Dance Flick Quotes

You've got to learn to stand your ground and," she flicked her feet in a little Irish stepdance and sang, "you've got to have faith, faith, faith." My jaw dropped. "You're kidding me, right? You're dancing in the streets and quoting George Michael. I'm about to get eaten alive!

I want him." "I'm sorry?" I peer at her, flicking my mobile open out of habit. "The man I just met. I felt it, right here. The sizzle." She presses her concave stomach. "I want to dance with him.

The societies kids naturally form are tribal. Gangs, clubs, packs. But we're herded into schools and terrified into behaving. Taught how we're supposed to pretend to be, taught to parrot all kinds of nonsense at the flick of a switch, taught to keep our heads down and our elbows in and shut off our minds and shut off our sex. We learn we can't even piss when we have to. That's how we learn to be plastic and dumb.

Still in the black hemisphere the stars blazed and slowly wheeled; beneath them, Will felt so infinitesimally small that it seemed impossible he should even exist. Immensity pressed in on him, terrifying, threatening--and then, in a swift flash of movement like a dance, like the glint of a leaping fish, came a flick of brightness in the sky from a shooting star... He heard Bran give a small chirrup of delight, a spark struck from the same bright sudden joy that filled his own being.

But his tone is familiar, feeling like dancing in a dark room and thumb wars under willow trees. The way the words rolled off of his tongue felt like a light flick to the tip of my nose, like calloused fingers braiding silver hair. It felt like Kai. Like the man behind the masks who looked at me like I was extraordinary. I blink at the crumbling rocks crowding the path, willing my mind to wander toward anything but the words that have me wishing things were different. But I am Ordinary. I am the embodiment of the weakness he has been taught to hate. Ordinary.

And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet.

Lucien kept rubbing at his temples as he ate, unusually silent, and I hid my smile as I asked him, “And where were you last night?” Lucien’s metal eye narrowed on me. “I’ll have you know that while you two were dancing with the spirits, I was stuck on border patrol.” Tamlin gave a pointed cough, and Lucien added, “With some company.” He gave me a sly grin. “Rumor has it you two didn’t come back until after dawn.” I glanced at Tamlin, biting my lip. I’d practically floated into my bedroom that morning. But Tamlin’s gaze now roved my face as if searching for any tinge of regret, of fear. Ridiculous. “You bit my neck on Fire Night,” I said under my breath. “If I can face you after that, a few kisses are nothing.” He braced his forearms on the table as he leaned closer to me. “Nothing?” His eyes flicked to my lips. Lucien shifted in his seat, muttering to the Cauldron to spare him, but I ignored him. “Nothing,” I repeated a bit distantly, watching Tamlin’s mouth move, so keenly aware of every movement he made, resenting the table between us. I could almost feel the warmth of his breath. “Are you sure?” he murmured, intent and hungry enough that I was glad I was sitting. He could have had me right there, on top of that table. I wanted his broad hands running over my bare skin, wanted his teeth scraping against my neck, wanted his mouth all over me. “I’m trying to eat,” Lucien said.

He flicked off the light switch, setting the alarm system. Overhead he could hear Reno—music that could only be Japanese hip-hop, for God’s sake, and thumps and bumps. Either he had half a dozen girls up there on the floor and he was doing them one by one, or he was doing some sort of exercise. Or dancing. The thought of Reno dancing was enough to send cold shivers down Peter’s spine. He preferred the notion of an orgy.

Everyone watched Maddy. Not outright – the glances came at her like light dancing off a mirror ball, moments of eyes flicking across her face and gone. It was almost as if the class were on a collective joyride at her expense: the more miserable she felt, the more excited their smirks became.

It looks like fallen petals, and it looks like rain. It looks like the sounds the birds make at dawn. It looks like the aisle of grocery stores when a song I love suddenly begins to play overhead, and I cannot help but dance a little dance. It looks like a sigh, a kiss, an unmade bed. It looks like Cheerios in a white bowl with a bit of silence on the side. It looks like a plain vanilla cupcake in white paper, a dance with the wind, pink toenails, warm socks. It looks like a fire against the cold of winter, and a deep lake cool against a summer sky. It looks like chick flicks, books that make you cry, and all the candles blown out on the first try.

The flick of her hip is distilled erotica, a practiced sexuality.

Uh-oh," Will muttered. "This is going to be ... interesting." It turned out the creative genius behind the movie was Will's dad - the god Apollo, which meant this was not going to be a typical orientation flick. No, as we soon found out, Apollo had written, directed, produced, hosted and starred in ... a variety show. For those of you who don't know what a variety show is, imagine a talent show on steroids, complete with canned laughter, pre-recorded applause, and an extra-large helping of hokeyness. For the next hour, we cringe-watched as Apollo and our demigod predecessors performed in song-and-dance numbers, recited poetry, acted in comedy sketches and harmonized in a musical group called the Lyre Choir. Naturally, Apollo featured prominently in most of the acts. The one of him hula-hooping shirtless while satyrs capered around with long rainbow ribbons on sticks ... you can't unsee that kind of thing.

In the village there was a man whose job it was to clear up all the shit from the holes in the ground. He used to collect it in a big copper pan and walk off with it balanced on his head. Proud that he’s got a job. All the kids run behind him and dance in front of him shouting, “Shithead! Shithead!” and laughing those little African laughs. Whenever he gets a chance he puts his hand in the shit pan on his head and flicks shit at them. They all run away laughing, but apparently, he’s quite a good aim, occasionally catching a kid right in the face with shit. This, apparently, is a daily occurrence, and I thought it was quite a good story.

