Cool Buttons With Quotes

I am not a machine. For what can a machine know of the smell of wet grass in the morning, or the sound of a crying baby? I am the feeling of the warm sun against my skin; I am the sensation of a cool wave breaking over me. I am the places I have never seen, yet imagine when my eyes are closed. I am the taste of another's breath, the color of her hair. You mock me for the shortness of my life span, but it is this very fear of dying which breathes life into me. I am the thinker who thinks of thought. I am curiosity, I am reason, I am love, and I am hatred. I am indifference. I am the son of a father, who in turn was a father’s son. I am the reason my mother laughed and the reason my mother cried. I am wonder and I am wondrous. Yes, the world may push your buttons as it passes through your circuitry. But the world does not pass through me. It lingers. I am in it and it is in me. I am the means by which the universe has come to know itself. I am the thing no machine can ever make. I am meaning.

A cool red rose and a pink cut pink, a collapse and a sold hole, a little less hot. - Red roses.

It taught me that it is easier to be an insider as an outsider than to be an outsider as an insider. If a white guy chooses to immerse himself in hip-hop culture and only hang out with black people, black people will say, “Cool, white guy. Do what you need to do.” If a black guy chooses to button up his blackness to live among white people and play lots of golf, white people will say, “Fine. I like Brian. He’s safe.” But try being a black person who immerses himself in white culture while still living in the black community. Try being a white person who adopts the trappings of black culture while still living in the white community.

Dressed in black pants, a white button-down, and a leather jacket, he was sophisticated but cool. A man about town, a globetrotter, a secret cat whisperer who would sell his soul for an apple pie. And he was mine.

A slender man who looked like a carbon copy of his students, save for maybe a ten-year age difference, strode into the room and took his station behind the short metal desk up front. He was cool and sharp-looking with a stunningly well-tailored white button down, hipster glasses and a faux-military haircut that was shaved close on the sides but left long and slicked back on top. He looked like he was more prepared to model men's watches than to teach Interpersonal Psychology II.

In the spirit of Ethan's neurosis, we made a drywall list of keyboard buttons we would like to see: PLEASE, THANK YOU, FUCK OFF, DIE, OOPS...MY MISTAKE, DO SOMETHING COOL AND SURPRISE ME .

Killing an enemy with teeth and bare hands is emotionally far more demanding than pulling a trigger or pressing a button. In inventing tools and weapons, in contriving civilization, we have disinhibited the controls - sometimes thoughtlessly and inadvertently, but sometimes with cool premeditation. If the beasts who are our nearest relatives engaged recklessly in … mass murder they would have rendered themselves extinct. If our non-human ancestors did it, we would not be here.

It’s a long shot, but this baby is pretty cool.” He pushed the button that brought up the menu. “I need to run a search.” “Of course, master,” the computer said with an inviting smile. “Which pornographic material should I seek out today?” Dante grinned. “Really? You can do that?” He felt Meg’s stare. “Nothing like that.

My slogan? PUT A BLACK FINGER ON THE NUCLEAR TRIGGER. 400 years of docility, of being calm, cool and collected under stress and strain would go to prove that I was the man for the job, that I would not panic in a crisis and push the button.

Oh my God, he thought suddenly. I’ve got a hard-on. “You want some or what?” Bailey asked softly. Reece took the water and drank down a sizeable amount. He grew paranoid that she could see his hard-on, but that would be impossible. The lights were dim. There was an armrest between them. Relax, bro. You’re cool. She can’t see your . . . oh, wait a minute. There it goes. It’s going down. Phew! Thank God. How embarrassing would that have been, right? For her to see how much she turns me on? How much I can’t stop thinking about the kind of panties she wears under those cigarette pants. The way her tits look in her button-up tops. Man, I love how she buttons them all the way up . . . wait a minute. Hold up. I mean down! Go down! Stupid dick!

You are the strangest girl I've ever met," he said, like he thought I was joking. He picked up his water bottle and gave me a sideways glance. "Have you ever kissed anybody?" he asked, and took a sip. I smirked. "There aren't a whole lot of opportunities in the digital world. I did practice on my hand once. It didn't do anything for me." Justin coughed on the water he was swallowing and I slapped my hand over my mouth. "Did I just say that out loud?" I mumbled. He was half coughing, half laughing. "Yes, you did," he managed to say. "Delete, delete, delete," I said, and pushed an imaginary button in the air. "I really miss that feature." "No, that's the good stuff. People always want to delete the good stuff." His eyes lit up. "That's a cool idea, though. What would you say, right now, if you could immediately delete it, so no one read it?

I take a deep breath, relishing in the fresh air and open space around me. Something wet splatters on my cheek, and I turn my face toward the cloudy sky that is now beginning to drizzle down on me. I spread out my arms and tilt my head up, loving the feel of rain pelting my skin. The the drizzle turns into a downpour. Rain is falling rapidly while I'm smiling stupidly. My head feels clearer than it has in days as cool water coats my skin, my dress, my hair. I spin in place, the skirts of my gown swishing around my ankles, feeling like an idiot and absolutely loving it. I slip the shoes from my aching feet and pad through puddles like I did as a little girl, reminding me of a time when I was younger... Laughter bubbles out of me. Hysterical. I am completely hysterical. Rain is sticking strands of hair to my face and dripping down the tip of my nose while I smile through it all, momentarily forgetting about my troubles and simply taking a moment to exist. "I don't know that I ever lived before lying eyes on the likes of you." I spin, blinking through the steady stream of rain before my eyes find the gray ones blending in with the sheet of water falling down on us. His hair is dripping wet, all wavy and tousled. His white button-down shirt is sticky and see-through, showing off an inked chest and tanned torso beneath. And the sight of him has me smiling. "oh, but I only have eyes for one little lady, and I can't seem to take them off of her." His chest is rising and falling just as rapidly as the rain while my heart is thundering just as loudly as the storm.

The animosity I felt from the colored people I encountered growing up was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with. It taught me that it is easier to be an insider as an outsider than to be an outsider as an insider. If a white guy chooses to immerse himself in hip-hop culture and only hang out with black people, black people will say, “Cool, white guy. Do what you need to do.” If a black guy chooses to button up his blackness to live among white people and play lots of golf, white people will say, “Fine. I like Brian. He’s safe.” But try being a black person who immerses himself in white culture while still living in the black community. Try being a white person who adopts the trappings of black culture while still living in the white community. You will face more hate and ridicule and ostracism than you can even begin to fathom. People are willing to accept you if they see you as an outsider trying to assimilate into their world. But when they see you as a fellow tribe member attempting to disavow the tribe, that is something they will never forgive.

One night, a couple of weeks before school started--they must have though I was asleep--Nilda started telling Rafa about her plans for the future. I think even she knew what was about to happen. Listening to her imagining herself was about the saddest thing you ever heard. How she wanted to get away from her moms and open up a group home for runaway kids. But this one would be real cool, she said. It would be for normal kids who just got problems. She must have loved him because she went on and on. Plenty of people talk about having a flow, but that night I really heard one, something that was unbroken, that fought itself and worked together all at once. Rafa didn't say nothing. Maybe he had his hands in her hair or maybe he was just like, fuck you. When she finished, he didn't even say wow. I wanted to kill myself with embarrassment. About a half hour later she got up and dressed. She couldn't see me or she would have known that I thought she was beautiful. She stepped into her pants and pulled them up in one motion, sucked in her stomach while she buttoned them. I'll see you later, she said. Yeah, he said.

If she’d had any doubts he was a real deal country boy, they disappeared when he unabashedly stripped down to nothing—the sun had kissed his arms to mid-bicep, although his torso wasn’t without a faint tan. She’d thought lazily that maybe he had a pond. She’d like to go skinny dipping with him. Leap onto his back and wrap her legs around his lean hips. Hold on to his broad shoulders and press her naked breasts into his back and drift into the cool water together. As he opened his button-fly jeans, revealing snug briefs underneath, she’d whispered for him to stop. He was hard and sinewy in all the right places, with shadows and valleys she wanted to explore with her mouth and hands and eyes, but her touch first went to the line where dark faded to light on his arm, neatly following the curve of his muscles. “Nice farmer’s tan.

