Good Mattress Quotes

What does she look like?" Sin asked. "Like she'd look good on a mattress." Sin jammed her fists on her hips. "That tells me nothing, and aren't you mated?" "I'm also a sex demon. I didn't go blind when I took a mate.

Some people are like that - always searching fro something better, never satisfied.,Makes you wonder if they ever get a good night's sleep. They must toss and turn, dreaming about a softer mattress or a plumper pillow.

He smiled at her. “Now, are you going to thank me properly?” “I said ‘thank you.’ That’s considered in some cultures as thanking you properly.” “I was hoping for a little more than that.” She studied him for a long moment before she nodded. “All right.” She scooted down a bit on the bed, pulled her gown up high on her thighs, and relaxed back into the mattress. “If you could make it quick before the food gets here, that would be great.” Gwenvael felt a small twitch beneath his eye. He often got something similar right on his eyelid but only when he had to deal with his father. Apparently a new one had developed that belonged only to Lady Dagmar. “That’s not what I meant.” “I hope you’re not expecting me to get on my knees because I don’t think the healer—” “No!” Good gods, this woman! “That’s not what I meant, either.” “That’s always what men mean when they ask to be thanked properly.” “Your world frightens me. I want us to be clear on that.” He leaned over and grabbed her waist, lifting her until her back again rested on the propped-up pillows. “I’m unclear as to what you want, then.” “A kiss,” he said, pulling her dress back down to her ankles. “A simple kiss.

In living this way, we discover new opportunities for comfort and enjoyment. Where the younger person may have tossed and turned throughout a sleepless night, the older man or woman can possibly feel the pleasure that comes from lying on a good mattress, resting one's weary bones and overcharged intellect, whether or not one sleeps throughout the hours of darkness.

Men who have not been violated don’t understand what it is like to have the edges of your body blurred—to feel that every inch of your skin is a place where fingers can press, that every hole and orifice is a place where others can put parts of their bodies. When your body stops being corporeal, your soul has no place to go, so it finds the next window to escape. My soul left me when I was six. It flew away past a flapping curtain over a window. I ran after it, but it never came back. It left me alone on wet stinking mattresses. It left me alone in the choking dark. It took my tongue, my heart, and my mind. When you don’t have a soul, the ideas inside you become terrible things. They grow unchecked, like malignant monsters. You cry in the night because you know the ideas are wrong—you know because people have told you that—and yet none of it does any good. The ideas are free to grow. There is no soul inside you to stop them.

White clouds gather and billow. Thin grass does for a mattress, The blue sky makes a good quilt. Happy with a stone underhead Let heaven and earth go about their changes.

As his editor put it, “Yeah, it’s a piece of shit, but it’s good shit.

I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me. He turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep,but then our eyes meet and it's too late. "Your hands," I croak. "My hands are none of your concern," he replies. He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over me,slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away,I reach out to touch the cut on the side of his lip but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering. What do you have to lose? I ask myself. I touch my fingertips lightly to his mouth. "Tris," he says, speaking against my fingers. "I'm all right." "Why were you there?" I ask, letting my hand drop. "I was coming back from the control room. I heard a scream." "What did you do to them?" I say. "I deposited Drew at the infirmary a half hour ago," he says. "Peter and Al ran. Drew claimed they were just trying to scare you.At least,I think that's what he was trying to say." "He's in bad shape?" "He'll live," he replies. He adds bitterly, "In what condition, I can't say." It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first. But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Drew at the infirmary, and I squeeze Four's arm. "Good," I say.My voice sounds tight and fierce.Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me.I wantt o break something,or hit something, but I am afraid to move,so I start crying instead. Four crouches by the side of the bed, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes.I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free and, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone.His fingers are careful. "I could report this," he says. "No," I reply. "I don't want them to think I'm scared." He nods.He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth. "I figured you would say that." "You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?" "I'll help you." Four grips my shoulder with one hand and holds my head steady with the other as I push myself up.Pain rushes through my body in sharp bursts,but I try to ignore it,stifling a groan. He hands me the ice pack. "You can let yourself be in pain," he says. "It's just me here.

The family which takes its mauve an cerise, air-conditioned, power-steered and power-braked automobile out for a tour passes through cities that are badly paved, made hideous by litter, lighted buildings, billboards and posts for wires that should long since have been put underground. They pass on into countryside that has been rendered largely invisible by commercial art. (The goods which the latter advertise have an absolute priority in our value system. Such aesthetic considerations as a view of the countryside accordingly come second. On such matters we are consistent.) They picnic on exquisitely packaged food from a portable icebox by a polluted stream and go on to spend the night at a park which is a menace to public health and morals. Just before dozing off on an air mattress, beneath a nylon tent, amid the stench of decaying refuse, they may reflect vaguely on the curious unevenness of their blessings. Is this, indeed, the American genius?

I'm gonna try to learn. Gonna learn why folks walk in the grass, gonna hear 'em talk, gonna hear 'em sing. Gonna listen to kids eatin' mush. Gonna hear husban' an' wife a-poundin' the mattress in the night. Gonna eat with 'em an' learn. Gonna lay in the grass, open an' honest with anybody that'll have me. Gonna cuss an' swear an' hear the poetry of folks talkin'. All that's holy, all that's what I didn't understan'. All them things is good things.

Everyone likes to think they are doing good while at the same time pocketing a bag of cash,

Florida’s not the hick town you keep saying it is,” says Reynolds. “Times have changed; they’ve got good universities now and a great book festival! Thousands of people come to it!

I’m sorry the body I work so hard for doesn’t make a good mattress for you.

I remember waking up that first morning and seeing you next to me in your sleeping bag, all curled up, and I felt so…so pleased to see you. It was like the feeling you got when you were a kid and you had a friend stay the night. While you were sleeping you’d forget he was there and then you’d wake up and see him sleeping on the mattress on the floor and you’d remember and you’d feel all happy. You’d think, Oh that’s right, good old Jimbo’s here—we’re gonna have fun today!

Well, for what it’s worth, celibacy looks good on you.” He snorted. “Because I’ve put on a few pounds? Happens. You eat, because you crave the endorphins you’re not getting with an orgasm, and you get less exercise, because you’re not practicing any mattress gymnastics.” “Cary.” I laughed. “Look at you, baby girl. You’re all tight and toned from Marathon Man Cross over there.

Their mother died early, and not in a good way. Not that anyone dies in a good way, Tin footnotes to himself, but there are degrees. Being hit by a truck after closing time while jaywalking blinded with mournful tears was not a good way. Though it was quick.

I relaxed back into the mattress as other elements in the room began to filter though my senses, namely the extraordinary warmth at my back. The air was filled with the smell of masculine skin and hints of cologne, soap, and dryer sheets. Hank was back. And his scent wasn't the only thing surrounding me; his arm was thrown over my hip and my back was tucked nicely against his front. ... It was nice. Good. Right, even. And then another feeling struck me in a novel way. Protected. I felt protected. A disbelieving laugh bubbled in my throat as I lay there, a small smile parked on my face. I was always the one out there protecting people. And after Will and I had split, I'd had no one to go to for comfort, to let all my guards down, to take a rest from being the caregiver, provider, guard, and detective. To let someone else be tough for a while. Had to admit, I liked it. And I never thought in a gazillion years I'd find this feeling with an off-worlder. I liked Hank's strength, his power, his quirky humor, even the badass attitude he caught sometimes. I was in so much trouble.

stopping to look at him sprawled out on the mattress, my brilliant, long-legged man with the rumpled hair and remarkable eyes, my comrade, my fuck-buddy, my wisecracking, true-blue companion for the long road ahead, and because I hated to leave him without saying good-bye, I would mist up the air above his body with half a dozen small blasts of my lily-of-the-valley eau de cologne so that a part of me would still be there with him when he opened his eyes.