I'm more dangerous than you think,' I flat-out bluster. 'So I see. I'm quaking in my boots.' The corner of his mouth rises in a mocking smile. Fucking. Asshole. I flip the daggers in my hand, pinching them at the tips, then flick my wrists and fire them past his head, one on each side. They land solidly in the trunk of the tree behind him. 'You missed.' He doesn't even flinch. 'Did I?' I reach for my last two blades. 'Why don't you back up a couple of steps and test that theory?' Curiosity flares in his eyes, but it's gone in the next second, masked by cold, mocking indifference. Every one of my senses is on high alert, but the shadows around me don't slide in as he moves backward, his eyes locked with mine. His back hits the tree, and the hilts of my daggers brush his ears. 'Tell me again that I missed,' I threaten, taking the dagger in my right hand by the tip. 'Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you're really a violent little thing, aren't you?' An appreciative smile curves his perfect lips as shadows dance up the trunk of the oak, taking the form of fingers. They pluck the daggers from the tree and bring them to Xaden's waiting hands.

She smirked and braced herself, inviting me forward with a flick of her fingers. “Let’s dance.” I snorted . “Who says that?” Then I punched her breast. As she yowled – there was no other word for the noise that came out of her mouth – and folded over slightly in pain, I dealt her a blow to the jaw… and down she went. Unconscious before she even hit the floor. Well that was disappointing. “Huh. I was kind of hoping for a decent fight.” “Yeah, me too.” Jude twirled her knife on her finger as she stared down at Gina. “Would it be terribly bad to carve something creative on her forehead?” Alora regarded Jude with a smile. “You know, Chico’s good for you.” Jude blinked. “Why do you say that?” “He’s taught you to think before you act. A few months ago, you might have already scrawled ‘I am a hoebag’ into her flesh.” Imani’s face lit up. “That would be amazing!” “But immoral – she’s out cold,” said Alora, the voice of reason for once. Imani shrugged. “So?

Dude, what're you waiting for?" Carlos calls. "Plant one on her." I lift my eyes and am shocked to see Brandon is staring at my mouth. He swallows audibly and flicks his gaze to mine. the emotions darkening the soft green color are too confusing to name. Does he want to back out? An exhale of breath leaves Brandon's lips, almost like a laugh, and he scoots closer to me on the blanket. I twist my legs under myself, sitting tall as I face him. He cups my chin and tilts it toward him, drowning me in the now dark-green depths of his eyes, the cologne I gave him for his birthday filling my head. It's woodsy and yummy and I always loved how it smelled on the store testers, but on Brandon, it's even sexier. My eyes flutter closed, and I inhale again, this time slowly. Goose bumps prickle my arms, and my head gets fuzzy. Brandon slides his hand down the column of my neck and brings the other up, threading his fingers through the hair at my nape. His breath fans across my cheek, and everything south of my bellybutton squeezes tight. When his mouth first meets mine, it's hesitant, questioning. But as I move my lips with his, he quickly grows bolder, coaxing them apart. Desire, pure and raw, electrifies my veins as his tongue sweeps my mouth. A whimpering sound springs from my chest, and instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him closer. Needing more. My teeth graze his full bottom lip, and I pull it, sucking on it gently. He moans and knots his fingers in my hair, and a thrill dances down my back. Brandon is an amazing kisser, just as I knew he would be. I have no control over my body's reactions. I lose myself in his lips, his tongue, and his strong arms, forgetting time and space and even my surroundings...

A wave formed, swelling around Ariel's body. It lifted her up higher and higher- or maybe she herself was growing: it was hard to tell. She held the trident aloft. Storm clouds raced to her from all directions like a lost school of cichlid babies flicking to their father's mouth for protection. Lightning coursed through the sky and danced between the trident's tines. Ariel sang a song of rage. Notes rose and fell discordantly, her voice screeching at times like a banshee from the far north. She sang, and the wind sang with her. It whipped her hair out of its braids and pulled tresses into tentacles that billowed around her head. She sang of the unfairness of Eric's fate and her own, of her father's torture as a polyp, even of Scuttle's mortal life, slowly but visibly slipping away. Mostly she sang about Ursula. She sang about everyone whose lives had been touched and destroyed by evil like coral being killed and bleached, like dead spots in the ocean from algae blooms, like scale rot. She sang about what she would do to anyone who threatened those she loved and protected. And then, with her final note, she made a quick thrust as if to throw the trident toward the boats in the bay, pulling it back at the last moment. A clap louder than thunder echoed across the ocean. A wave even larger than the one she rode roared up from the depths of the open sea. It smashed through and around her, leaving her hair and body white with foam. She grinned fiercely at the power of the moment. The tsunami continued on, making straight for Tirulia. But... despite her rage... underneath it all the queen was still Ariel. Her momentary urge to destroy everything came and went like a single flash of summer lightning.