A group of older women walked past, wearing fanny packs and large cameras around their necks. ... "I think I'm going to get one of those." Weylin's voice was thoughtful as he watched the women jaywalk. "One of what?" Ree cocked an eyebrow and smiled at her friend. "I don't know, Wey-mand. I think they might be too much woman for you." Paden flashed a crooked grin. "Har, har. I meant a fanny pack." Looking thoughtful, Weylin ignored thier expressions of disbelief. "A...fanny pack?" Sophie was looking at Weylin as if he had lost his mind, but Ree noticed the corners of her mouth twitching. "Yeah. Think about all the cool things I could carry in one." Completely unperturbed, Weylin stopped at the crosswalk and hit the button on the light post. "I could carry knives and some of those collapsible swords that Roland uses. Oh and snacks!" Unable to control her laughter anymore, Ree leaned over and clutched her sides. "Snacks? Weylin, I think you might need to lie down. You obviously have a fever or something." "You won't be saying that the next time we're out and you get a hankering for a pizza or some popcorn. I could even carry bottled water and little sanitizer wipes." "How big of a fanny pack are you planning on getting? Paden raised an eyebrow. ... "Oh, hell no! I am not eating food you've been carrying near your man-pickle. That is so not going to happen." Everyone in the group sputtered and laughed at Juliette's comment.

Evie stayed, however, the silence spinning out until it seemed that the pounding of his heart must be audible. “Do you want to know what I think, Sebastian?” she finally asked. It took every particle of his will to keep his voice controlled. “Not particularly.” “I think that if I leave this room, you’re going to ring that bell again. But no matter how many times you ring, or how often I come running, you’ll never bring yourself to tell me what you really want.” Sebastian slitted his eyes open…a mistake. Her face was very close, her soft mouth only inches from his. “At the moment, all I want is some peace,” he grumbled. “So if you don’t mind—” Her lips touched his, warm silk and sweetness, and he felt the dizzying brush of her tongue. A floodgate of desire opened, and he was drowning in undiluted pleasure, more powerful than anything he had known before. He lifted his hands as if to push her head away, but instead his trembling fingers curved around her skull, holding her to him. The fiery curls of her hair were compressed beneath his palms as he kissed her with ravenous urgency, his tongue searching the winsome delight of her mouth. Sebastian was mortified to discover that he was gasping like an untried boy when Evie ended the kiss. Her lips were rosy and damp, her freckles gleaming like gold dust against the deep pink of her cheeks. “I also think,” she said unevenly, “that you’re going to lose our bet.” Recalled to sanity by a flash of indignation, Sebastian scowled. “Do you think I’m in any condition to pursue other women? Unless you intend to bring someone to my bed, I’m hardly going to—” “You’re not going to lose the bet by sleeping with another woman,” Evie said. There was a glitter of deviltry in her eyes as she reached up to the neckline of her gown and deliberately began to unfasten the row of buttons. Her hands trembled just a little. “You’re going to lose it with me.” Sebastian watched incredulously as she stood and shed the dressing gown. She was naked, the tips of her breasts pointed and rosy in the cool air. She had lost weight, but her breasts were still round and lovely, and her hips still flared generously from the neat inward curves of her waist. As his gaze swept to the triangle of red hair between her thighs, a swell of acute lust rolled through him. He sounded shaken, even to his own ears. “You can’t make me lose the bet. That’s cheating.” “I never promised not to cheat,” Evie said cheerfully, shivering as she slipped beneath the covers with him. “Damn it, I’m not going to cooperate. I—” His breath hissed between his teeth as he felt the tender length of her body press against his side, the springy brush of her private curls on his hip as she slid one of her legs between his. He jerked his head away as she tried to kiss him. “I can’t…Evie…” His mind searched cagily for a way to dissuade her. “I’m too weak.” Ardent and determined, Evie grasped his head and turned his face to hers. “Poor darling,” she murmured, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with you.” “Evie,” he said hoarsely, aroused and infuriated and pleading, “I have to prove that I can last three months without—no, don’t do that. Damn you, Evie—

So what happened?" "I don't know." Another glance to ensure his continued state of Not Looking, and then I rip off my clothes in one fast swoop. I am now officially stark naked in the room with the most beautiful boy I know. Funny,but this isn't how I imagined this moment. No.Not funny.One hundred percent the exact opposite of funny. "I think I maybe,possibly, vaguely remember hitting the snooze button." I jabber to cover my mortification. "Only I guess it was the off button.But I had the alarm on my phone set,too, so I don't know what happened." Underwear,on. "Did you turn the ringer back on last night?" "What?" I hop into my jeans, a noise he seems to determinedly ignore.His ears are apple red. "You went to see a film,right? Don't you set your mobile to silent at the theater?" He's right.I'm so stupid. If I hadn't taken Meredith to A Hard Day's Night, a Beatles movie I know she loves, I would have never turned it off. We'd already be in a taxi to the airport. "The taxi!" I tug my sweater over my head and look up to find myself standing across from a mirror. A mirror St. Clair is facing. "It's all right," he says. "I told the driver to wait when I came up here. We'll just have to tip him a little extra." His head is still down. I don't think he saw anything.I clear my throat, and he glances up. Our eyes meet in the mirror,and he jumps. "God! I didn't...I mean,not until just now..." "Cool.Yeah,fine." I try to shake it off by looking away,and he does the same. His cheeks are blazing.I edge past him and rinse the white crust off my face while he throws my toothbrush and deodorant and makeup into my luggage, and then we tear downstairs and into the lobby.

They all watched as Genya checked his pulse, his breathing. She shook her head. “Zoya,” said Sturmhond. His voice had the ring of command. Zoya sighed and pushed up her sleeves. “Unbutton his shirt.” “What are you doing?” Kaz asked as Genya undid Kuwei’s remaining buttons. His chest was narrow, his ribs visible, all of it spattered with the pig’s blood they’d encased in the wax bladder. “I’m either going to wake up his heart or cook him from the inside out,” said Zoya. “Stand back.” They did their best to obey in the cramped space. “What exactly does she mean by that?” Kaz asked Nina. “I’m not sure,” Nina admitted. Zoya had her hands out and her eyes closed. The air felt suddenly cool and moist. Inej inhaled deeply. “It smells like a storm.” Zoya opened her eyes and brought her hands together as if in prayer, rubbing her palms against each other briskly. Nina felt the pressure drop, tasted metal on her tongue. “I think … I think she’s summoning lightning.” “Is that safe?” asked Inej. “Not remotely,” said Sturmhond. “Has she at least done it before?” said Kaz. “For this purpose?” asked Sturmhond. “I’ve seen her do it twice. It worked splendidly. Once.” His voice was oddly familiar, and Nina had the sense they’d met before. “Ready?” Zoya asked. Genya shoved a thickly folded piece of fabric between Kuwei’s teeth and stepped back. With a shudder, Nina realized it was to keep him from biting his tongue. “I really hope she gets this right,” murmured Nina. “Not as much as Kuwei does,” said Kaz. “It’s tricky,” said Sturmhond. “Lightning doesn’t like a master. Zoya’s putting her own life at risk too.” “She didn’t strike me as the type,” Kaz said. “You’d be surprised,” Nina and Sturmhond replied in unison. Again, Nina had the eerie sensation that she knew him. She saw that Rotty had squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch. Inej’s lips were moving in what Nina knew must be a prayer. A faint blue glow crackled between Zoya’s palms. She took a deep breath and slapped them down on Kuwei’s chest.

The covers slipped between them. Amelia shivered as the cool air wafted over her naked back and shoulders. “Come back to bed,” she whispered. “I need you to warm me.” Cam stripped away his shirt, and laughed quietly as he felt her hands plucking at the buttons of his trousers. “What happened to my prudish gadji?” “I’m afraid”— she reached into his open falls and stroked his aroused flesh—“ that continued association with you has made me shameless.” “Good, I was hoping for that.

A cold moon rises over glittering cages & you fasten the lock on each silver door. The sparrows are nesting & I begin to count the buttons on your black wool coat. My eyes adrift along its luminous satin inlay. Now the night has been opened like a box of exotic blue canaries & I'm brushing feathers from my long dark sleeves. You smile as the song rises, hesitant, in my cool white throat— —Kristina Marie Darling, “Aviary,” The Body is a Little Gilded Cage: A Story in Letters and Fragments. (Gold Wake Press February 4, 2012)

Slowly I reached out. I wasn’t scared. But what if I scared it? Be still, hand! I ordered my right hand. Miss Cleo had tiny black button eyes, and it stared right at me. As I touched the snake, it still didn’t move, and neither did my hand! It felt a little like cool, smooth leather on my fingertips. Look at me! Getting all cozy with snakes and stuff—Mom and Dad would never believe this! Once we’d learned more about snakes than we ever imagined we wanted to, Lulu announced that she was going to let this one go home. “Everybody good with that?

Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he stopped choking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau. A dragon climbed toward heaven on the box. He carried the box to the kitchen and laid it on the table between Abra’s hands. “This is for you,” he said, and his tone had no inflection. She opened the box and looked down on a small, dark green jade button, and carved on its surface was a human right hand, a lovely hand, the fingers curved and in repose. Abra lifted the button out and looked at it, and then she moistened it with the tip of her tongue and moved it gently over her full lips, and pressed the cool stone against her cheek. Lee said, “That was my mother’s only ornament.” Abra got up and put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and it was the only time such a thing had ever happened in his whole life. Lee laughed. “My Oriental calm seems to have deserted me,” he said. “Let me make the tea, darling. I’ll get hold of myself that way.” From the stove he said, “I’ve never used that word—never once to anybody in the world.

It was awfully quiet. Chicago only gets this quiet when it snows, he thought. And then he flipped open the phone, pressed the voice button, and said “Katherine.” He said it softly, reverently. Five rings and then her voice mail. Hey, it’s Katherine, he heard, and in the background cars rushed by. They’d been walking home together from the RadioShack when she recorded the message. I’m not, uh. And she uhed, he remembered, because he’d goosed her butt as she tried to talk. Uh, at my cell phone, I guess. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back. And he remembered everything about it, and also everything about everything else, and why couldn’t he forget and beep. “Hey, it’s Col. I’m standing in a soybean field outside of Gutshot, Tennessee, which is a long story, and it’s hot. K. I’m standing here sweating like I had hyperhidrosis, that disease where you sweat a lot. Crap. That’s not interesting. But anyway, it’s hot, and so I’m thinking about cold to stay cool. And I was remembering walking through the snow coming back from the ridiculous movie. Do you remember that, K? We were on Giddings, and the snow made it so quiet, I couldn’t hear a thing in the world but you. And it was so cold then, and so silent, and I loved you so much. Now it’s hot, and dead quiet again, and I love you still.” Five minutes later, he was trudging back when his phone began vibrating. He raced back to the spot with good reception and, breathless answered. “Did you listen to the message?” he asked immediately. “I don’t think I need to,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Colin. But I think we made a really good decision.” And he didn’t even care to point out that they hadn’t made a decision, because the sound of her voice felt so good –well not good exactly. It felt like the mysterium tremedum et fascinans, the fear and the fascination. The great and terrible awe.

Then I removed the Glock from its clear plastic blister packaging. This was the first time I’d ever held a real gun. Even so, the weapon felt familiar in my hands, because I’d fired thousands of virtual firearms in the OASIS. I pressed a small button set into the barrel and the gun emitted a tone. I held the pistol grip firmly for a few seconds, first in my right hand, then my left. The weapon emitted a second tone, letting me know it had finished scanning my handprints. I was now the only person who could fire it. The weapon had a built-in timer that would prevent it from firing for another twelve hours (a “cooling-off period”), but I still felt better having it on me.

I take a deep breath, relishing in the fresh air and open space around me. Something wet splatters on my cheek, and I turn my face toward the cloudy sky that is now beginning to drizzle down on me. I spread out my arms and tilt my head up, loving the feel of rain pelting my skin. The the drizzle turns into a downpour. Rain is falling rapidly while I'm smiling stupidly. My head feels clearer than it has in days as cool water coats my skin, my dress, my hair. I spin in place, the skirts of my gown swishing around my ankles, feeling like an idiot and absolutely loving it. I slip the shoes from my aching feet and pad through puddles like I did as a little girl, reminding me of a time when I was younger... Laughter bubbles out of me. Hysterical. I am completely hysterical. Rain is sticking strands of hair to my face and dripping down the tip of my nose while I smile through it all, momentarily forgetting about my troubles and simply taking a moment to exist. "I don't know that I ever lived before lying eyes on the likes of you." I spin, blinking through the steady stream of rain before my eyes find the gray ones blending in with the sheet of water falling down on us. His hair is dripping wet, all wavy and tousled. His white button-down shirt is sticky and see-through, showing off an inked chest and tanned torso beneath. And the sight of him has me smiling. "oh, but I only have eyes for one little lady, and I can't seem to take them off of her." Hos chest is rising and falling just as rapidly as the rain while my heart is thundering just as loudly as the storm.

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

Excuse me," a breathy female voice came from beside her, and she lifted her head. A stunning blonde in a dress cut down to her belly button and up to her crotch hovered beside the table. "Yes?" she asked, not certain whether to scream or laugh. "Are you Richard Addison?" the woman breathed, ignoring Sam. Rick blinked. "Oh, me. I thought you were talking to her. Yes, I am." "Could I have your autograph?" "Certainly. Do you have a pen?" The woman held out a napkin and a pen, and Rick signed his name. "There you go." "How about your phone number?" The woman gave a low giggle, but pressed the napkin back into Rick's hand. Sam would have stood, but Rick kicked her under the table. "Ouch," she grumbled, glaring at him. "I'm sorry, but I don't give out my phone number." "Are you sure?" Belly Button Girl licked her lips. "If I might make a comment," Rick continued, granting her a warm smile, though Sam noted that his eyes remained cool and untouched, "I'm a bit occupied right now, enjoying the company of a very lovely young lady with whom I enjoy spending my every spare moment." He straightened further, lowering his voice to a bare murmur. "So I thank you for your interest, but I am never in a million years going to give you my phone number. Good evening." Her face turning scarlet under its inch of makeup, the woman turned away, departing with a sway of her perfect hips. "You're so cool," Sam breathed. "You could at least pretend to be jealous," he said, pulling her hand across the table to kiss her knuckle. She had been jealous, but no way was she going to tell him that. Not until she could figure out for herself what the hell it meant. At least she hadn't panicked and tried to belt a near-naked woman for sneaking up behind her. "She's not your type." "And what precisely is my 'type'?" he asked. "The kind who could have handed you a comeback instead of just stomping away.

She kissed his lips and felt his smile form. Alone in this beautiful space, Blake and Livia made things right. Blake kissed her slowly and patiently, like he had all the time in the world. Carefully, they eased back to lie down, and Blake braced himself above her. He smelled of mint and fresh soap. Livia put her hands on his chest and felt the densely packed muscles there. Empowered by his adoration, she shrugged off her fleece shirt, enjoying the feeling of being trapped between his arms. Blake’s eyes became stormy seas. “Damn it all to hell,” he cursed. Despite his words, Livia believed she was winning this battle of seduction. Blake kissed her mouth and sucked on her bottom lip. He moved to her earlobe and breathed, “First, I will blow, then I will lick, last I will bite.” Holy crap. Blake blew a gentle stream of minty breath along the outside of Livia’s ear, down to her neck, and along the edge of her breasts where they peeked out of her bright blue bra. Blake took his time creating an elaborate pattern on her stomach, and Livia was pretty sure he’d spelled the word torture. He increased the pressure of his breath as he grazed below her belly button to the top of her jeans. He skipped back to her mouth and gave her another long, slow kiss. “And now I lick,” he murmured. Livia bit back the embarrassingly loud moan she felt building. He gently traced the same trail his breath had left, this time with his tongue. When he reached her breast, she lost control and grabbed his hair, intent on kissing him. “No. No.” Blake held her wrists above her head. “I’ve done this to you so many times in my mind. I won’t have you rush me.” Livia groaned and arched her back in an effort to change his mind. But his slow, sexy smile told her he was doing it his way. “Fine.” Livia dutifully kept her hands above her head as he picked up where he’d left off. His tongue had her making noises that surely scared the wildlife. He spent an inordinate amount of time licking just above her belt buckle. Then again he was back to her mouth. He spoke through his kiss. “I’m going to bite you now.” Blake began down the same flaming path on Livia’s body with his teeth, nibbling in time with her heartbeat. When it speeded up, he bit slightly harder. After what seemed to be sixteen million glorious years, Blake was at the top of her jeans again. A light, almost invisible, mist from the gray clouds now gave the clearing a slick sheen. The cool rain and his hot mouth were ecstasy. Blake unbuckled her belt and used his tongue and teeth to unbutton her jeans. He chuckled as he flipped her zipper with his teeth. Each pop of the releasing zipper filled the woods as he blew again on the newly revealed skin. Livia knew what to expect this time: blow, lick, bite. Oh, sweet God! This is heaven. At last, Livia could no longer obey and reached her hands down to his angelic face. Blake glanced up as if to rebuke her, but quickly smiled and let her sit up to meet his lips. Love. Crazy, soon, ever. Love, Livia’s mind raged. She tried to tell him with kisses, but it wasn’t enough. Blake knelt before her, and Livia straddled his thighs. She pulled back to try putting it into words and noticed how Blake glistened, covered in tiny raindrops. The clear, cool pond she’d described to Cole had just exploded over them. But instead of drowning, they wore it like a cloak.