You’re . . .” I search for the right word. It’s rare that my vocabulary fails me like this. “Organized.” His eyes crackle with light as he laughs. “Organized?” “Extremely,” I deadpan. “Not to mention thorough.” “You make me sound like a contract,” he says, amused. “And you know how I feel about a good contract,” I say. His smirk pulls higher. “Actually, I only know how you feel about a bad one, written on a damp napkin.” He lies back fully on the mattress, and I do too, leaving a healthy gap between us. “A good contract is . . .” I think for a moment. “Adorable?” Charlie supplies, teasing. “No.” “Comely?” “At bare minimum,” I say. “Charming?” “Sexy as hell,” I reply. “Irresistible. It’s a list of great traits and working compromises that watch out for all parties involved. It’s . . . satisfying, even when it’s not what you expected, because you work for it. You go back and forth until every detail is just how it needs to be.

He holds her tightly, his body adjusting itself to hers like the kind of mattress that’s supposedly good for you. She softens into his arms. She starts to seem calmer. Their breathing slows into one rhythm.

The priest was bribed; in addition to that, we appealed to his sense of compassion. Everyone likes to think they are doing good while at the same time pocketing a bag of cash, and our priest was no exception.

I ain't gonna baptize. I'm gonna work in the fiel's, in the green fiel's, an' I'm gonna be near to folks. I ain't gonna try to teach 'em nothin'. I'm gonna try to learn. Gonna learn why the folks walks in the grass, gonna hear 'em talk, gonna hear 'em sing. Gonna listen to kids eatin' mush. Gonna hear husban' an' wife a-poundin' the mattress in the night. Gonna eat with 'em and learn," His eyes were wet and shining. "Gonna lay in the grass, open an' honest with anybody that'll have me. Gonna cuss an' swear an' hear the poetry of folks talkin'. All that's holy, all that's what I didn't understan'. All them things is the good things.

At school Amar was valued for the very qualities that were looked down upon in his house. There he was not disrespectful but funny. There it was good that he was interested in English class, in the poems and stories his teachers assigned.As far as he was aware, none of his school friends knew what it was like to come home to a house that is quite the way his was, where everything was forbidden to them—loud music or talking back, wearing shirts with band logos printed on them. The father who yelled, a mother who looked out the window and spent the day praying or tending her garden. A family that wanted him to change who he was, to become a respectable man who obeyed his father’s every word, and followed every command given by his father’s God. Or what it was like to live with the knowledge that his father would disown him if he found something as harmless as a packet of cigarettes under his mattress. To not have that kind of love. To not even believe in it.

Was it possible that he she'd entered his dream now? If so, she couldn't help but wonder what they were doing in there. His fingers flexed, squeezing her backside backside "Clio," he groaned. Something good it would seem. With a low moan, he snaked his arm around her waist, and a small contraction of his muscles drew her close. "Clio." "Yes, Rafe?" Green eyes snapped open. "Clio?" In a heartbeat, he was on the far side of the bed--as close as he could get to the edge of the mattress without falling off.

He laid her down on the mattress, his eyes never leaving her charmingly disheveled form as he methodically stripped off his clothing. First his gloves, one by one, then his coat, already rumpled by his ardor. He caught her eyes, dark and large and filled with wonder, and he smiled, slowly and with satisfaction. “You’ve never seen a naked man before, have you?” he murmured. She shook her head. “Good.” He leaned forward and plucked one of her slippers from her foot. “You’ll never see another.” -Anthony & Kate

You said imagination is good," protested Iggy, tumbling off the mattress in alarm. "You said it can take us places we've never been before!" "Well, the only place you're going now is your own bunk, and you've certainly been there before," Jozef retorted. "Now march!

And they were always young, Air Corps pilots and ensigns, and good-looking girls in fur coats, and always the government secretary or two, the working girl as a carry-over from the fraternity parties when she was always the girl who could be made because in some mysterious way the women of the lower classes could be depended upon to copulate like jack rabbits. And they all knew they were going to die soon with a sentimental and unstated English attitude which was completely phony. It came from books they had never read, and movies they shouldn’t have seen; it was fed by the tears of their mothers, and the knowledge quite shocking, quite unbelievable, that a lot of them did die when they went overseas. Its origins were spurious; they never could connect really the romance of their impending deaths with the banal mechanical process of flying an airplane and landing and living in the barren eventless Army camps that surrounded their airfields. But nevertheless they had discovered it was a talisman, they were going to die soon, and they wore it magically until you believed in it when you were with them. And they did magical things like pouring whisky on each other’s hair, or setting mattresses afire, or grabbing hats on the fly from the heads of established businessmen. Of all the parties those were perhaps the best, but he had come to them too old.

When he’s sliding down my body and planting greedy kisses on my inner thighs. “Better than ice cream,” he rasps against my sensitive flesh, his tongue coming out to tickle my clit. “So much sweeter, baby.” Then he captures the little bud between his lips and sucks hard enough to make me cry out. “Oh my God,” I choke. My fingers tangle in his hair, keeping him trapped between my thighs. “Keep doing that.” His laughter vibrates through my body. He continues to suckle me while one finger teases my folds, circling my opening until finally, slowly, slipping inside. I gasp in delight and rock against him. He’s rocking, too, I realize. He’s all but fucking the mattress as he licks and sucks and groans.

You said you love me.' 'And?' She cocked an eyebrow. Hunt's mouth twitched upward. 'It was said under duress.' She bit her lip. He wanted to plant his teeth there. 'Are you asking whether I meant it, or do you think you're that good with your mouth that I went out of my mind?' He flicked her nose. 'Smart-ass.' She flopped back onto the mattress. 'They're both true.

I never leave home without my cayenne pepper. I either stash a bottle of the liquid extract in my pocket book or I stick it in the shopping cart I pull around with me all over Manhattan. When it comes to staying right side up in this world, a black woman needs at least three things. The first is a quiet spot of her own, a place away from the nonsense. The second is a stash of money, like the cash my mother kept hidden in the slit of her mattress. The last is several drops of cayenne pepper, always at the ready. Sprinkle that on your food before you eat it and it’ll kill any lurking bacteria. The powder does the trick as well, but I prefer the liquid because it hits the bloodstream quickly. Particularly when eating out, I won’t touch a morsel to my lips ‘til it’s speckled with with cayenne. That’s just one way I take care of my temple, aside from preparing my daily greens, certain other habits have carried me toward the century mark. First thing I do every morning is drink four glasses of water. People think this water business is a joke. But I’m here to tell you that it’s not. I’ve known two elderly people who died of dehydration, one of whom fell from his bed in the middle of the night and couldn’t stand up because he was so parched. Following my water, I drink 8 ounces of fresh celery blended in my Vita-mix. The juice cleanses the system and reduces inflammation. My biggest meal is my first one: oatmeal. I soak my oats overnight so that when I get up all I have to do is turn on the burner. Sometimes I enjoy them with warm almond milk, other times I add grated almonds and berries, put the mixture in my tumbler and shake it until it’s so smooth I can drink it. In any form, oats do the heart good. Throughout the day I eat sweet potatoes, which are filled with fiber, beets sprinkled with a little olive oil, and vegetables of every variety. I also still enjoy plenty of salad, though I stopped adding so many carrots – too much sugar. But I will do celery, cucumbers, seaweed grass and other greens. God’s fresh bounty doesn’t need a lot of dressing up, which is why I generally eat my salad plain. From time to time I do drizzle it with garlic oil. I love the taste. I also love lychee nuts. I put them in the freezer so that when I bite into them cold juice comes flooding out. As terrific as they are, I buy them only once in awhile. I recently bit into an especially sweet one, and then I stuck it right back in the freezer. “Not today, Suzie,” I said to myself, “full of glucose!” I try never to eat late, and certainly not after nine p.m. Our organs need a chance to rest. And before bed, of course, I have a final glass of water. I don’t mess around with my hydration.

wouldn’t it be great if mattresses had spaces for your arm, so that when you rolled onto your side, you could fit just right?” “That would be nice.” “And good for your back, probably, because it would let your spine be straight, which I know is important.” “That is important.” “Also, it would make snuggling easier. You know how that arm constantly gets in the way?” “I do.” “And making snuggling easier is important.” “Very.