But if you could just pay her some small attention-or better yet, escort her yourself-it would be ever so helpful, and I would be grateful forever.” “Alex, if you were married to anyone but Jordan Townsende, I might consider asking you how you’d be willing to express your gratitude. However, since I haven’t any real wish to see my life brought to a premature end, I shall refrain from doing so and say instead that your smile is gratitude enough.” “Don’t joke, Roddy, I’m quite desperately in need of your help, and I would be eternally grateful for it.” “You are making me quake with trepidation, my sweet. Whoever she is, she must be in a deal of trouble if you need me.” “She’s lovely and spirited, and you will admire her tremendously.” “In that case, I shall deem it an embarrassing honor to lend my support to her. Who-“ His gaze flicked to a sudden movement in the doorway and riveted there, his eternally bland expression giving way to reverent admiration. “My God,” he whispered. Standing in the doorway like a vision from heaven was an unknown young woman clad in a shimmering silver-blue gown with a low, square neckline that offered a tantalizing view of smooth, voluptuous flesh, and a diagonally wrapped bodice that emphasized a tiny waist. Her glossy golden hair was swept back off her forehead and held in place with a sapphire clip, then left to fall artlessly about her shoulders and midway down her back, where it ended in luxurious waves and curls that gleamed brightly in the dancing candlelight. Beneath gracefully winged brows and long, curly lashes her glowing green eyes were neither jade nor emerald, but a startling color somewhere in between. In that moment of stunned silence Roddy observed her with the impartiality of a true connoisseur, looking for flaws that others would miss and finding only perfection in the delicately sculpted cheekbones, slender white throat, and soft mouth. The vision in the doorway moved imperceptibly. “Excuse me,” she said to Alexandra with a melting smile, her voice like wind chimes, “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.” In a graceful swirl of silvery blue skirts she turned and vanished, and still Roddy stared at the empty doorway while Alexandra’s hopes soared. Never had she seen Roddy display the slightest genuine fascination for a feminine face and figure. His words sent her spirits even higher: “My God,” he said again in a reverent whisper. “Was she real?” “Very real,” Alex eagerly assured him, “and very desperately in need of your help, though she mustn’t know what I’ve asked of you. You will help, won’t you?” Dragging his gaze from the doorway, he shook his head as if to clear it. “Help?” he uttered dryly. “I’m tempted to offer her my very desirable hand in marriage!

Fernando, my best archer, stands on the rear platform, bow slung over his shoulder. He bows from the waist, his face grave. Four horses flick their tails and dance in their jeweled traces. I eye them warily while Hector helps me up. Then he offers a hand to Ximena, and in spite of their recent disagreement, a look of fierce understanding passes between them. They are a formidable team, my guard and my guardian. Sometimes it’s as though they plot my safety behind my back.

Kissing's nothing like dancing. Think of it as you would..." He flicked a glance to the fossil-studded cave wall. "An excavation." "An excavation?" "Yes. A proper kiss is like an excavation. When you're digging up your little troglodytes, you don't just go plunging your shovel into the soil higgledy-piggledy, do you?" "No." Her wariness stretched the word. "Of course not. A proper excavation takes time and care. And very close attention to detail. Slowly sifting through the layers. Unearthing surprises as you go.

I may love the great outdoors in winter, but even I draw the line at sunset. When November comes, I have no desire to leave the house after dark. My instinct is to hibernate the evenings away. I hate those strange walks along the high street, lit only by street lamps and the glow of shop windows, the cold seeping up your coat sleeves. I don’t like the way that 4 o’clock can feel so desolate, the air damp without the corrective force of the sun./ The very thought of driving seems nightmarish – those impenetrable roads their edges uncertain; the dance you have to perform with the full beam, flicking it on and off, on and off. Far better to stay at home.

I wonder, sometimes, if the Continentals were like shoals of fish, & the slightest flick of one fish caused dozens of others to follow suit, until the entire shimmering cloud had changed course. And were the Divinities the sum of this cloud? An embodiment, perhaps, of a national subconscious? Or were they empowered by the thoughts & praises of millions of people, yet also yoked to every one of those thoughts – giant, terrible puppets forced to dance by the strings of millions of puppeteers. This knowledge, I think, is incredibly dangerous. The Continentals derive so much pride & so much power from having Divine approval … but were they merely hearing the echoes of their own voices, magnified through strange caverns & tunnels? When they spoke to the Divinities, were they speaking to giant reflections of themselves?

Dreams are tunnels. They usher us between landscapes, memories, time. They wormhole us between worlds. Dreams connect us to the many selves we are in other places. The choices we almost made, could have made, but for whatever reason, did not make. Parallels split and some other iteration of the selves we nearly were go strutting about their business, unaware that we were once joined together, once twinned, mirrored at the center. Unaware that one flick of the tongue, flick of the wrist, one detail different, one movement unmade, and it could have been us through the blackness of space, through the membrane-thin wall separating us, and landing on the other side, atoms floating, atoms loving, atoms breaking apart and reshaping in the endless dance of the expansion into whatever comes after nothingness. Dreams are glimpses through all this invisible matter.

THE JELLIES EXHIBIT, BELOW THE TOUCH TANK, where the rest of my seventh-grade class flicked water at one another, was nearly empty. It was quiet down there, which was a relief. The room was filled with tanks of jellyfish. I saw jellies whose tentacles were finer than hair; the aquarium must have projected lights into the tank, because the animals kept changing color. Nearby, in a different tank, I looked at jellies whose tentacles swirled the way wisps of a girl’s hair might if she floated underwater. In a third tank, the jellies’ tentacles were so thick and straight it seemed like the animals had created their own prison. There was even a tank filled with brand-new baby jellies; they looked like tiny, delicate white flowers. Such strange creatures, all of them—they looked like aliens, almost. Graceful aliens. Silent ones. Like alien ballerinas who danced without needing any music. Near

Blind tiptoeing away from Black, hunched, eyes half-closed, lips fixed in a grin. He’s not circling, he’s not stepping. It’s more of a dance. A soft, silent dance of Death. There is an exceedingly beautiful and fascinating quality about it, which I’ve observed dozens of times and never could figure out where it came from. It’s that leap into a different world, a world without pain, without blindness, where he stretches time, making each second last an eternity, where everything is just a game, even though it’s the kind of game where he could flay someone alive or turn him inside out with a flick of afinger. I know that for a fact even though I’ve never seen him actually do it. I feel the scent of madness on him in those moments, too pronounced not to scare me half to death. In that strange world of his he turns into something that is not human, something that creeps closer, slinks away, flies on rustling wings, spits poison, seeps through the floor. And it laughs. It’s the only game Blind knows how to play with someone else.