There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read: A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this. -Poppy Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked... After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let a slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk. Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen. Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. "My God," he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers. "Do you like my nightgown?" Beatrix asked. Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. "Where's the rest of it?" "This was all I could find." Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. "I wonder if I put it on backward..." "Let me see." As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath. Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn't take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin. She went to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, relishing the billowy softness of its quilts and linens. Reclining on her side, she made no attempt to cover her exposed leg as the gossamer fabric fell open to her hip. Christopher came to her, stripping off his shirt along the way. The sight of him, all that flexing muscle and sun-glazed skin, was breathtaking. He was a beautiful man, a scarred Apollo, a dream lover. And he was hers.

I got back to the vehicles and spotted Ashley Voss right away. She was standing there waiting with her rucksack, ready to go. I walked up to her, smiled, and said, “Hey, what’s up? I’m Noah.” “Hi. I’m Ashley,” she said without much emotion. “Cool. Are you excited to come to our area?” I flashed her a grin. After a brief pause she said, “Yeah, the medics can use a female.” She was acting like a professional and I was acting more like someone standing at a bar trying to buy her a drink. As if that couldn’t be more awkward, right at that moment my radio squawked loudly, “Hey, can somebody get me that female medic’s roster number? I need it before we head out.” It was Jerry, ruining my game. I leaned over and hit the button and said a little too proudly, “I’ve got the female medic with me now. I will get that for you.” And before I could ask her what it was, Jerry came back over the radio, “Galloway. You’re with the female. Why am I not surprised?” Ashley gave me her roster number, and I sent it back to Jerry. I turned to Ashley and said, “I’m not a player, just wanted to know more about you.” She didn’t look that convinced. We got in the trucks and drove back. At the potato plant all the guys started sniffing this girl out like a bunch of hound dogs. One of the guys ran and grabbed her rucksack for her and carried it into the medic station, like he was a bellhop.

We lived in a safe, family-friendly area, but parts of London were rough, as you’d expect from any large city. Mark had a knack for attracting muggers. One time, we were in a train station and a little kid--no more than about eight years old--came up to him: “Oi, mate, give me your phone.” We always carried the cool Nokia phones with the Snake game on them, and they were the hot item. It was like inviting trouble carrying one around, but we didn’t care. Mark thought the mini-mugger was crazy: “Are you kidding me? No way.” Then he looked over his shoulder and realized the kid wasn’t alone; he had a whole gang with him. So Mark handed over his phone and the kid ran off. I never let him live down the fact that an eight-year-old had mugged him. I had my own incident as well, but I handled it a little differently. I got off the train at Herne Hill station and noticed that two guys were following me. I could hear their footsteps getting closer and closer. “Give us your backpack,” they threatened me. “Why? All I have is my homework in here,” I tried to reason with them. They had seen me on the train with my minidisc player and they knew I was holding out on them. “Give it,” they threatened. My bag was covered with key chains and buttons, and as I took it off my shoulder, pretending to give it to them, I swung it hard in their faces. All that hardware knocked one of them to the ground and stunned the other. With my bag in my hand, I ran the mile home without ever looking back. Not bad for a skinny kid in a school uniform.

Well,that was fun," she said lightly as he maneuvered out of the lot. "I'm really glad you talked me into going out. My day was a blank page until seven." That long, quiet moment lingered in his mind even as it lingered in Shelby's. Alan shifted, hoping to ease the thudding in the pit of his stomach. "Always happy to help someone fill in a few empty spaces." Alan controlled the speed of the car through force of will. Holding her hadn't soothed him but rather had only served to remind him how much time had passed since he had last held her. "Actually you're an easy man to be with, Alan, for a politician." Easy? Shelby repeated to herself as she pressed the button to lower her window. Her blood was still throbbing from a meeting of eyes that had lasted less than ten seconds. If he was any easier, she'd be head over heels in love with him and headed for disaster. "I mean,you're not really pompous." He shot her a look, long and cool, that boosted her confidence. "No?" he murmured after a humming silence. "Hardly at all." Shelby sent him a smile. "Why,I'd probably vote for you myself." Alan paused at a red light, studying it thoughtfully before he turned to her. "Your insults aren't as subtle today, Shelby." "Insults?" Shelby gave him a bland stare. "Odd,I thought it was more flattery.Isn't a vote what it all comes down to? Votes, and that all-encompassing need to win." The light stayed green for five full seconds before he cruised through it. "Be careful." A nerve,she thought,hating herself more than a little. "You're a little touchy. That's all right." She brushed at the thigh of her jeans. "I don't mind a little oversensitivity." "The subject of my sensitivity isn't the issue,but you're succeeding in being obnoxious." "My,my,aren't we all Capitol Hill all of a sudden.

Hey, can I help you—whoa!” As he wheeled around and settled into his attack stance, the black human salesperson jumped back and put his palms up. “Forgive me,” Xcor muttered. At least he hadn’t outed one of his weapons. “No problem.” The handsome, well-dressed man smiled. “You looking for something specific?” Xcor glanced around, and nearly walked back to that fancy stairwell. “I require a new shirt.” “Oh, cool, you got a hot date?” “And pants. And socks.” Come to think of it, he never wore underwear. “And undergarments. And a jacket.” The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact. “What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead. “Clothed.” The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah . . . okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.” Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through. The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.” “Casual. Yes. But I want to look. . . .” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.” “Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.” “A button-down.” The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.” “No, I’m not.” “I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?” “I don’t know what to like.” “Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?” “XXXL.” “We need to be a little more exact.

Too anxious to sit still, she stood in the stirrups to stretch her legs, then moved her bottom back and forth in the saddle until she found a comfortable spot to settle. She dallied her reins loosely around the saddle horn and reached up to unbutton the top two buttons of her blouse, then leaned over and shook the cotton cloth back and forth to cool herself. Her Stetson hat came off next. She settled it on the saddle horn, so what little breeze there was could reach the sweat on her nape. “What the hell kind of strip show are you putting on?” Bay nearly fell out of the saddle at Owen’s angry outburst. She jerked upright, knocking her hat off the horn and onto the ground. Her horse saw the shadow when it fell, figured it for a dangerous, horse-eating jackrabbit, and shied violently toward Owen’s mount. His horse took exception to being bumped and kicked out with both hooves, striking Bay’s horse in the rump, which grabbed for the reins, but they fell loose from the horn, and she was helpless to restrain her mount when he began to run helter-skelter down the canyon, sunfishing and crowhopping. Bay was thrown up onto her mount’s neck, where she held on for dear life. She heard Owen galloping behind her and knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up to her. But a narrow passage was coming up, and there wasn’t room for both her and her horse. She was going to be scraped off. Unless she jumped first. From her precious perch, Bay stared down at the rocky soil racing past her nose and thought of all the movies she’d seen where cowboys leaped from their horses and got up and walked away. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. In a moment, when they reached that narrow passage, the choice was going to be taken from her. Bay closed her eyes and launched herself as far as she could from her horse’s flashing hooves. And landed like a sack of wet cement. She skidded for maybe two feet along the rocky bed of the canyon. On her face. And her right hip. And her left hand. When she stopped, she lay there stunned for a moment, then gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, that was not at all like it is in the movies.

Orion threw a grin back at me as headed to the bar, ducking behind it. “What would madam like?” he asked in a formal tone which was a damn good impression of the Acruxes' butler. I giggled hurrying over to take a stool in front of the bar and placing my clutch down, relishing the cool breeze against my burning neck. “Hmm...a Manhattan?” I teased and he cocked his head. “I'm afraid we're fresh out of bullshit, how about a white wine spritzer with a tiny umbrella in it?” I laughed, nodding eagerly as he made up my drink then poured himself a measure of bourbon. He held it out for me and I leaned across the bar to take it. As I took hold of the glass, he didn't let go and I gazed up at him under my lashes questioning why. “Have I told you have exceptionally beautiful you look tonight, Darcy?” Darcy. He'd said my name. For the first time ever. And why did it sound like so much more than a name when he spoke it? It was like he'd fired an arrow and it had punctured a flesh wound in me at the exact same moment. Hell. I needed to get over this guy. Why was I so caught up on him? Unavailable, that's what it was. We always want what we can't have and Professor Orion was off limits. Simple as that. And those muscles. And the beard. And the dark eyes. And the dimple. But that was it. “That's the first I've heard of it, Professor,” I whispered, unable to make my voice rise any louder. “Don't do that,” he grunted, releasing the drink. I eyed him curiously as he walked around the bar with his bourbon in hand. He took the stool beside mine, his arm butting up against me. “Do what?” I asked, swivelling around to face the pool and taking a sip of my spritzer. It fizzed on my tongue and sent a deep kick of heat through my chest. “You know what.” “You're very presumptuous, Orion. You think I'm far more aware of your chaotic way of thinking than I really am.” I sipped my drink again, spying on him from the corner of my eye. He took a swig of his own drink and the familiar waft of bourbon drifted over me, tingling my senses. It was becoming a trigger, like the moment I walked into his office and he uncorked a bottle, it made me want to taste it on his mouth. And then that led to me wondering whether his fangs would brush my tongue when we kissed, and that always led to me mentally undressing him, then me conjuring an image of what those muscles looked like beneath that shirt... “I have something for you,” he said and I turned, blinking out of my dark fantasy. “You do?” He nodded, reaching into his inside pocket and taking out my coil of blue hair. My heart combusted and a choked noise escaped me. I reached for it and he slid it onto my wrist. He kept my hand in his, his eyes downcast as they remained on the band of hair. “I want you to know, I believe you would have gotten this back yourself when you were ready. But I took a lot of pleasure in retrieving it for you all the same.” I stared at him in complete shock, unsure what to say, my tongue tied in knots. “But Fae don't fight battles for other Fae,” I blurted, completely astonished that his actions that day had been to take this back from Seth. For me. And nothing else. He finished his drink and planted the glass on the bar, rising to his feet. He didn't reply to what I'd said and I barely even remembered what it was as he started pulling his clothes off. “Err, what are you doing?” I half laughed as he shed his jacket and kicked off his shoes, pulling off his socks. Oh my god. “I hate parties, but I like swimming.” He started undoing the buttons of his shirt and thought his back was to me, I was still captivated as he dropped it to the floor like a silken sheet. My eyes scraped down his skin to where his muscles etched an upside down v into his lower back, disappearing beneath his waistband. His shoulders were tanned and heavenly broad, making me long to explore all of those muscles with my hands.(Darcy)