Mom?” “Yes.” “Nothing.” “What is it, baby?” “Well it’s just that wouldn’t it be great if mattresses had spaces for your arm, so that when you rolled onto your side, you could fit just right?” “That would be nice.” “And good for your back, probably, because it would let your spine be straight, which I know is important.” “That is important.” “Also, it would make snuggling easier. You know how that arm constantly gets in the way?” “I do.” “And making snuggling easier is important.” “Very.

Reunited in their parents’ bed, the Shemets boys set up a whistling and rumbling and a blatting of inner valves that would shame the grand pipe organ of Temple Emanu-El. The boys execute a series of maneuvers, a kung fu of slumber, that drives Landsman to the very limit of the bed. They chop at Landsman, stab him with their toes, grunt and mutter. They masticate the fiber of their dreams. Around dawn, something very bad happens in the baby’s diaper. It’s the worst night that Landsman has ever spent on a mattress, and that is saying a good deal.

I must have roamed dementedly about for a time in the streets. When I at last got back to my own place, Faustine was again there ahead of me, coiled torpid in the bed like a loathsome boa-constrictor. She was already in the never-never land where ghouls like her belonged. I covered her face with one of the pillows, pressed down upon it with the weight of my whole body, held it there until she should have been dead ten times over. Yet when I removed the pillow to look, the black of strangulation was missing from her face. She was still in that state of suspended animation that defied me, a taunting smile visible about her lips. I had a gun in my valise, from years before when I'd been on an engineering job in the jungles of Ecuador. I got it out, looked it over. It was still in good working order, although it only had one bullet left in it. That one would be enough. She wasn't going to escape me! I pressed the muzzle to her smooth white forehead, mid-center. "Die, damn you!" I growled, and pulled the trigger back. It exploded with a crash. A film of smoke hid her face from me for a minute. When it had cleared again, I looked. There was no bullet-hole in her skull! A black powder-smudge marked the point of contact. The gun dropped to the floor with a thud. That ineradicable smile still glimmered up at me, as if to say: "You see? You can't." I rubbed my finger over the black; the skin was unbroken underneath. A blank cartridge, that must have been it. I raised her head; there was a rent in the sheet under it. I probed through it with two fingers. I could feel the bullet lying imbedded down in the stuffing of the mattress. ("Vampire's Honeymoon)

A giant rose from the second row. Seriously, the biggest man I’ve ever seen in real life. His head was the size of a basketball, and his back was like a king-size mattress. Except made of bricks. “Good afternoon,” the giant said. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This humongous monster of a man had the voice of a six -year-old. High, squeaky. Like , cute. I could hear that weird sound when you try to hold in a laugh, but a little bit leaks out— like a mouth fart— happening all over the church. People were trying not to crack up, but his voice made it so hard.

CAPISTRUM MARITALE (The Matrimonial Halter) - Juvenal I Ripples in your watery skin, unseen beneath the volume of groans. I hover above the marital bed, the cat-gut seams of our mattress split. (3 courses, not 8, should suffice, mea delicia.) II Legs straight, you like me tight, it is your size (and shame), you tore me unformed, drew blood before eggs ripened. If I had a little girl... I would call her... Claudia. III I have known only this, a shiver, a million dreams expelled: 'Was I good?' Magnifico! I gasp, floating down, swim to the wash bowl, your dead sons trickling down my legs.

I’m not sure what to say. Or do. Thank her for giving me the best sex of my god damn life? Get up and leave? The problem is, I’m far from done. My appetite for her just got a sample, and now, I’m starved. I flip her, bringing her back to the mattress, trying not to snap her still contained wrists. She’s wearing a carefree smile. “What’s that look for?” I instantly waver on my feet with uncertainty. Was I not good enough? Does she want more? “Oh, nothing. Pleased you passed round one. I have a full bag of goodies over there. If you’re up for it, I say we move on to round two.” It’s settled. I’ve fallen in love.

I laugh hard enough to shake the mattress, but the poor man doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy grabbing a condom from the nightstand drawer. Too busy stroking his cock as he sheathes himself. Too busy guiding that huge dick to my entrance and falling forward onto one elbow. The penetration is swift. One second I’m achingly empty, the next I’m deliciously full. Blake moans against my neck and drives his hips forward. Then he retreats, a slow, torturous withdrawal until only his tip is inside me, an unbearable tease. My inner muscles clamp tight, trying to draw him in again, but he stays in that position for a moment, his gaze locking with mine.

Chase grunts at that, shoving himself up and away. For a moment he looks down at me, flushed and open mouthed. “Suck me.” It’s a demand. “I want to feel your tongue on my cock.” He isn’t gentle. Once I take him in my mouth he twists his fingers in my hair, the hold burning as I tilt my face to see the drop of his head, his eyes closed, his mouth parted to an O. “Fuck.” He shudders, the word hardly a shaping of his heavy breath. “Like that.” He feels so good in my mouth. Hot and hard, too much for me to take into my throat without gagging a little over his length. That makes him grunt, the hard planes of his belly tensing. I can feel his twitching indecision in the movements of his fingers through my hair, torn between the need to hold me close and the need to be inside another part of me. He doesn’t stay indecisive for long. “You want me to fuck you?” His voice is ragged. Yes, yes. I try to tell him with the sweep of my tongue and the hollow of my cheeks, the enthusiastic bob of my head. When Chase grabs me he’s rough. His hands hold tight at my shoulders as he shoves me over, face down on the bed. One fist tugs my hip up as the other braces low over my spine. “Wait,” is a rasped order. I can feel the mattress move as he leans to the bedside drawer, and then there’s the ripping sound of a foil packet torn on his teeth. There’s no warning after that. Only his cock, buried inside of me in one savage thrust. I cry out his name, and everything splinters with too much and yes and the good-ache pain of being opened by him. “Brooke.” It’s grunted at my ear as Chase begins a slow, solid pound into me, each thrust shoving to full sink. It hurts a little. He’s too big. It’s too quick. But god, it’s amazing. “Your pussy feels so good wrapped around my cock. So fucking good.” His fingers find my clit, and it’s all I can do not to cry out with how good it feels. His hips slam against my raised ass as he pounds into me, all that muscle riding me as expertly as he rode the mountains today. “Come.” He bites it at my ear, grinding his cock into me, holding the deepest penetration all the way into my aching core. “Come for me.” He’s starting to pound me again, and where my face is smashed against the pillow I whimper out the too-much-good of it, each slam of his body into mine forcing the breath from my lungs and spiking pleasure along my spine. “Please—please—please—” “Beg me,” Chase growls. “Say you want me. Say you need me inside of you.” “Please. Make me come. Chase. Please. Fuck me.” It’s so much I’m almost sobbing with it. Chase pounds on, relentless, until as I begin to spasm with my orgasm he grunts out his own. My hips pinned in his fingers. His body slammed into mine. Both of us, breaking apart together.