Power needs balance,” said Amar. “Our game today, as our reign, is simply a matter of reaction. What can we do when chaos is flung into our face?” A sound sliced through the air. I looked up just in time to see an arrow heading straight for me. “What will you do?” asked Amar. His voice was everywhere at once. I felt a tug in my hands, a strange itch and restlessness. Without thinking, I threw up my hands, all my attention focused on the arrow. It stopped midair. I flicked my hand and it whirled to charge at Amar. He snapped his fingers and the arrow shivered, paled and turned into a blossom of ice. “I take it you’re angry,” said Amar. The brittleness from his voice wasn’t gone; if anything it seemed more pronounced. “Only two more days until the full moon. Then, if you want, you may certainly fling arrows into my back. Until then, try for more creativity. We cannot just spin problems back. We must do more.” More, I thought. I could do that. I don’t know how much time passed while we danced, spinning power between us like it was just another game. He tossed the ball of ice my way and I shattered it. “What were you thinking when you broke that?” he asked. Even though I saw him across the room, I could feel his voice at my ear, low and burning. “You.” He laughed and continued to conjure things out of the air and throw them to me.

They emerged from the tropical vegetation, greeted by a general cheer. Stephen advanced, carrying his hurly: he was feeling particularly well and fit; he had his land-legs again, and no longer stumped along, but walked with an elastic step. Jack came to meet him, and said in a low voice, 'Just keep your end up, Stephen, until your eye is in; and watch out for the Admiral's twisters,' and then as they neared the Admiral, 'Sir, allow me to name my particular friend Dr. Maturin, surgeon of the Leopard. 'How d'ye do, Doctor?' said the Admiral. 'I must beg your pardon, sir, for my late appearance: I was called away on -- ' 'No ceremony, Doctor, I beg,' said the Admiral, smiling: the Leopard's hundred pounds were practically in his pocket, and this man of theirs did not look very dangerous. 'Shall we begin?' 'By all means,' said Stephen. 'You go down to the other end,' murmured Jack, a chill coming over him in spite of the torrid sun. 'Should you like to be given a middle, sir?' called the umpire, when Stephen had walked down the pitch. 'Thank you, sir,' said Stephen, hitching at his waistband and gazing round the field, 'I already have one.' A rapacious grin ran round the Cumberlands: they moved much closer in, crouching, their huge crab-like hands spread wide. The Admiral held the ball to his nose for a long moment, fixing his adversary, and then delivered a lob that hummed as it flew. Stephen watched its course, danced out to take it as it touched the ground, checked its bounce, dribbled the ball towards the astonished cover-point and running still he scooped it into the hollow of his hurly, raced on with twinkling steps to mid-off, there checked his run amidst the stark silent amazement, flicked the ball into his hand, tossed it high, and with a screech drove it straight at Jack's wicket, shattering the near stump and sending its upper half in a long, graceful trajectory that reached the ground just as the first of La Fleche's guns, saluting the flag, echoed across the field.

I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach. "Not yet..." "Argh," he said, but he said it with a smile. "Yes, mademoiselle." I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced. I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me. Yet his gaze only grew in intensity. But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled me around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of a sudden, he had the control. "Hey," I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what to do. Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me. "Leave them on," he said. "You look so fucking sexy in those heels." I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine. We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt with Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand.

Little Nicky heads to the Badlands to see the show for himself. The Western Roads are outside his remit as a U.S. Treasury agent, but he knows the men he wants are its denizens. Standing on the corner of the Great Western and Edinburgh Roads, a sideshow, a carnival of the doped, the beaten, and the crazed. He walks round to the Avenue Haig strip and encounters the playground of Shanghai’s crackpots, cranks, gondoos, and lunatics. He’s accosted constantly: casino touts, hustling pimps, dope dealers; monkeys on chains, dancing dogs, kids turning tumbles, Chinese ‘look see’ boys offering to watch your car. Their numbers rise as the Japs turn the screws on Shanghai ever tighter. Half-crazy American missionaries try to sell him Bibles printed on rice paper—saving souls in the Badlands is one tough beat. The Chinese hawkers do no better with their porno cards of naked dyed blondes, Disney characters in lewd poses, and bare-arsed Chinese girls, all underage. Barkers for the strip shows and porno flicks up the alleyways guarantee genuine French celluloid of the filthiest kind. Beggars abound, near the dealers and bootleggers in the shadows, selling fake heroin pills and bootleg samogon Russian vodka, distilled in alleyways, that just might leave you blind. Off the Avenue Haig, Nicky, making sure of his gun in its shoulder holster, ventures up the side streets and narrow laneways that buzz with the purveyors of cure-all tonics, hawkers of appetite suppressants, male pick-me-ups promising endless virility. Everything is for sale—back-street abortions and unwanted baby girls alongside corn and callus removers, street barbers, and earwax pickers. The stalls of the letter writers for the illiterate are next to the sellers of pills to cure opium addiction. He sees desperate refugees offered spurious Nansen passports, dubious visas for neutral Macao, well-forged letters of transit for Brazil. He could have his fortune told twenty times over (gypsy tarot cards or Chinese bone chuckers? Your choice). He could eat his fill—grilled meat and rice stalls—or he could start a whole new life: end-of-the-worlders and Korean propagandists offer cheap land in Mongolia and Manchukuo.