The movies were just kind of figuring out how to use computers in 2003, and nobody was just kind of figuring out how to use computers harder than Michael Bay. It’s tempting to say that every frame of Bad Boys II looks like a TV commercial, but truly every frame looks like a print advertisement, like those Candies ads where Jenny McCarthy’s taking a shit, shallow and glossy and tinged acid green. There are four car chases, one of which is at least fifteen minutes long. Even the most passing transitions are giddily tasteless: the camera EXPLODES out of the speedboat’s tailpipe and ZOOMS across Biscayne Bay and WHAMS down the ventilation shaft in the backward sunglasses factory and SHOOMPS into the buttcrack of a raver’s low-rise jeans and SPROINGS across her transverse colon and SQUEAKS through her appendix and AIRHORNS out her belly button and PLOPS into the Cuban drug lord’s mojito as he shoots his favorite nephew in the head while saying, “Adios, kemosabe,” or something fucking cool like that. When faced with a choice, Bay picks “all of the above” every time. He’s like a dog in one of those obedience trials who’s like, “Obedience? I don’t know her,” and just goes buck wild on the sausages. Except instead of “obedience” it’s “having a coherent plot that holds the audience’s attention” and instead of “sausages” it’s “explosions, Ferrari chases, and how many different cool kinds of box could a gun come in.

My fourth-grade teacher, Kathy, is my best friend at school. She’s a plump, pretty woman with hair like yellow pipe cleaners. Her clothes resemble the sheets at my grandma’s house, threadbare florals with mismatched buttons. She says I can ask her as many questions as I want: about tidal waves, about my sinuses, about nuclear war. She offers vague, reassuring answers. In hindsight they were tinged with religion, implied a faith in a distinctly Christian God. She can tell when I’m getting squirrelly, and she shoots me a look across the room that says, It’s okay, Lena, just give it a second. When I’m not with Kathy I’m with Terri Mangiano, our school nurse, who has a buzz cut and a penchant for wearing holiday sweaters all year round. She has a no-nonsense approach to health that comforts me. She presents me with statistics (only 2 percent of children develop Reye’s syndrome in response to aspirin) and tells me that polio has been eradicated. She takes me seriously when I explain that I’ve been exposed to scarlet fever by a kid on the subway with a red face. Sometimes she lets me lie on the top bunk in the back room, dark and cool. I rest my cheek against the plastic mattress cover and listen to her administer pills and pregnancy tests to high school girls. If I’m lucky, she doesn’t send me back to class.

This here is a Trachycarpus fortunei. A Chinese windmill palm." The fans bounced up and down as they were released from the burlap, cooling Exley and me like we were on a veranda in South China. "Sugar comes from the sap of this plant," he said. "And upholstery stuffing, too. Hairbrushes, paint varnish, rosary beads, chess pieces, hats, dress buttons, hot-water bottles, margarine, cooking oils, shampoos, conditioners, cosmetics, moisturizers, doormats, soap, tin cans, and starch for Laundromats. It all comes from the palm tree.

She dropped her attention to the buttons on her coat in an attempt to buy her face some time to cool down.

One by one, Alex’s hand stealthily undid each button down Kaylee’s blouse. Lost in the kiss, Kaylee didn’t take heed until she felt Alex press her warm hand against her bare midriff. The hand explored her body, teasing her hips, softly dragging nails across her tummy, and finally cupping her breast through her bra. Kaylee let a soft moan slip into Alex’s mouth, which relentlessly pressed on. Kaylee’s blouse was pushed off her shoulder, along with the bra strap. Her bare breasts felt the cool air of exposure and responded to the gentle caress of Alex’s hand. With Alex squeezing, teasing, and pinching lightly, Kaylee arched into the ministrations. She realized she was almost bare from the waist up, exposing her feminine

The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button's forehead.

If you needed to make her angry, bro, why didn't you just tell her how it was really you who took away all her freedoms? Not her shitty excuse of an absent father. Although, in fairness, it barely took any effort at all to make him dance to our tune." Archer hit the cool down button on the machine and slowed his pace before turning and jumping off the end. He gave me a smug, patronizing smile as I just stood there in shock with my mouth ajar. "The whole forced committal thing, though? That was all Samuel. He sure does have a hard-on for having your legal rights stripped, Princess. Not that it'd benefit him even if they were.

He's a very different character when he's not on malaria pills, of course, but we had some cool times together.

DR. Eric Blake checked his appearance in the mirror. As always, everything was in place. When people were asked to describe him, they rarely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. They usually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelaces tied, every button buttoned. Eric’s shirttail never hung out, his socks always matched, his face was always clean-shaven. Even now Eric looked cool, unemotional, detached. But inside, under the fastidious grooming—well, that was another matter. His

My office is over here—” He stopped. Frowned. Looked about. Had to backtrack to the kitchen in order to find the various parties. Sola’s grandmother had her head in the Sub-Zero refrigerator, rather as if she were a gnome looking for a cool place in the summer. “Madam?” Assail inquired. She shut the door and moved on to the floor-to-ceiling cabinets. “There is nothing here. Nothing. What do you eat?” “Ah . . .” Assail found himself looking at the cousins for aid. “Usually we take our meals in town.” The scoffing sound certainly appeared like the old-lady equivalent of Fuck that. “I need the staples.” She pivoted on her little shiny shoes and put her hands on her hips. “Who is taking me to supermarket.” Not an inquiry. And as she stared up at the three of them, it appeared as though Ehric and his violent killer of a twin were as nonplussed as Assail was. The evening had been planned out to the minute—and a trip to the local Hannaford was not on the list. “You two are too thin,” she announced, flicking her hand in the direction of the twins. “You need to eat.” Assail cleared his throat. “Madam, you have been brought here for your safety.” He was not going to permit Benloise to up the stakes—and so he’d had to lock down potential collateral damage. “Not to be a cook.” “You have already refused the money. I no stay here for free. I earn my keep. That is the way it will be.” Assail exhaled long and slow. Now he knew where Sola got her independent streak. “Well?” she demanded. “I no drive. Who takes me.” “Madam, would you not prefer to rest—” “Your body rest when dead. Who.” “We do have an hour,” Ehric hedged. As Assail glared at the other vampire, the little old lady hitched her purse up on her forearm and nodded. “So he will take me.” Assail met Sola’s grandmother’s gaze directly and dropped his tone a register just so that the line drawn would be respected. “I pay. Are we clear—you are not to spend a cent.” She opened her mouth as if to argue, but she was headstrong—not foolish. “Then I do the darning.” “Our clothes are in sufficient shape—” Ehric cleared his throat. “Actually, I have a couple of loose buttons. And the Velcro strip on his flak jacket is—” Assail looked over his shoulder and bared his fangs at the idiot—out of eyesight of Sola’s grandmother, of course. Remarshaling his expression, he turned back around and— Knew he’d lost. The grandmother had one of those brows cocked, her dark eyes as steady as any foe’s he’d ever faced. Assail shook his head. “I cannot believe I’m negotiating with you.” “And you agree to terms.” “Madam—” “Then it is settled.” Assail threw up his hands. “Fine. You have forty-five minutes. That is all.” “We be back in thirty.” At that, she turned and headed for the door. In her diminutive wake, the three vampires played ocular Ping-Pong. “Go,” Assail gritted out. “Both of you.” The cousins stalked for the garage door—but they didn’t make it. Sola’s grandmother wheeled around and put her hands on her hips. “Where is your crucifix?” Assail shook himself. “I beg your pardon?” “Are you no Catholic?” My dear sweet woman, we are not human, he thought. “No, I fear not.” Laser-beam eyes locked on him. Ehric. Ehric’s brother. “We change this. It is God’s will.” And out she went, marching through the mudroom, ripping open the door, and disappearing into the garage. As that heavy steel barrier closed automatically, all Assail could do was blink.