He must know, because he gathers me off the mattress in his arms. I am completely, utterly surrounded by him, by the perfect tension of this moment, and Jack begins to push in and out of me, in and out, delicious rhythm and drawn-out friction. I cannot take it. It’s too brilliantly, stupidly good. My head lolls back against his pillow, and his lips find my jaw, nip my chin, bite my neck. “I’m going to fuck you everywhere, Elsie.” He licks the hollow of my throat. “Between today and the day we die, I’m going to fuck you everywhere.” I nod. Let him know that he can. There is a tight, liquid pool blooming inside my stomach, twitches of pleasure making their way down my limbs, surging up my spine.

I said, “Sounds good,” and set my alarm to eight o’clock, thinking that, statistically, I would be fine. Floof woke me up with her barking at seven o’clock when the movers arrived. After the men had been unpacking their truck for a while, I felt weird standing around not helping them so I decided to make small talk. “How much more stuff do you guys have?” I asked one of the movers. “All that’s left is the couch and the armchair,” he said. “And my mattress, right?” I asked. The man looked puzzled. “Uh . . . no. There’s no mattress in the truck.” These same movers had carted my bed away less than a week before. They’d brought in and put together my bed frame, but somehow they didn’t think it was strange that there wasn’t anything to put on top of it.

The careful, embroidered stitches delineated a coil of some sort. It looked rather like a halved snail shell, but the interior was divided into dozen of intricate chambers. "Is that a nautilus?" he asked. "Close, but no. It's an ammonite." "An ammonite? What's an ammonite? Sounds like an Old Testament people overdue for smiting." "Ammonites are not a biblical people," she replied in a tone of strained forbearance. "But they have been smited." "Smote." With a snap of linen, she shot him a look. "Smote?" "Grammatically speaking, I think the word you want is 'smote.' " "Scientifically speaking, the word I want is 'extinct.' Ammonites are extinct. They're only known to us in fossils." "And bedsheets, apparently." "You know..." She huffed aside a lock of hair dangling in her face. "You could be helping." "But I'm so enjoying watching," he said, just to devil her. Nonetheless, he picked up the edge of the top sheet and fingered the stitching as he pulled it straight. "So you made this?" "Yes." Though judging by her tone, it hadn't been a labor of love. "My mother always insisted, from the time I was twelve years old, that I spend an hour every evening on embroidery. She had all three of us forever stitching things for our trousseaux." 'Trousseaux.' The word hit him queerly. "You brought your trousseau?" "Of course I brought my trousseau. To create the illusion of an elopement, obviously. And it made the most logical place to store Francine. All these rolls of soft fabric made for good padding." Some emotion jabbed his side, then scampered off before he could name it. Guilt, most likely. These were sheets meant to grace her marriage bed, and she was spreading them over a stained straw-tick mattress in a seedy coaching inn. "Anyhow," she went on, "so long as my mother forced me to embroider, I insisted on choosing a pattern that interested me. I've never understood why girls are always made to stitch insipid flowers and ribbons." "Well, just to hazard a guess..." Colin straightened his edge. "Perhaps that's because sleeping on a bed of flowers and ribbons sounds delightful and romantic. Whereas sharing one's bed with a primeval sea snail sounds disgusting." Her jaw firmed. "You're welcome to sleep on the floor." "Did I say disgusting? I meant enchanting. I've always wanted to go to bed with a primeval sea snail.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

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

I prop my guitar up against the nightstand. Then I turn toward the bed and fall into it face first. The mattress is soft but firm, like a sheet of steel wrapped in a cloud. I roll around, moaning loud and long. “Oh, that’s good. Really, really good. What a grand bed!” Sarah clears her throat. “Well. We should probably get to sleep, then. Big day tomorrow.” The pillow smells sweet, like candy. I can only imagine it’s from her. I wonder if I pressed my nose to the crook of her neck, would her skin smell as delicious? I brush away the thought as I watch her stiffly gather a pillow and blanket from the other side of the bed, dragging them to . . . the nook. “What are you doing?” She looks up, her doe eyes widening. “Getting ready for bed.” “You’re going to sleep there?” “Of course. The sofa’s very uncomfortable.” “Why can’t we share the bed?” She chokes . . . stutters. “I . . . I can’t sleep with you. I don’t even know you.” I throw my arms out wide. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything—I’m an open book.” “That’s not what I mean.” “You’re being ridiculous! It’s a huge bed. You could let one rip and I wouldn’t hear it.” And the blush is back. With a vengeance. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” “You don’t fart?” I scoff. “Really? Are you not human?” She curses under her breath, but I’d love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining. She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.” “No.” I explain calmly, “I’m just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime.” She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It’s adorable. “I’m sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that’s that.” I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her. “Henry.” “What?” “My name is not Highness, it’s fucking Henry, and I’d prefer you use it.” And she snaps. “Fine! Fucking Henry—happy?” I smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I flop back on the magnificent bed. “Sleep tight, Titebottum.” I think she growls at me, but it’s muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there’s silence. Beautiful, blessed silence. I wiggle around, getting comfy. I turn on my side and fluff the pillow. I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it’s hopeless. “Fucking hell!” I sit up. And Sarah springs to her feet. “What? What’s wrong?” It’s the guilt. I’ve barged into this poor girl’s room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I’m not that much of a prick. I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah’s eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance. “You take the bloody bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the bloody nook.” “You don’t have to do that.” I push my hand through my hair. “Yes, I do.” Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. “Please, Lady Sarah.” She blinks, her little mouth pursed. “Okay.” Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I’m going to be feeling tomorrow. The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah’s soft breaths. But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh. “All right, we can sleep in the bed together.” Music to my ears. I don’t make her tell me twice—I’ve fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed. That’s better.

Dex gasped, his back arching at the feel of strong hands kneading his ass cheeks, pushing them apart as the head of his lover’s slick cock aligned itself then pushed in slowly, the pressure both painful and exhilarating. God, it had been too long. Dex palmed his erection as he was entered, his lover burying deep inside him inch by inch. Hard muscles pressed up against his back, lowering Dex onto the mattress, his breath coming out ragged as his lover buried himself to the root and started rotating his hips, drawing out then pushing back in painfully slow. Dex moaned, his stomach filled with butterflies, the anticipation building like nothing he’d ever felt before. His whole body was on fire, and he writhed with need beneath the deliciously heavy weight. He couldn’t remember Lou feeling like this. Had it always felt this damn good? Dex moaned when lips pressed against his skin beneath his ear. “Easy there, Rookie.” Dex’s

Xavier looked at Shane's outfit of pants, pistol, and no shirt, and then glanced up at the porch. "You sleep outside?" Shane turned and looked through the screen door. There was no sign of Agnes or the sheets that had been tumbled there. A woman who could wake up fast and then remove evidence slightly. His kind of girl. "Yep. I like fresh air." Xavier nodded, his exasperation evaporating into amusement. "Right. Miss Agnes up yet?" "I wouldn't know." "Right." Xavier gave a lazy grin and walked around Shane. "Quite a woman, that Miss Agnes." "Yep," Shane said, following him up the walk. "Bit sharp-tempered, though." "I'd call her fiery." Xavier turned his head toward Shane and nodded amiably. "Fiery. That's good." They walked up the path, Rhett ambling with them. Xavier trooped up the steps to the porch and spared a glance at the air mattress and Shane's T-shirt, crumpled in a ball. "Restless night, son?" "Slept like a baby." "I bet you did," Xavier said, and went into the kitchen.