Saphira? he asked. Flecks of purple light danced around the interior of the pavilion as she twisted her neck and fixed her eyes upon Eragon’s. Little one? Should I go? I think you must. He pressed his lips together in a rigid line. And what of you? You know I hate to be separated from you, but Nasuada’s arguments are well reasoned. If I can help keep Murtagh and Thorn away by remaining with the Varden, then perhaps I should. His emotions and hers washed between their minds, tidal surges in a shared pool of anger, anticipation, reluctance, and tenderness. From him flowed the anger and reluctance; from her other, gentler sentiments—as rich in scope as his own—that moderated his choleric passion and lent him perspectives he would not otherwise have. Nevertheless, he clung with stubborn insistence to his opposition to Nasuada’s scheme. If you flew me to Farthen Dûr, I would not be gone for as long, meaning Galbatorix would have less of an opportunity to mount a new assault. But his spies would tell him the Varden were vulnerable the moment we left. I do not want to part with you again so soon after Helgrind. Our own desires cannot take precedence over the needs of the Varden, but no, I do not want to part with you either. Still, remember what Oromis said, that the prowess of a dragon and Rider is measured not only by how well they work together but also by how well they can function when apart. We are both mature enough to operate independently of each other, Eragon, however much we may dislike the prospect. You proved that yourself during your trip from Helgrind. Would it bother you fighting with Arya on your back, as Nasuada mentioned? Her I would mind least of all. We have fought together before, and it was she who ferried me across Alagaësia for nigh on twenty years when I was in my egg. You know that, little one. Why pose this question? Are you jealous? What if I am? An amused twinkle lit her sapphire eyes. She flicked her tongue at him. Then it is very sweet of you…. Would you I should stay or go? It is your choice to make, not mine. But it affects us both. Eragon dug at the ground with the tip of his boot. Then he said, If we must participate in this mad scheme, we should do everything we can to help it succeed. Stay, and see if you can keep Nasuada from losing her head over this thrice-blasted plan of hers. Be of good cheer, little one. Run fast, and we shall be reunited in short order. Eragon looked up at Nasuada. “Very well,” he said, “I will go.

I say, Lucien, you all right?” He spied his brother, Lawrence, a few feet behind him in the open doorway. Except for the fact he was five years younger, he was a mirror image of Lucien. Anger still boiling deep inside him like a dormant volcano, Lucien now aimed the vase at his meddlesome brother. Lawrence stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “If you break that, mother will be most upset. She spent a fortune getting that back from Shanghai for you. To hear her tell it, she hired an entire caravan of elephants like Hannibal for part of the journey.” With a snarl, he set the vase back down on the cherrywood side table and glowered at his smirking brother. “I thought you were in France.” His brother gave a casual shrug. “I came back with Avery.” “Have you obtained lodgings?” “Not as of yet.” “Then you must stay here,” Lucien replied, but his heart wasn’t in the gesture. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain, not even his family. Was it so bad to want some peace and quiet to sort out the messy tangle of emotions that plagued him? His brother flicked an invisible speck of dust off his coat sleeve. “I’m only here for a few days and I wouldn’t dare to impose, especially since you seem to be having rather heated issues with your décor.” Lawrence was well known for his sarcasm. Lucien had had words, and more than words with him over such remarks when they’d been younger. “Just because we are no longer children doesn’t mean I won’t box your ears.” “You could try.” Lucien swung his fist good-naturedly at his brother, who danced back a step. They laughed, and Lucien found his anger deflated. God bless Lawrence. -Lawrence & Lucien

He took the laser pointer off the side table and flicked it on, dancing its red light over the wall. Comet finished eating then walked over like he wasn't really interested, like he just happened to be passing by, but then went predictably crazy.

I’m coming,” John growled. He rolled his pants legs up a little more, then gingerly stepped into the water. He grimaced. “Boy howdy, is it cold!” Addie giggled behind her hand. “You’ll get used to it in a minute.” He still wore his bowler, vest, and jacket, but with his pants rolled up and the wonder on his face, he reminded her of a little boy dressed in his father’s clothes. She leaned down and flicked cold water at him. A dollop splashed on his cheek and rolled down his neck. His eyes went wide, then he grinned and took off his hat. He scooped up a hatful of water and started toward her. Adrenaline kicked in, and she scurried backward with her hands out. “I give, I give!” He advanced on her. “You’re not getting off that easy.” “Do it, Papa!” Edward splashed water as he practically danced along beside his father. Gideon barked excitedly as if he approved as well. “Traitor,” Addie told him. Her feet slid on the moss-covered rocks. She threw out her hands to try to regain her balance, and John caught her arm. She clutched at him, and in the next moment, she was in his arms, and they both tumbled into the stream. Cold water filled her mouth and nose and soaked her clothing. Her water-heavy dress dragged her down, but she managed to sit up. Laughter bubbled from her throat when she saw John. His wet hair hung in his face, and his suit was soaked. “Hungry?” She picked a flopping minnow off his shoulder and tossed it back into the water. “That was too small to keep anyway,” he said.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Miss Erstwhile,” Martin said. Jane spun around, guilty to have just come from a marriage proposal, ecstatic at her refusal, dispirited by another ending, and surprised to discover Martin was the one person in the world she most wanted to see. “Good evening, Theodore,” she said. “I’m Mr. Bentley now, a man of land and status, hence the fancy garb. They’ll allow me to be gentry tonight because they need the extra bodies, but only so long as I don’t talk too much.” His eyes flicked to a point across the room. Jane followed his glance and saw Mrs. Wattlesbrook wrapped in yards of lace and eyeing them suspiciously. “Let’s not talk, then.” Jane pulled him into the next dance. He stood opposite her, tall and handsome and so real there among all the half-people. They didn’t talk as they paraded and turned and touched hands, wove and skipped and do-si-doed, but they smiled enough to feel silly, their eyes full of a secret joke, their hands reluctant to let go. As the dance finished, Jane noticed Mrs. Wattlesbrook making her determined way toward them. “We should probably…” Martin said. Jane grabbed his hand and ran, fleeing to the rhythm of another dance tune, out the ballroom door and into a side corridor. Behind them, hurried boot heels echoed. They ran through the house and out back, crunching gravel under their feet, making for the dark line of trees around the perimeter of the park. Jane hesitated before the damp grass. “My dress,” she said. Martin threw her over his shoulder, her legs hanging down his front. He ran. Jostled on her stomach, Jane gave out laughter that sounded like hiccups. He weaved his way around hedges and monuments, finally stopping on a dry patch of ground hidden by trees. “Here you are, my lady,” he said, placing her back on her feet. Jane wobbled for a moment before gaining her balance. “So, these are your lands, Mr. Bentley.” “Why, yes. I shape the shrubs myself. Gardeners these days aren’t worth a damn.” “I should be engaged to Mr. Nobley tonight. You know you’ve absolutely ruined this entire experience for me.” “I’m sorry, but I warned you, five minutes with me and you’ll never go back.” “You’re right about that. I’d decided to give up on men entirely, but you made that impossible.” “Listen, I’m not trying to start anything serious. I just--” “Don’t worry.” Jane smiled innocently. “Weird intense Jane gone, new relaxed Jane just happy to see you.” “You do seem different.” He touched her arms, pulled her in closer. “I’m happy to see you too, if you’d know. I think I missed you a bit.” “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.