Just play it cool,” Dax says. He has forced me to don a pair of dark gray slacks and a white button-up shirt. Contrary to his protests, I have pushed the sleeves of the shirt up past my elbows, but I make sure the scars on my arm, which spell out Daphne’s name, are covered. I feel overly warm and suffocated in these clothes. “I don’t understand. You want me to pretend to be cold?” I fake a shiver. “Like this? What’s the point?” Dax tries to stifle a laugh—not very well—and I realize I’ve been tripped up by another one of these “figures of speech” that I keep running into. I’m beginning to hate the English language.

A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this. --Poppy Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked… After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let it slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk. Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen. Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. “My God,” he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers. “Do you like my nightgown?” Beatrix asked. Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “Where’s the rest of it?” “This was all I could find.” Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. “I wonder if I put it on backward…” “Let me see.” As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath. Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn’t take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin.

I walked to the fridge and slipped the desserts and whipped cream inside, taking a deep breath. "What is that?" I asked, not able to place the smell that still somehow made my stomach growl. "Tacos?" I asked, brows drawn together. "Don't insult me," he said with a smile. "Not an insult. I like tacos." "Okay, next time. This time, we're having wet burritos." "What is a wet burrito?" I asked, propping myself up on the counter and watching as he scooped rice and then a supply of cooked veggies and beans onto the tortilla. "Depends on your taste. But in general, a tortilla filled with rice, veggies, meat, beans, and cheese. Then you roll it up, melt some more cheese on top then add some Pica de Gallo, salsa verde, rojo, or habanero- depending on what heat-level you can take." "That sounds too good to be true," I said, meaning it. "It is. And it goes great with the beer I have cooling in the fridge," he told me, rolling up one burrito and putting a mix of shredded cheeses on top before nuking it for a couple seconds and handing me the plate, gesturing toward the supply of salsas. He wasn't trying to sweep me off my feet with some three-course meal, but he cooked me something that made that frappe foodgasm moan sound tame when I had my first bite. "Oh my God." "I know," he agreed, smiling big at my enjoyment. And I realized with a sort of blinding clarity that I literally couldn't remember the last time I felt quite so content. It wasn't that kind of 'high' you get when something goes right or you achieve something after a long time trying; it was deeper. It was soul deep. I felt it into my marrow. "What's that look for?" he asked as he took my plate and put it beside his on the coffee table. Not sure how to explain it and thinking it was perhaps too soon to even if I could, I took a long swig of my beer and shrugged. "What look?" To that, his lips tipped up devilishly. "You really want to do this again?" "Do what?" I asked as he stood suddenly and walked toward the kitchen. He didn't answer me though as I heard some shuffling before he came walking back with the whipped cream. "Do the 'I am going to get what I want out of you by using sex to do it' thing," he explained as he slammed the can down on the coffee table and moved to stand between it and the couch, reaching down and pulling me onto my feet. "Brant..." I said as his fingers teased up under the material of my tee, running across my lower back and inching it off my skin. "Know what?" he asked as his fingers paused to unclasp my bra. "No, what?" I asked, feeling my chest get heavier as desire started to course through my system. "I'm still hungry," he told me, pulling my shirt until I had no choice but to raise up my hands as he pulled off both my shirt and my bra. "Brant, please..'' "Begging won't help you this time," he informed me as his hands whispered down my belly and unfastened my button and zip before yanking the thick material over my butt then down my thighs. I stepped out of the material as his hands pressed into my hips and pushed me back toward the couch. I had barely sat down before he was grabbing for the whipped cream and shaking the can, eyes devilish, smirk downright sinful. "Lay back," he commanded and I automatically moved to do just that. "Unless you want to end it without all the torture and tell me." Tell him what? I had no idea what I was even supposed to tell him anymore and, honestly, even if I did know what... I was pretty sure I wanted every second of a torment that involved him licking things off my body. I jumped slightly as he circled my nipple with the cold whipped cream, an unexpectedly erotic sensation. He covered both nipples and created a line down the center of my belly and completely covered the skin above my sex. I waited for him to move over me, to kiss me, then move down to my chest.

She shivered under his touch, desire dampening her panties and making her clench her thighs together in an attempt to find some relief. His devilish hands relaxed their grip on her hips and slid around to cup her ass, pulling her close. Thick, hard evidence of his desire pressed against her belly. God, she wanted this man, and not just to silent the stressful thoughts always swirling in her head. She wanted him, not just the divine moment of oblivion that blocked out everything else. The realization scared her and brought some unwanted reality into the room. "We shouldn't be doing this." "Why?" He made quick work of the buttons on her petal-pink cashmere sweater and parted her cardigan. Sean gave a soft growl as he stared at her silver satin pushup bra that presented her boobs like an all-you-can-lick buffet. "Because I'm your employee?" He licked his lips and slid his thumb across the satin covering her hard nipple. "Yes," she said, sighing. An answer to his question or a response to even the lightest of touches? Both. "Easy fix." He snapped the front closure of her bra and her tits tumbled out. "I quit." Bending forward, he lifted one heavy globe and took the hard nub into his hot mouth. Fire sizzled through her veins and it felt so good she couldn't wait to burn. "You can't quit." She reached down for the top button of his jeans and flicked it open. "We need you. I need you." He released her nipple and she groaned in frustration. Then he found the hem of her skirt and inched it higher and the soft groan that floated out of her mouth was for a whole other reason. "Hire me back in about an hour or, better yet, a few days." The cool air caressed her upper thighs as he raised her skirt, but it wasn't enough to relieve the molten heat engulfing her. "I like how you think.

his back to me. He’s looking over the menu. I walk around the table as I reach my seat and he stands. At least he’s a gentleman. I look up and… Just kill me now. The manuscript copy I’m holding almost falls to the floor. Standing in front of me, in the flesh, is none other than Mr. Khaki Shorts himself. I nearly faint. Cool it Julia. This is work. You can do this. He’s stunning. There’s no other word… simply stunning. He’s wearing a dark navy blazer over a light blue button down shirt, opened enough at the collar to see some of his chest hair peeking out and a tight in all the right places pair of jeans. He’s perfected the sexy stubble look; I’d like to freeze this moment so I could run my hand through his beard, just to feel it.

On our return from the bush, we went straight back to work at the zoo. A huge tree behind the Irwin family home had been hit by lightning some years previously, and a tangle of dead limbs was in danger of crashing down on the house. Steve thought it would be best to take the dead tree down. I tried to lend a hand. Steve’s mother could not watch as he scrambled up the tree. He had no harness, just his hat and a chainsaw. The tree was sixty feet tall. Steve looked like a little dot way up in the air, swinging through the tree limbs with an orangutan’s ease, working the chainsaw. Then it was my turn. After he pruned off all the limbs, the last task was to fell the massive trunk. Steve climbed down, secured a rope two-thirds of the way up the tree, and tied the other end to the bull bar of his Ute. My job was to drive the Ute. “You’re going to have to pull it down in just the right direction,” he said, chopping the air with his palm. He studied the angle of the tree and where it might fall. Steve cut the base of the tree. As the chainsaw snarled, Steve yelled, “Now!” I put the truck in reverse, slipped the clutch, and went backward at a forty-five-degree angle as hard as I could. With a groan and a tremendous crash, the tree hit the ground. We celebrated, whooping and hollering. Steve cut the downed timber into lengths and I stacked it. The whole project took us all day. By late in the afternoon, my back ached from stacking tree limbs and logs. As the long shadows crossed the yard, Steve said four words very uncharacteristic of him: “Let’s take a break.” I wondered what was up. We sat under a big fig tree in the yard with a cool drink. We were both covered in little flecks of wood, leaves, and bark. Steve’s hair was unkempt, a couple of his shirt buttons were missing, and his shorts were torn. I thought he was the best-looking man I had ever seen in my life. “I am not even going to walk for the next three days,” I said, laughing. Steve turned to me. He was quiet for a moment. “So, do you want to get married?” Casual, matter-of-fact. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding. I had twigs in my hair an dirt caked on the side of my face. I’d taken off my hat, and I could feel my hair sticking to the sides of my head. My first thought was what a mess I must look. My second, third, and fourth thoughts were lists of every excuse in the world why I couldn’t marry Steve Irwin. I could not possibly leave my job, my house, my wildlife work, my family, my friends, my pets--everything I had worked so hard for back in Oregon. He never looked concerned. He simply held my gaze. As all these things flashed through my mind, a little voice from somewhere above me spoke. “Yes, I’d love to.” With those four words my life changed forever.