You don’t have to sleep on the floor. I know it’s uncomfortable.” “I think I owe you more than a night on the floor.” “You broke your arm tonight. It’ll be stiff, even if you healed it. I don’t want my ally wounded.” She knew, after all the ways she’d flirted with him before, that any invitation could be misconstrued. Especially in a bed with little space between them, entirely in the dark. But there was no misconstruing the way her stomach somersaulted when she felt the mattress shift as he sat down. When he lay beside her and warmth like fire spread through her from her head to her toes. Nothing good would come of this. This was Alistair Lowe, she reminded herself. The one everyone had declared her greatest rival. The boy her mother had warned her about. After they’d slain all the other champions—her ex-best friend among them—it would only be the two of them left. Maybe that would be months from now. Maybe it would be days. But that was what this alliance led up to. Not a kiss stolen in the dark, or a priceless gift given without being asked. A duel. Sobered, Isobel turned so her back was to him. Several minutes had passed, and Alistair hadn’t moved. She wasn’t even sure if he was still awake. “Tell me a monster story,” she whispered. He stirred, then drowsily murmured, “Have you ever heard of a nightcreeper?” “I haven’t.” “They’re drawn to places with complete darkness because their bodies are made of shadow.” Isobel noted the complete darkness around them and slid deeper beneath the blankets. “They can see in the darkness no better than you can, but their eyes are burned away by the faintest light. That’s what they search for—eyes. New ones that don’t scorch in the daylight, that they pluck out and use to replace their own. So they can finally feast outside.” Isobel’s dread receded, her fears replaced by make-believe ones. When she did fall asleep, she didn’t dream of Briony’s demise. She didn’t dream of how it would feel to kiss Alistair or to curse him. She dreamed of fears that, for once, felt surmountable.

I loved my mother so much during that time; if I’d had the language I would have called her the love of my life and no uttered words in all of time could have been more true. We must have spent nearly every minute of our lives together—I don’t remember any babysitters—and in the hours we were apart, when she had to teach or attend a meeting, I missed her so much I felt as if an arm or a leg had been taken away—no, more, a heart or brain, some part of me that was undoubtedly the best of what I had to offer. But the separations were delicious in their own way, because they made our reunions all the more sweet. Upon my mother’s return I was showered in praise and love. I was so good and brave, not crying or getting myself in trouble, successfully completing whatever game or task she’d assigned before leaving me alone. My mother picked me up and kissed my head and let me wrap my arms around her long neck. She called me guai. At night we went to sleep on the same twin mattress, her arm flung casually over my shoulder, my hand clutching a strand of her hair.

And she says..." I'd been fighting a losing battle with yawning for a while. I was failing fast. "I have no idea.'I'm in love with someone else'?" Nonna snorted hard enough to shake the mattress. "With who? There is no one else like Michelangelo. He is king of the sea! In love with someone else. Pah." "Okay.Fine.Tell me what she said." "Nonna leaned toward me, eyes bright. "She says, 'You do not see me.' And my bisnonno, he says, 'Of course I see you! Every day I see you by the seawall. I see you in my mind, too, in pearls and furs and silks. So, here,here I offer you these things.' And she says..." "Thank you?" "Per carita!" "'No,thank you?'" "Ah,Fiorella. I think you are not the child of my child! Rifletti. Use that good brain." "Nonna..." "She says, 'You do not see me!' And she sends him away." I wasn't sure I was getting the point. Here's an ordinary girl in ratty clothes who's going to end up a nun if she doesn't get married. Along comes a decent guy with money, promising to take her away from it all...Wasn't that where is usually faded to Happily Ever After?

Hurling the box released some of his anger. It felt good so he swept his arm across the top of his dresser, knocking his pitiful possessions onto the floor, the ridiculous little carved animals, pathetic toiletries and useless old catalog he could never afford to order from. These paltry items were the sum of his entire dismal life. He kicked the frame of his bed, hurting his foot and knocking the light cot away from the wall. Heedless of Rasmussen hearing the noise, he cried out his rage and frustration, tore the covers off the bed, picked up the pillow and punched it. He hurled it across the room. Dragging the thin mattress from the metal mesh of the cot, he tossed it on the floor and looked around, but there was nothing else to tear apart since he owned so little. Laughing at the irony, he sank onto the mattress on the floor, his legs drawn to his chest, forehead bowed to his knees, and his hands cradling the back of his neck. Caught between harsh laughter and sobs, he breathed in hitching bursts. He had no future, definitely no girl, and soon, no home. What the hell was he going to do?

No matter what monks in their Himalayan caves or philosophers in their ivory towers say, for the capitalist juggernaut, happiness is pleasure. Period. With each passing year our tolerance for unpleasant sensations decreases, and our craving for pleasant sensations increases. Both scientific research and economic activity are geared to that end, each year producing better painkillers, new ice-cream flavours, more comfortable mattresses, and more addictive games for our smartphones, so that we will not suffer a single boring moment while waiting for the bus. All this is hardly enough, of course. Since Homo sapiens was not adapted by evolution to experience constant pleasure, if that is what humankind nevertheless wants, ice cream and smartphone games will not do. It will be necessary to change our biochemistry and re-engineer our bodies and minds. So we are working on that. You may debate whether it is good or bad, but it seems that the second great project of the twenty-first century – to ensure global happiness – will involve re-engineering Homo sapiens so that it can enjoy everlasting pleasure.

The leader of the Red Guards stepped up to Nien Cheng. “We are the Red Guards. We have come to take revolutionary action against you!” Nien Cheng held up the copy of the Constitution and looked the leader in the eye. “It’s against the Constitution to enter a private house without a search warrant.” The man grabbed the Constitution out of Nien’s hand and threw it on the floor. “The Constitution is abolished. It was a document written by the Revisionists within the Communist Party. We recognize only the teachings of our Great Leader Chairman Mao.” One of the Red Guards took the stick he was carrying and smashed the mirror hanging over a wooden chest in the entryway. Another guard replaced the mirror with a blackboard that bore a quotation from Mao: “When the enemies with guns are annihilated, the enemies without guns still remain. We must not belittle these enemies.”2 With that, the young guards tore through the house, smashing furniture, dumping shelves of books onto the floor, slashing priceless paintings by Lin Fengmian and Qi Baishi. On a rampage, the eager students looted the closets and drawers, tearing most of Nien Cheng’s clothing and linens. They overturned the bed mattresses and hacked them to pieces. Then they smashed her music recordings. Pressing on, they found the food pantry and dumped flour, sugar, and canned goods onto the ravaged clothing. They broke several bottles of red wine, pouring it over the mess.