Sometimes people turn up like old burrs and you got to pick them off and flick them away again.” She gave him a teary smile. “I take this burr wherever I go.

Mr. Keir MacRae Lady Merritt Sterling The names had been typed... but why?... what for?... Bits and pieces of memory whirled in his head... thoughts wheeling just beyond reach. As he struggled blindly to catch hold of something, make sense of the tumult, he heard Merritt's voice... stay for one night just one... and there was the smell of rain and the cool darkness of night, and the warmth of a bed... the tender plump curves of a woman's breasts, and the hot clasp of her body pulling at him, squeezing in voluptuous pulsation, and the sweet, wracking culmination as she cried out his name. And there was the sight of her in candlelight, flames dancing in guttering pools of wax, catching glimmers from her eyes, hair, skin... and the glorious freedom of yielding everything, telling her everything, while inexhaustible delight welled around them. And the despair of leaving, the physical pain of putting distance between them, the sensation of being pulled below the surface of the sea, looking up from airless depths to an unreachable sky. Lady Merritt's fingertips pressing a typewriter key. Tap. Tap. Tiny metal rods flicked at a spool of inked ribbon, and letters emerged. Keir was panting now, clutching the slip of paper, while his brain sorted and spun, and pin tumblers aligned, a key turned, and something unlocked. "Merry," he said aloud, his voice unsteady. "My God... Merry.

My knife is missing," Nohl said. "What does that matter?" Ferrier turned his eyes from the smoking volcanic peak on the horizon to the east and watched the waters of the bay dancing in glints of light from the lowering sun. On Khagodis the air is so thin that the stars are sometimes visible in daylight; now in the flaring blue Ferrier could see three of the system's other worlds. He had hooked the oxygen tube into the corner of his mouth and it bubbled slightly. Amber lights glinted on Nohl's scales. With a pearl talon he flicked away an insect buzzing near his eye and looked down at the the thin figure whose head came to his elbow. Ferrier was wearing white against the equatorial heat; his short jacket was closely fitted, and had double-breasted black buttons. Nohl was thinking that Ferrier's eyes were like the buttons, fixed and sharp on white skin. A thin skin over arrogance and greed.

I fucking hate shopping,” he growls. Flicking on the radio, I dance along to the music. “I love it.

wanting more. Wanting something thicker and harder. Sparks dance behind my eyes. My thighs tighten around his head, my muscles contracting with the agony of being breathless and the euphoria of my impending orgasm. My hands flutter down to him, holding onto whatever I can reach. His shoulders. His hair. He dives in harder, eating at me like he means to consume me. His mouth is sinful, evil, wicked. It’s every dark desire I’ve ever had but have been too afraid to voice. He tortures me until I swear I’m going to pass out. The world closes around me as water runs over my face. My body is both frozen and on fire. Pieces of my skin are flicking off as I come apart. Fear. Desire. Want. Need. Confusion. The glittering stars explode in my head, and then darkness encroaches. Nothingness. Absence. I come to with Isaac’s arms around my legs and back. Our bodies sway side to side as he moves through the waves, his feet slow beneath the water and then more firmly as it drops down. The surface of the ocean drops from our shoulders to our stomachs and then down as the sand grows more sturdy beneath his feet. “You awake?” he asks carefully when my hand reaches up and touches his chest. Water sluices down his hard flesh, over the muscles covered by tan skin. “Yeah.” My voice is little more than a rasp. “I think you tried to kill me, though,” I admit. He doesn’t respond. I’d at least expected a chuckle. When I look up into his face, though, the

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to that graceful arch of her neck. He let his mouth linger, and then couldn’t stop himself from flicking his tongue against her skin. Her moan vibrated in his ear as her taste burst on his tongue. She tasted so fucking good. Warm and sweet, her pulse throbbing against his tongue where her heart raced as though she knew how much danger she was in. No, not danger. He shoved the haze away from his mind to realize she had arched in front of him. Her back bowing, she presented herself to him like she had no restraint either. A low growl rumbling through his chest. He laved her pulse with his tongue. Slow and methodical, he drew the entire bumpy texture down her neck to her collarbone. Drawing back, he knew his sharp exhale would send cold goosebumps dancing down her flesh. And he couldn’t stop himself now. He’d had a taste, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Another growl rumbled through him as he curved his clawed hand around her waist. The blanket still separated them, and he didn’t dare move it. The barrier was good. The barrier reminded him that he couldn’t go too far with this, no matter how much they both wished for it.