The whole project took us all day. By late in the afternoon, my back ached from stacking tree limbs and logs. As the long shadows crossed the yard, Steve said four words very uncharacteristic of him: “Let’s take a break.” I wondered what was up. We sat under a big fig tree in the yard with a cool drink. We were both covered in little flecks of wood, leaves, and bark. Steve’s hair was unkempt, a couple of his shirt buttons were missing, and his shorts were torn. I thought he was the best-looking man I had ever seen in my life. “I am not even going to walk for the next three days,” I said, laughing. Steve turned to me. He was quiet for a moment. “So, do you want to get married?” Casual, matter-of-fact. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding. I had twigs in my hair an dirt caked on the side of my face. I’d taken off my hat, and I could feel my hair sticking to the sides of my head. My first thought was what a mess I must look. My second, third, and fourth thoughts were lists of every excuse in the world why I couldn’t marry Steve Irwin. I could not possibly leave my job, my house, my wildlife work, my family, my friends, my pets--everything I had worked so hard for back in Oregon. He never looked concerned. He simply held my gaze. As all these things flashed through my mind, a little voice from somewhere above me spoke. “Yes, I’d love to.” With those four words my life changed forever.

Wade on in,” he said. “The water’s nice and cool this morning.” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been spying on you.” “That’s all right.” He couldn’t help grinning. “You’re the prettiest spy I’ve ever seen, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Ada spun away, her cheeks blazing. “I’ll wait for you in front of the church.” “Don’t go.” He jammed his hat onto his head and splashed across the water to the bank. “We should go back. Your aunt will be wondering where we are.” “She knows where to find me.” He slipped his shirt on, retrieved his boots, and sat down on a fallen log to pull them on, trying to think of some way to hold on to her company a little longer. “There’s a pretty little waterfall just upstream there. I’d love for you to see it. It isn’t far.” “I shouldn’t.” She kept her eyes trained on the river. “We shouldn’t even be here. You know how some people love to talk.” He sighed and buttoned his shirt. “I suppose you’re right. Another time, then.

Felisin became dully aware of something, as if the hot wind breathed a new menace into the night air. The chatter of the militiamen, she noted, had fallen away, and signs of nervousness were evident. She extracted another button of durhang and popped it into her mouth, where it rested cool and sweet between cheek and gum. “Watching you do that,” Beneth muttered, “reminds me of Sawark.” She blinked. “Sawark?” “Aye. The worse things get, the more he shuts his eyes.” Her words came out slurred. “And what things are getting worse?

Yeah.’ Roper sighed again. ‘We’d better get over there. Don’t think this is going to be a pretty one, but Smith wants us on it. Take what we can get, I suppose.’ The phone crackled as he put it down, the hiss of deodorant being sprayed in the background humming in her ear. He picked it up again, breathing into the mouthpiece. ‘I’m heading out now. I’ll send you the case link and meet you there? Or do you want me to pick you up?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m good.’ She didn’t like him being behind the wheel after a night like he’d had. At least not with her in the car. Though she never said it. ‘I’ll see you there.’ ‘Probably take me an hour,’ he grumbled. ‘Traffic’ll be a bitch at this time.’ ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’ He didn’t say anything else before he hung up.  She exhaled slowly and rubbed her head. Henley Smith was the DCI and the unit he ran had a couple of cases going on just then. A homeless heroin addict turning up in a river wasn’t at the top of the priorities list. Roper may have seen it as a win — a way to get back in good with Smith and claw his way back into the meat of things. But all she could think about was some poor homeless kid getting his fingernails ripped off.  She didn’t know why it had happened, but she knew that this city could be brutal. And that it rarely gave an inch. In fact, if you let it, it would eat you alive.  She turned back to the office, ready to tell Cake that she couldn’t stick around, and found him holding out her coffee cup. ‘I put milk in — skimmed, don’t worry — should be cool enough to drink.’ ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking it. ‘Sorry, I’ve gotta go.’ He nodded. ‘I get it. Same time tomorrow?’ She slugged the coffee. ‘Can I let you know?’ ‘Of course.’ Jamie tapped a button on her watch to start tracking her run, and turned for the door. She still needed to get her daily quota in. ‘I can give you a lift if you want?’ Cake offered. ‘No, it’s fine. Probably be faster if I run.’ ‘Probably.’ She nodded to him and then dipped through the door, shaking out her legs as she walked, the sweat on her neck and collarbones already cool in the early-morning air.  Outside the sun was barely up, but the city was churning to life.  Smog was already hanging in the air and the echo of a thousand engines buzzed in the streets like a wasp nest.  She took a few breaths, oxygenating her muscles, and then took off, clenching her fists against the cold.

I say, trying to project a coolness I do not feel. An aloofness. A nonchalance. I am Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher! I am Meryl Streep in that movie with the nuns. My gaze falls to his mouth, to the hollow of his throat, to the triangle of skin exposed by his unbuttoned buttons, and all pretense of cool vanishes. I am Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again.

Nona was happy enough to take Noodle’s lead, and Noodle was even happier; he whisked a bit. He was always good at sensing feelings. Nona thought she and Noodle were very alike in some ways, except she sadly did not have an arboreal anything. She and Hot Sauce shrugged on their dust jackets and buttoned up the sleeves in the cloakroom, and Nona clipped the leash to Noodle’s collar and led him down the flight of black and cool and quiet stairs, Hot Sauce following behind, and once they were one floor down she said— “Camilla hasn’t come for me.” “Sleep at mine if she doesn’t,” said Hot Sauce. The idea quite startled Nona, who had never slept apart from Camilla. She was homesick thinking about her. She had thought Hot Sauce would maybe say something sympathetic or understanding, like, “Don’t worry about it,” but the problem with Hot Sauce was that she was a bit like Cam. When you came to her with a problem she gave you something to do about it.

6 large eggs 1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves 1/2 cup crumbled goat cheese 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 cups sliced baby bella mushrooms 1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced 1 cup water 1 In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, basil, goat cheese, salt, and pepper. Set aside. 2 Press the Sauté button on the Instant Pot®. Heat oil 30 seconds and stir-fry mushrooms and onions 5 minutes until onions are translucent. 3 Transfer cooked mushroom mixture to a 7-cup glass bowl greased with either oil or cooking spray and set aside to cool 5 minutes. Pour

At Hobby Lobby She tosses a bolt of fabric into the air. Hill country, prairie, a horse trots there. I say three yards, and her eyes say more: What you need is guidance, a hand that can zip a scissor through cloth. What you need is a picture of what you've lost. To double the width against the window for the gathering, consider where you sit in the morning. Transparency's appealing, except it blinds us before day's begun. How I long to captain that table, to return in a beautiful accent a customer's request. My mother kneeled down against her client and cut threads from buttons with her teeth, inquiring with a finger in the band if it cut into the waist. Or pulled a hem down to a calf to cool a husband's collar. I can see this in my sleep and among notions. My bed was inches from the sewing machine, a dress on the chair forever weeping its luminescent frays. Sleep was the sound of insinuation, a zigzag to keep holes receptive. Or awakened by a backstitch balling under the foot. A needle cracking? Blood on a white suit? When my baby's asleep I write to no one and cannot expect a response. The fit's poor, always. No one wears it out the door. But fashions continue to fly out of magazines like girls out of windows. Sure, they are my sisters. Their machines, my own. The office from which I wave to them in their descent has uneven curtains, made with my own pink and fragile hands.