When I got back from the nearest pharmacy after buying the biggest bottle of ibuprofen they had, the delivery truck was blocking my driveway. What wasn't already taken up by Jayson's Mercedes, that is. At that point, I was so out of sorts and my head hurt so badly that I was tempted to throw everybody out of my house. As a vampire, I was strong enough—and pissed enough—to accomplish it without much effort. "What the hell are you doing here?" I snapped at Jayson Rome, who sat at my kitchen island, drinking coffee and eating oatmeal cookies with Hank and Trina as if he belonged there. He didn't answer, so I went to the cupboard next to the sink, grabbed a glass, filled it with water and washed down four ibuprofen, hoping that would be enough to stop the pounding in my head. "How did you get out of the bar last night without us seeing you?" Jayson demanded. "You think I'll tell you anything?" I said. "Get out of my house. I paid for it. It doesn't belong to you anymore. Go get some of those women you're so fond of. Do you pay Hank a finder's fee for pointing them in your direction?" "You really did fuck up, didn't you?" Trina eyed Jayson distastefully as she crunched into another oatmeal cookie. "Is it your job to ruin all my friendships?" "Mattress and foundation are on the bed," one of two delivery guys shoved a clipboard in my direction for a signature. "It looks good—I checked," Trina said. "Fine." I signed and handed the clipboard back. "If you all will excuse me, I'm going to put sheets on my bed and then do a faceplant. Please be gone when I wake up." I walked down the hall toward my bedroom.

Minutes later, as they lay tangled together, dazed in the aftermath of their loving, Callie began to chuckle silently against Gabriel's side. Lifting his head to find her grinning a wide, silly grin, he drawled, "What is it that has you so amused, lovely?" "I was simply thinking"- she stopped to catch her breath from the laughter and started again- "I was merely thinking that if that is what riding astride is like, the female population is missing out on one of life's finer experiences." The last word was lost as she dissolved once more onto giggles. He caught her against him in a fierce hug and sighed, unable to keep himself from smiling up at the ceiling as he said, "You know, Empress, men do not appreciate laughter at this particular moment. It's devastating to the self-confidence." Her head snapped up and she took in his amused countenance. "Oh, my apologies, good sir," she teased. "I would hate to damage such a fragile ego as that of the Marquess of Ralston." With a playful growl, he pinned her to the mattress. "Minx. You shall pay for that." And he began to kiss down the side of her neck, nibbling across her collarbone until she sighed with pleasure. "If this is how I must pay for it, my lord, you may guarantee I shall tease you a great deal in the coming months." "More than months, I hope," he drawled, distracted by her lovely white breasts. "Years. Decades even." "Decades," she repeated, awestruck. My God. He's going to be my husband. "Mmm-hmm," he murmured against her skin before pulling away from her. "Which is why, despite how very difficult it shall be for me to leave you warm and lush in your bed, I shall console myself with the fact that, very soon, I shan't have to do so ever again.

I see the good in you.” “Don’t harbor illusions about me. In marrying me, you’re going to have to make the best of a bad bargain. You don’t understand the situation you’re in.” “You’re right.” Beatrix arched in bliss as he massaged the muscles on either side of her spine. “Any woman would pity me, being in this situation.” “It’s one thing to spend an afternoon in bed with me,” Christopher said darkly. “It’s another to experience day-to-day life with a lunatic.” “I know all about living with lunatics. I’m a Hathaway.” Beatrix sighed in pleasure as his hands worked the tender places low on her back. Her body felt relaxed and tingly all over, her bruises and aches forgotten. Twisting to glance at him over her shoulder, she saw the austere lines of his face. She had an overwhelming urge to tease him, to make him play. “You missed a place,” she told him. “Where?” Levering herself upward, Beatrix turned and crawled to where Christopher knelt on the mattress. He had donned a velvet dressing robe, the front parting to reveal a tantalizing hint of sun-browned flesh. Linking her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Inside,” she whispered. “That’s where I need soothing.” A reluctant smile lurked at the corners of his lips. “This balm is too strong for that.” “No it’s not. It feels lovely. Here, I’ll show you--” She pounced for the tin of balm and coated her fingertips with the stuff. The rich scent of clove oil spiced the air. “Just hold still--” “The devil I will.” His voice had thickened with amusement, and he reached for her wrist. Fleet as a ferret, Beatrix twisted to evade him. Rolling once, twice, she dove for the belt of his robe. “You put it all over me,” she accused, giggling. “Coward. Now it’s your turn.” “Not a chance.” He grabbed her, grappled with her, and she thrilled to the sound of his husky laugh. Somehow managing to clamber over him, she gasped at the feel of his aroused flesh. She wrestled with him until he flipped her over with ease, pinning her wrists. The robe had become loosened during their tussle, their naked flesh rubbing together. Sparkling silver eyes stared into blue. Already breathless with laughter, Beatrix became positively lightheaded as she saw the way he was looking at her. Lowering his head, he kissed and licked at her smile as if he could taste it.

went off, without waiting for serving men, and unsaddled my horse, and washed such portions of his ribs and his spine as projected through his hide, and when I came back, behold five stately circus tents were up—tents that were brilliant, within, with blue, and gold, and crimson, and all manner of splendid adornment! I was speechless. Then they brought eight little iron bedsteads, and set them up in the tents; they put a soft mattress and pillows and good blankets and two snow-white sheets on each bed. Next, they rigged a table about the centre-pole, and on it placed pewter pitchers, basins, soap, and the whitest of towels—one set for each man; they pointed to pockets in the tent, and said we could put our small trifles in them for convenience, and if we needed pins or such things, they were sticking every where. Then came the finishing touch—they spread carpets on the floor! I simply said, "If you call this camping out, all right—but it isn't the style I am used to; my little baggage that I brought along is at a discount." It grew dark, and they put candles on the tables—candles set in bright, new, brazen candlesticks. And soon the bell—a genuine, simon-pure bell—rang, and we were invited to "the saloon." I had thought before that we had a tent or so too many, but now here was one, at least, provided for; it was to be used for nothing but an eating-saloon. Like the others, it was high enough for a family of giraffes to live in, and was very handsome and clean and bright-colored within. It was a gem of a place. A table for eight, and eight canvas chairs; a table-cloth and napkins whose whiteness and whose fineness laughed to scorn the things we were used to in the great excursion steamer; knives and forks, soup-plates, dinner-plates—every thing, in the handsomest kind of style. It was wonderful! And they call this camping out. Those stately fellows in baggy trowsers and turbaned fezzes brought in a dinner which consisted of roast mutton, roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes, bread, tea, pudding, apples, and delicious grapes; the viands were better cooked than any we had eaten for weeks, and the table made a finer appearance, with its large German silver candlesticks and other finery, than any table we had sat down to for a good while, and yet that polite dragoman, Abraham, came bowing in and apologizing for the whole affair, on account of the unavoidable confusion of getting under way for a very long trip, and promising to do a great deal better in future! It is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the morning. They call this camping out. At this rate it is a glorious privilege to be a pilgrim to the Holy Land.

