a ________. Ef… E- un- mm- ah- in-n… Whatever… I am making 50 G’s in a night… so that makes it okay. (A photo of me lying in bed with all this money!) Part: 8 TIME PASSES Craziness… look at my life here… all board… ‘I am home,’ I mumbled, confused- not even more. ‘What did I do?’ I felt my face wrinkle. It was so unfair. My behavior… here is wow… After that first week… of doing this… How do I look… which neither of us ever mentioned what we do? I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. Yet this show is all going to shit- no? This is what I did here… showing everything that makes me a girl! Now I am passing down- to her- yah me- is it wrong? I must live with it. #- A cam video and all these photos of her online now are worth 1,000 words! #-0-okay then what does this one says then? My little sis- and she is frapping harder than I do- in this- damn, she is my Minnie me! She started younger than me even- yet that is all girls, her age. Here is one with her dressed wow seem weird to see her with something on anymore- (Swipe- and the phone in your hand would make a click sound…) Oh, this one- She loves these beautiful white lace kid’s girls’ shorts- so girlie- girly- from Wal-Mart, yet she was banned from wearing them in school without anything under them, yet I look around and all other girls do it. Yet, on Facebook- and Instagram 1, you get one persona and on Google images a whole other- just like Snapchat you have her as your girlfriend for the night yet have- yet she is your striptease only- and the other Instagram- that grammar should never- ever see- yet this is how to get popular- and stay popular. Besides then there is the community of internet nudists- on MFC. And the profile- she now has too, a legacy to be remembered by, no? Yet, when you have no education to speak of and working for some d*ck head is just out of the question, over they think you’re not worthy of their time- were you're not making anything, and at this point in Pa she too young to work, yet is old enough to have unprotected sex… Um- and then I wonder- yet she needs the money- for school coming up because your mommy and daddy don’t have it, and all for fun, boys, and a girl's night of fun- and partying- and being crazy. Money is everything… and why girls do what they must do…