Feelie Box—Cut a hole in a shoebox lid. Place spools, buttons, blocks, coins, marbles, animals, and cars in the box. The child inserts a hand through the hole and tells you what toy she is touching. Or, ask her to reach in and feel for a button or car. Or, show her a toy and ask her to find one in the box that matches. These activities improve the child’s ability to discriminate objects without the use of vision. “Can You Describe It?”—Provide objects with different textures, temperatures, and weights. Ask her to tell you about an object she is touching. (If you can persuade her not to look at it, the game is more challenging.) Is the object round? Cool? Smooth? Soft? Heavy? Oral-Motor Activities—Licking stickers and pasting them down, blowing whistles and kazoos, blowing bubbles, drinking through straws or sports bottles, and chewing gum or rubber tubing may provide oral satisfaction. Hands-on Cooking—Have the child mix cookie dough, bread dough, or meat loaf in a shallow roasting pan (not a high-sided bowl). Science Activities—Touching worms and egg yolks, catching fireflies, collecting acorns and chestnuts, planting seeds, and digging in the garden provide interesting tactile experiences. Handling Pets—What could be more satisfying than stroking a cat, dog or rabbit? People Sandwich—Have the “salami” or “cheese” (your child) lie facedown on the “bread” (gym mat or couch cushion) with her head extended beyond the edge. With a “spreader” (sponge, pot scrubber, basting or vegetable brush, paintbrush, or washcloth) smear her arms, legs, and torso with pretend mustard, mayonnaise, relish, ketchup, etc. Use firm, downward strokes. Cover the child, from neck to toe, with another piece of “bread” (folded mat or second cushion). Now press firmly on the mat to squish out the excess mustard, so the child feels the deep, soothing pressure. You can even roll or crawl across your child; the mat will distribute your weight. Your child will be in heaven.

Jena Crowe McCann was driving down the Oregon coast and breathing in the cool night air when her husband’s ghost appeared to her. She slid her hand along the car door, pressing down the button that would crack the window open so the smell of pine and salt filled the air. Then she took a deep breath, holding the fragrance in her lungs for as long as she could before she let out a long sigh.

small incision one inch to the left of the belly button and one inch up.” But I also drifted, looked briefly at Tim, then away. I looked at his hand, his ear, his shoeless feet. Where was he? Not this body. But him. His essence. That ineffable thing. Is animation, life force, just brain function and electricity? Heartbeat? Is that all it is? Is that all it is that built the Brooklyn Bridge and invented penicillin and wrote “Let It Be” and created Cool Whip?

A couple of weeks after Mia’s bone graft surgery in January 2014, she received a letter from Congressman Trent Franks of Arizona on official United States congressional letterhead. Mia was so excited about the letter that she stood on the fireplace hearth (the living room stage) and proceeded to read it to the entire family. In the letter, Congressman Franks told Mia that he, too, was born with a cleft lip and palate and underwent many surgeries as a child. He told her he understood how she felt and told her not to get discouraged because he recognized how she is helping so many people. He invited her to Washington, DC, to receive an award from Congress for service to her community. As soon as she had finished reading it to us, she exclaimed, “Can we go?” Knowing how Jase puts little value on earthly awards and how he likes to travel even less, I responded with a phrase that most parents can understand and appreciate: “We’ll see.” Mia immediately ran upstairs and tacked the letter to her bulletin board, full of hope and optimism. How could Jase say no to this? Oh, she knew her daddy well. He couldn’t, and he didn’t. That summer, Mia, Jase, Reed, Cole, and I spent a few days together visiting monuments and historical sites in Washington before meeting Congressman Franks on July 8 in his office on Capitol Hill. Mia’s favorite monument was the Lincoln Memorial because she had learned about it in school, so it was cool to see it “for real.” It was really crowded there, and people were taking pictures of us while we were trying to read about the monument and take photographs ourselves. Getting Jase out of there took a while because of so many fans wanting pictures--he’s very accommodating. That’s why it surprised me that this was Mia’s favorite site. I’m glad she remembers the impact of the monument and didn’t allow the circus of activity from the fans to put a damper on her experience. Congressman Franks presented Mia with a Certificate of Special Congressional Recognition for “outstanding and invaluable service to the community” at a press conference held at the foot of the Capitol steps. Both he and Mia made speeches that day to numerous cameras and reporters. Hearing my ten-year-old daughter speak about her condition and how she hopes people will look to God to help them get through their own problems was an unbelievably proud moment for me, Jase, and her brothers. After the press conference, Congressman Franks took us into the House chamber where Congress was voting on a new bill. He took Mia down to the floor, introduced her to some of his colleagues, and let her push his voting button for him. When some of the other members of Congress saw this, they also asked her to push their voting buttons for them. Of course, Mia wasn’t going to push any buttons without quizzing these representatives about what exactly she was voting for. She needed to know what was in the bill before she pushed the buttons. Once she realized she agreed with the bill and saw that some members were voting “no,” she commented, “That’s just rude.” Mia was thrilled with the experience and told us all how she helped make history. Little does she know just how much history she has made and continues to make.

A few moments ago, he'd had her up against a wall, skirt shoved up to her belly button, hands in her panties, his fingers driving her straight to oblivion, and now... now he was this intense, cool, calm, and collected man. With a gun. "Breanne. Are you ok?" She stared at him. He had his shirt loose and draped over the bulge of his gun. He looked rough-and-tumble. Baddass. Damn it, she had a serious weakness for badass.

When they finished dressing, Jimena wore racy red hot pants, a silky blouse with a star-burst pattern, and crazy ankle boots with thin chains draped around her ankles. "Too cool." Serena admired Jimena's outfit, then she twirled to show off her own shoulder-baring top that exposed her midriff. She had pasted a crystal in her belly button. Kendra's bell-bottoms had been too long, but when she stepped into a pair of gold 70's platform shoes the length became just right. Catty wore a backless halter top and a pair of lacy bell-bottoms. She held up some stencils. "Kendra is going to start selling these at the shop. Anyone want to try one?" She had two dragons in one hand and a lacy snowflake pattern in the other. Jimena and Serena started to examine them, when Vanessa walked into the room. She was wearing a pinstripe shirt unbuttoned over a black leather bra top. Kendra's mini-skirt was too big and the waist fell around Vanessa's hips. Her skin looked golden bronze and she had applied one of the snowflake stencils on her stomach. "Wow," Serena said. "Talk about going for the jugular," Jimena teased. "You like it?" she asked and took off the shirt. "It's too hot to wear.

Linus: Okay sorry, what is this called ? Scotty: "Huaqiangbei" *laughs* Linus: fantastic, alright so i'm here at Scotty: "Huaqiangbei" Linus: yeah perfect thank you, with Scotty From 'Strange Parts', so I'm "getting me some strange parts" In China Which is actually exactly what we're doing So, in this, like, gigantic tech mall-thing They have everything from components like switches To.. Computer parts, to drones, to cryptocurrency-crap Mobile phones.. Pretty much you name it, they got it here. So I don't really have any objective, other than go shopping and see exactly what it is That I can buy with my little stack of 'Canadian Rubles' here. So, uhh.. Wish me luck. And hopefully that's not for me. Scotty: No, I think we're good. [chuckles] [Intro music: Laszlo - Supernova] Linus: This video is brought to you by Corsair's Obsidian 500D It's a mid-tower gaming case, featuring: Premium tempered glass an aluminium construction Removable top fan trays and more! Check it out at the link below. Scotty: I think this is going to be an uphill battle, To get them to even recognize what those are, let alone know the value of them. Linus: They are gonna be like "what is this $H!T?!" Yeah, no, it's okay; there's an ATM. This is the world's most helpful error message: "Transaction is cancelled for some reason" "Operation Timeout" "Thank you!" Okay.. So like this is the kind of stuff that I wish we had a shop like this. We were trying to do a piece a little while ago Where we wanted lit.. Uhh.. Buttons! Or like.. Like.. Big fun buttons we could press And if we could have just walked into a mall and bought them That would have made my Christmas. Scotty: The cool thing about here, particularly for buttons, is you can actually come in and touch them, right. So, like, the button-feel is super important Linus: Oh my god, I already found something I need. Entire bags of like, motherboard standoffs. I was trying to buy just a bag of computer screws Only place I could find for it was eBay Pricing was just totally unreasonable. Scotty: Yeah and it will be very reasonable here. Linus: Smartwatches, totally 100% real Beats. Scotty: These are probably, like, semi-real Linus: Semi-real? Scotty: Yeah, like refurb-ed type. Linus: Right, okay. Wow. This place is enormous. Scotty: It's crazy, right? This is probably one of twenty buildings Linus: Honestly, it's overwhelming. Scotty: Yeah. Linus: Okay, so here's stuff I mostly recognize. Scotty: "Right!" Linus: There's like A bunch of mining gear.. Like Antminers and.. What else do they got? Mining Power supplies ROG.. Something something Looks like Very similar SKU's Linus: I'm just looking. Linus: just looking Linus: Uhh.. Linus: No, I don't.. Necessarily wanna get lead in here. Linus: Hi! Nah, I'm just looking around, it's okay. Linus: Thank you. [Sad Music] I mean this is the kind of thing you would never find in a retail store back home This is like, dual socket, like server boards and stuff like that. Can you ask how much this 1800W Xfurbish

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