Stick to a sleep schedule. Go to bed and wake up at the same time each day. As creatures of habit, people have a hard time adjusting to changes in sleep patterns. Sleeping later on weekends won’t fully make up for a lack of sleep during the week and will make it harder to wake up early on Monday morning. Set an alarm for bedtime. Often we set an alarm for when it’s time to wake up but fail to do so for when it’s time to go to sleep. If there is only one piece of advice you remember and take from these twelve tips, this should be it. Exercise is great, but not too late in the day. Try to exercise at least thirty minutes on most days but not later than two to three hours before your bedtime. Avoid caffeine and nicotine. Coffee, colas, certain teas, and chocolate contain the stimulant caffeine, and its effects can take as long as eight hours to wear off fully. Therefore, a cup of coffee in the late afternoon can make it hard for you to fall asleep at night. Nicotine is also a stimulant, often causing smokers to sleep only very lightly. In addition, smokers often wake up too early in the morning because of nicotine withdrawal. Avoid alcoholic drinks before bed. Having a nightcap or alcoholic beverage before sleep may help you relax, but heavy use robs you of REM sleep, keeping you in the lighter stages of sleep. Heavy alcohol ingestion also may contribute to impairment in breathing at night. You also tend to wake up in the middle of the night when the effects of the alcohol have worn off. Avoid large meals and beverages late at night. A light snack is okay, but a large meal can cause indigestion, which interferes with sleep. Drinking too many fluids at night can cause frequent awakenings to urinate. If possible, avoid medicines that delay or disrupt your sleep. Some commonly prescribed heart, blood pressure, or asthma medications, as well as some over-the-counter and herbal remedies for coughs, colds, or allergies, can disrupt sleep patterns. If you have trouble sleeping, talk to your health care provider or pharmacist to see whether any drugs you’re taking might be contributing to your insomnia and ask whether they can be taken at other times during the day or early in the evening. Don’t take naps after 3 p.m. Naps can help make up for lost sleep, but late afternoon naps can make it harder to fall asleep at night. Relax before bed. Don’t overschedule your day so that no time is left for unwinding. A relaxing activity, such as reading or listening to music, should be part of your bedtime ritual. Take a hot bath before bed. The drop in body temperature after getting out of the bath may help you feel sleepy, and the bath can help you relax and slow down so you’re more ready to sleep. Dark bedroom, cool bedroom, gadget-free bedroom. Get rid of anything in your bedroom that might distract you from sleep, such as noises, bright lights, an uncomfortable bed, or warm temperatures. You sleep better if the temperature in the room is kept on the cool side. A TV, cell phone, or computer in the bedroom can be a distraction and deprive you of needed sleep. Having a comfortable mattress and pillow can help promote a good night’s sleep. Individuals who have insomnia often watch the clock. Turn the clock’s face out of view so you don’t worry about the time while trying to fall asleep. Have the right sunlight exposure. Daylight is key to regulating daily sleep patterns. Try to get outside in natural sunlight for at least thirty minutes each day. If possible, wake up with the sun or use very bright lights in the morning. Sleep experts recommend that, if you have problems falling asleep, you should get an hour of exposure to morning sunlight and turn down the lights before bedtime. Don’t lie in bed awake. If you find yourself still awake after staying in bed for more than twenty minutes or if you are starting to feel anxious or worried, get up and do some relaxing activity until you feel sleepy.

It’s only by shopping around and sampling a wide variety of art that we learn to appreciate which skills are common (banging two rocks together) and which are rare (elaborate rhythms). An unrefined palate won’t appreciate a Michelin-starred restaurant. An untrained ear can’t appreciate the genius of Bach. Only the princess, accustomed as she’d become to royal fineries, could feel the pea beneath 20 mattresses and 20 featherbeds. In this way, discernment becomes important not only for differentiating high quality from low quality (and good artists from mediocre ones), but also as a fitness display unto itself. The fact that the princess could feel the pea, even under the mattresses (i.e., when handicapped), is itself an impressive feat, a mark of her high birth.

They both cried out their pleasure when Tim entered him. Some shifting on the mattress, and then the angle was perfect. Tim’s arm slung around Tyler’s chest, holding him tight and breathing hard against the back of his ear while he glided in and out with a languid rhythm. “Oh God, there it is,” Tim said. “Every position feels so good with you. Everything’s too damn good.

Money's no good to you in the bank, in a safe, or under a mattress. Money needs to be in circulation, needs to help people do things. You can't just stand by if your brother's thirsty. Your glass is full? You give him half. You have a slice of pie left? You cut it in two. Do you see, Madeleine? Mom doesn't think like that because they were poor when she was growing up. But poverty begins in the mind. You're not poor.

He showered, and retrieved his pants from under the mattress, and dressed, and walked out in search of breakfast. He found coffee and muffins close by, which sustained him through a longer reconnaissance, which brought him to a place he figured might have good food hiding under multiple layers of some kind of faux-retro irony.

Then" Once we were in the loop . . . slick with information and the luster of good timing. We folded our clothes. Once we stood up before the standing vigils, before the popping vats, before the annotated lists of marshaled forces with their Venn diagrams like anxious zygotes, their paratactic chasms . . . before the set of whirligig blades, modular torrent. We folded our clothes. Once we remembered to get up to pee . . . and how to pee in a gleaming bowl . . . soaked as we were in gin and coconut, licorice water with catalpa buds, golden beet syrup in Johnny Walker Blue and a beautiful blur like August fog, cantilevered over the headlands . . . We tucked into the crevices of the mattress pad twirling our auburn braids, or woke up at the nick of light and practiced folding our clothes. Our pod printed headbands with hourly updates, announcing the traversals of green-shouldered hawks through the downtown loop, of gillyfish threading the north canals, of the discovery of electron calligraphy or a new method of washing brine. We smoothed our feathers like birds do, and twitched ourselves into warm heaps, and followed the fourth hand on the platinum clocks sweeping in arcs from left to right, up and down, in and out . . . We were steeped in watchfulness, fully suspended, itinerant floaters — ocean of air — among the ozone lily pads and imbrex domes, the busting thickets of nutmeg, and geode malls. At night we told stories about the future with clairvoyant certainty. Our clothing was spectacular and fit to a T. We admired each other with ferocity.

Come here,” Cam said in a sleep-darkened voice, drawing back the bed linens. A laugh stirred in her throat. “Absolutely not. There is too much to be done. Everyone is busy except you.” “I intend to be busy. As soon as you come here. Monisha, don’t make me chase you this early.” Amelia gave him a severe glance as she obeyed. “It’s not early. In fact, if you don’t wash and dress quickly, we’ll be late to the flower show.” “How can you be late for flowers?” Cam shook his head and smiled, as he always did when she said something he considered to be gadjo nonsense. His gaze was hot and slumberous. “Come closer.” “Later.” She gave a helpless gasp of laughter as he reached out with astonishing dexterity, snaring her wrist in his hand. “Cam, no.” “A good Romany wife never refuses her husband,” he teased. “The maid—” she said breathlessly as she was pulled across the mattress, and clasped against all that warm golden skin. “She can wait.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

The best thing to do," said one of the malingerers, "is to sham madness. In the next room there are two other men from the school where I teach and one of them keeps shouting day and night : 'Giordano Bruno's stake is still smoldering ; renew Galileo's trial !'” “I meant at first to act the fool too and be a religious maniac and preach about the infallibility of the Pope, but finally I managed to get some cancer of the stomach for fifteen crowns from a barber down the road." "That's nothing," said another man. "Down our way there's a midwife who for twenty crowns can dislocate your foot so nicely that you're crippled for the rest of your life.” “My illness has run me into more than two hundred crowns already," announced his neighbor, a man as thin as a rake. "I bet there's no poison you can mention that I haven't taken. I'm simply bung full of poisons. I've chewed arsenic, I've smoked opium, I've swallowed strychnine, I've drunk vitriol mixed with phosphorus. I've ruined my liver, my lungs, my kidneys, my heart—in fact, all my insides. Nobody knows what disease it is I've got." "The best thing to do," explained someone near the door, "is to squirt paraffin oil under the skin on your arms. My cousin had a slice of good luck that way. They cut off his arm below the elbow and now the army'll never worry him any more.” “Well," said Schweik, "When I was in the army years ago, it used to be much worse. If a man went sick, they just trussed him up, shoved him into a cell to make him get fitter. There wasn't any beds and mattresses and spittoons like what there is here. Just a bare bench for them to lie on. Once there was a chap who had typhus, fair and square, and the one next to him had smallpox. Well, they trussed them both up and the M. O. kicked them in the ribs and said they were shamming. When the pair of them kicked the bucket, there was a dust-up in Parliament and it got into the papers. Like a shot they stopped us from reading the papers and all our boxes was inspected to see if we'd got any hidden there. And it was just my luck that in the whole blessed regiment there was nobody but me whose newspaper was spotted. So our colonel starts yelling at me to stand to attention and tell him who'd written that stuff to the paper or he'd smash my jaw from ear to ear and keep me in clink till all was blue. Then the M.O. comes up and he shakes his fist right under my nose and shouts: 'You misbegotten whelp ; you scabby ape ; you wretched blob of scum ; you skunk of a Socialist, you !' Well, I stood keeping my mouth shut and with one hand at the salute and the other along the seam of my trousers. There they was, running round and yelping at me. “We'll knock the newspaper nonsense out of your head, you ruffian,' says the colonel, and gives me 21 days solitary confinement. Well, while I was serving my time, there was some rum goings-on in the barracks. Our colonel stopped the troops from reading at all, and in the canteen they wasn't allowed even to wrap up sausages or cheese in newspapers. That made the soldiers start reading and our regiment had all the rest beat when it came to showing how much they'd learned.