The muscles of his jaw jumped even more until he looked down at her. Then everything in him seemed to freeze. Pausing as his eyes danced over her features. “If we do not see each other again, my kalon, I wish for you to know that I have never been more honored than to have a woman like you at my side.” He swallowed hard again, his eyes still flicking over hers. “I do not know how your people say this.” Oh, this sweet, wonderful man who had no idea how much he had wriggled his way into her heart. She reached up and framed his face with both of her hands, staring into those black eyes that showed so much more than he knew how to say. “We say I love you.” “I have heard this from Mira before.” “From Mira?” she repeated with a laugh. He shook his head. “She has said it to Arges. Tell me what this word means.” “It’s not about the word itself. It’s about the feeling in here.” She moved one of her hands to his chest. “It means that living without you feels wrong. That to be parted from your side makes me miss you more than I miss breathing fresh air. And that I will always think of you, no matter how far I am from you.

But his tone is familiar, feeling like dancing in a dark room and thumb wars under willow trees. The way the words rolled off of his tongue felt like a light flick to the tip of my nose, like calloused fingers braiding silver hair. It felt like Kai. Like the man behind the masks who looked at me like I was extraordinary. I blink at the crumbling rocks crowding the path, willing my mind to wander toward anything but the words that have me wishing things were different. But I am Ordinary. I am the embodiment of the weakness he has been taught to hate. Ordinary.

Come on stub-ears, you can do better than that!" Steel danced and shone before Elly as she desperately blocked strike after strike, her attacker toying with her, relentless in aggression both physical and verbal. He was taller than her, lighter than her, and he moved with true elven grace, gliding around her with his elegantly curved and vicious sword. He lashed out with a practised flick of his wrist that she struggled to read and barely caught with her blade, but he was already moving on, his sword flowing around, a killing blow coming straight for her neck if she did not move– "Sorry stub-ears, I'll try to slow down…" A feint! He could have ended it there, and yet it wasn't enough; no, he had to humiliate her. Before her cheeks could redden he was on her again, thrusting, striking at her thighs, her shoulders, the sting of the metal slowing her down and throwing her off-balance. Elly focused on protecting what she could, guarding her head and torso, anger building in her, wrestling with her for control of the light sword that was her best defence against– "Death!" The tip of his blade was under her raised arm, against the gap in her breastplate beside her triceps. And at once he sprang back, swung his nimble weapon in a lazy figure-of-eight, rolled his shoulders less from tension and more to perform his ease, his casualness, the lack of challenge in fighting her. Where the flat of his blade had stung, she throbbed. "Good showing. How about best of three?

When did they make this flick?” Johnny sat transfixed by the film playing out in life size beyond the front windshield of the Cadillac. The flickering lights reflected off the hard metal surfaces around the room, creating a constantly changing multi-colored glow that lit up Maggie’s smooth face with blue light. His own face seemed to repel it as if he were watching behind darkened glass. “I’m not sure exactly. It’s pretty old. Maybe sometime in the 1980’s,” Maggie mused, munching a handful of popcorn. “Gee – that is old,” Johnny quipped, his voice heavy with irony. “You made a joke, old man! Good job!” Maggie teased and offered the bag of popcorn to him. He shook his head. “I’ll have to show you sometime what happens to food when I attempt to eat it

You tend a wound nearly as well as you dance." Her blue-gray gaze flicked up to his, wide with surprise. "I wasn't sure if you recognized me from the ball." This was intimate, her face so close to his. He naked and she with the upper slopes of her breasts uncovered. He felt hazy with desperate temptation. He could smell her, above the scent of his own blood- a faint flower scent. Not cedarwood, thank God. "You're hard to forget," he murmured.

Did you cry for him, Fae? When he fucked you.” I shake my head. “N-no.” “Good. That’s good too,” he says roughly, his fingers squeezing my face again. “Because only I get to make you cry, you understand? Only me. Say it.” “Only you.” “Yeah. Me. Only I get to hurt you. I get to make you mad and pink and angry. Only I get to make you dance on my lap. Don’t I?” And he does. When he flicks at my clit again, rubbing the fabric of my panties over it. “Yes.” “Why? Tell me why I get to do that.” “B-because only you are my villain.” “Fuck yeah, I am. And you’re my Fae. Mine.

What are these wings for?” he asks, bringing his eyes up to mine. “F-for my character.” “What character is that?” “I’m a fairy.” Somehow his eyes grow all heated even as a slight lopsided smile pulls up his lips. “So I was right, huh?” “I –” He rubs the fur between his fingers as he continues, “You are a fairy. You dance like a fairy.” His eyes flick over my face, my bun. “You look like one too.

Without knowing why, she brought her hair up to Pascal again. She knew he wouldn't be hurt. The little lizard was intrigued by whatever was going on; he nosed into her locks like a curious kitten. Immediately the sparkles that pulsed through her hair danced around him, falling and flickering. Soon they completely covered the little lizard like snow. Rapunzel watched, enchanted. Then he sneezed. Embers of magic flicked and faded as they fell to the earth. Rapunzel gasped. Pascal was perfectly fine. He just wasn't-- Pascal. He was an entirely different lizard. A lizard Rapunzel had never seen before, in books or anywhere. His eyes were now two balls that perched on the sides of his head and looked around independently of each other. His back was a graceful arch. His feet had two pairs of strange toes that opened up in the middle like claws. And his tail! It curled around and around and clasped onto her arm- prehensile and grasping, not a limp thing that just hung there to help with balance (and to occasionally break off and confuse a predator). And he was looking at himself! Holding his feet out one at a time and admiring them, thwacking the tip of his tail and snapping his mouth in satisfaction. Like a... person. He thoughtfully gazed back at his body, considering it. His skin suddenly started to change color: a wave of brown, and then red, pulsed through him from nose to tail. "Pascal!" Rapunzel cried. "You're a dragon!" She only wished he had turned into a slightly larger dragon so she could ride and/or hug him.

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

I am Sebastiano, and your name?” he asks. “Violet,” I say as we step over the threshold. “Violetta!” he says, throwing his arms wide. “English girl, Italian name!” And across the room, I see a dark head turn in our direction. That much taller than the rest of the boys, he stands out, his straight black silky hair falling over his face, his blue eyes as bright and cold as the water of the fjord next to my grandmother’s summer rental cottage. I was looking for him before and couldn’t see him anywhere; now that I’ve been distracted by dancing and a Chianti-drinking donkey, he’s spotted me. His gaze flicks like a knife between me and the boy, who’s at the gigantic wine bottle now, filling cups and handing me one. “Salute!” Sebastiano says, touching his cup to mine, and I glance up at Luca, seeing that he’s taking this in, too. A rush of confusion fills me as I toast. I’m glad that Luca’s seen me with someone else, that I haven’t been a wallflower at this party, that I’ve proved him wrong, even a little bit, because there’s a boy here who seems to like me, who’s talking to me, anyway, getting me a drink. In films, in books, flirting with a boy is a surefire way to get the one you actually like interested in you, draw him over to your side. They’re supposed to like competition, the challenge of going after a girl who’s popular. But maybe real life doesn’t quite work that way. Because Luca arches one black eyebrow, his mouth quirks up on one side in a sneer, and he turns pointedly away sliding a cigarette into his mouth, and lighting it with a flip of his Zippo. Disgusting habit, I think as firmly as I can. I’m glad he’s not coming over, smoking a nasty stinking cancer stick. It’s awful when you lie to yourself. I do think smoking is foul, but I’m also more than aware that if Luca strolled over to talk to me, with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, I wouldn’t walk away, complaining about the smoke; I’d stand there staring up at him, trying not to grin as widely as a five-year-old meeting Cinderella at Disneyland.

There are many things I would like to believe in, because they would accord life coherence. One of them is God. Another is the notion that on the brink of death one’s life dances before one’s eyes in kaleidoscopic fragments: dramas, traumas, transcendent highs, troughs of gloom, or the crystallize moments that encapsulate a certain mood on a certain day, like - for me - the smell of forsythia blossom at nursery school, or a turn of phrase - “ca va tourner au vinaigre “ - used by my mother, bitterly, to someone on the phone, or the pop of the dog fleas Pierre and I picked from our terrier and flicked onto the barbecue, or the appalling intimacy of my first kiss, or the body blow of my mother’s death, or the chaos of Pierre’s wedding, or the aching realization that dawned when my father said “Mesopotamia” instead of “kitchen”, or the night I shouted at Alex and he swerved, or the morning the doctors gave me the final assessment of my paraplegia and, for want of anything better to do, I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 11:23.

The dark, however, has always been there to comfort me. I love that fleeting moment of pure power that pumps through my veins right before I cloak myself in its shadow. The world is quickly shut out with a simple flick of a switch. Just like that. It’s the only shield no one questions or expects you to justify

The sea dragons. Far below, the dragons danced on the surface of the ocean, tiny, glimmering worms on a gray floor. Their voices rang through the air, across the great distance and over the roar of Fingap Falls. The dragon song mingled with Leeli’s, and the music pulsed with joy and then sadness. Janner blinked with wonder when he focused again on the images swirling before him. He no longer saw Nugget but a spray of giant waves, then something red and gold—the dragons. He had only ever seen the creatures from the heights of the cliff, but now he could see them as if he floated just above the surface of the sea, a stone’s throw away. They were as beautiful as they were fearsome. Their bodies shimmered with metallic scales that swirled with color. The dragon closest to him glittered orange and gold, like the strikes of a thousand matchsticks, but its winglike fins cycled between shades of blue. Its head was sleek and graceful, perfect for slicing through the water, and its eyes—big and deep and serene—sent a chill down to Janner’s toes, because it was suddenly clear the dragon knew it was being watched. The eyes rolled back, and translucent lids slid over them as the dragon opened its mouth and sang. Teeth lined its mouth, but not in the crooked, yellow way of the Fangs or the toothy cows; these were straight and bright and sharp as needles. Janner pushed his mind through the image and looked again at his brother and sister. Leeli’s eyes were closed, and though she smiled, tears wet her cheeks while she played. Wind stirred Tink’s hair, and he stared at the empty air before him; his eyes flicked back and forth as if studying a drawing that hung a few feet before his face. The song changed to a gentle hum, and Janner turned his mind again to the floating image. A dragon rose from the waves bearing something

Patsy laughs. “Two of them were. The third he got when he fell on a dance floor, trying to do the Cotton Eye Joe.” Mollie blinks. “You dance?” “Used to, until the concussion.” I lean my backside against the counter and cross my arms. I don’t miss the way Mollie’s eyes flick over my torso, stopping to linger on my forearms. “Made a rookie mistake and wore new boots to The Rattler. Hadn’t scuffed up the soles enough to get traction.