Was it good?” I clenched my jaw and stared at the floor, face flaming. She let out a slightly giddy laugh. “Holy shit.” “Just—just drop it, all right?” “Right, okay, but I’m curious now. How big is his—” “Amalia!” “Ugh, fine.” She huffed, then leaned back, hands propped on the mattress. “So you’re in love with Zylas—and banging him.” I

That may be,” I said evenly. “Look. I know we have history. And sometimes you may not like me very much. But I need you to trust me, Ethan.” “Like you?” He looked slightly incredulous. “Good Lord, Kit. If clueless was a person….” I scowled. “There’s no need to get testy. I’m trying to—” “Just…shut up for a minute, yeah?” He blew out a breath. I had a feeling he was backing down his bristliness, too. We were like two porcupines trying to cooperate to get out of an air mattress. “Where are we headed?

Nothing will ever feel this good,” he says, his hips thrusting into mine. “I want this with you, always.” I grip his cheek. “Only with you.” “You’re mine,” he whispers, his nose touching mine. “All yours,” I say as his hand falls to my breast, and he kneads my nipple, tweaking it just enough for my back to arch off the mattress and my orgasm to build higher. “Oh God, Hayes.

We are supposedly living in a golden age of pleasure. So many tantalizing options lie only a click away: gourmet food, memory-foam mattresses, kinky sex, gadgets galore. Pleasure decoys, all of them, Epicurus would say. Like any good decoy, they look real, and so we take aim. If we fail to hit the target, we blame ourselves for poor marksmanship and reload. Stop aiming at decoys, counsels Epicurus. Better yet, stop shooting altogether. “Not what we have but what we enjoy constitutes our abundance,” he says, noting that, with the right mind-set, even a small pot of cheese can convert a simple meal into a lavish feast.

I doubt I need to say it, but I was in no mood for a fight just then; while the poison might have left my body, I still felt its aftereffects, a bone-deep weariness, and desired only a cup of coffee and a good hearty breakfast, not another swordfight with some bloody bogles. And why is it that my enemies always come at me when I am tired and hungry? Why cannot I deal with my stepmother’s hirelings on a full stomach, having had a good night’s rest in some comfortable bed? (Present lodgings excepted—the lumps in these mattresses, my God!) Assassins are a monstrous breed. Either they attack when you are at your worst, or they are having a go at you on your birthday. I have never known a more dishonourable profession.

The idea that a gun can “save” anyone in any situation has always seemed suspect to me. A gun is a passive instrument; it does what it’s told to do by a human. And humans make mistakes. I picture a home invasion, someone in bed, asleep, who wakes suddenly to find a stranger in the dark perched over the bed. How does the gun get into the homeowner’s hands? How does the safety get turned off? How does the bullet find its way into the target in those sheer seconds? Maybe it’s a quiet house; the homeowner is awakened, reaches under the mattress, silently gets out the gun, silently clicks off the safety, silently tiptoes downstairs. He can hear the thief, but the thief cannot hear him. Silently, he finds the thief holding a flat-screen TV and he shoots. Maybe it’s a movie theater. Guy walks in in the dark, starts shooting. Somewhere in the audience is another gun, a good guy. He shoots, too. Maybe it’s a hotel room. Guy starts shooting. A dozen people in the crowd have guns, but they’re good guys. Good guns. They start shooting back. How do you identify the good from the bad? The intentional from the accidental? Maybe it’s a sniper at a gas station. Someone with a Toyota has a gun. He’s a good guy. He shoots, too. Maybe it’s a kid, and another kid has a gun. A good kid with a gun. A good teacher with a gun. How do you know, how do I know, how does anyone know who is who, and which gun is which, in those panicky milliseconds? Where to run, how to hide? How does a plastic seat with a fabric top stop a bullet anyway? A car door? A locker door? A speaker? A particle board desktop? Doesn’t matter who’s good and who’s not. Bullets have no moral preference.

the other, I whimper as my pussy pulses with growing arousal. I stroke his smooth head, barely able to keep on my feet. When he withdraws, we stare at each other for several long seconds. Then I know exactly what to do. Somehow Mack must have read my mind because he helps guide me down to my knees in front of him. I reach over to undo his trousers and pull his cock out of his underwear. He’s already fully erect. I swipe a drop of liquid off the tip with my thumb. When he’s scooted a few inches closer to the edge of the mattress, he reaches over to remove the clip from my bun so my hair falls loose down my back. He takes my head in both his big hands and guides it forward toward his groin. I hold him steady with my fingers around the base of his hard shaft, giving him a few teasing licks that make his breath hitch. Then I slide my mouth around him until my lips meet my hand. I suck hard. His whole body twitches as he gasps out, “Fuck!” Thrilling with excitement from his responsiveness, I take a minute to coordinate a rhythm of sucking and squeezing with my hand. The muscles of his thighs on either side of me are tensing up as I work. He’s taking long, loud, thick breaths. When I’ve gotten comfortable, I speed up my rhythm and apply harder suction with my mouth. “Oh fuck, Anna.” He’s still holding my head in position with both hands, and they tighten in my hair, like he’s fisting handfuls of it. “That’s right. That’s good. Just like that.

The value of good design is the increased possibility of success. We understand its importance in everyday objects like chairs, clothes, watches, coffee makers, and a good mattress. When it comes to websites, we tend to think of design as a surface layer applied at the end. In truth, that website’s design started long ago. It can be intentional or happenstance. For design to be truly great, you need to build it into your projects from conception. Because if you’re not doing it, you can bet your competitors are.

May I sit down, please?” she asked mildly. “I’m tired of standing.” “There’s no place to sit.” “Yes there is.” Breaking away from him, Daisy went to the four-poster bed and tried to climb onto it. Unfortunately the bed was an antique Sheraton, built high to avoid winter drafts and allow for a trundle below. The top of the mattress was level with her breasts. Hoisting herself upward, she tried to lever her hips onto the mattress. Gravity defeated her. “Usually,” Daisy said, struggling and squirming with her feet dangling, “there’s a stair-step provided—” She grabbed handfuls of the counterpane. “— for beds this tall.” Straining to hook a knee over the edge of the mattress, she continued, “Good God… if someone fell out of this bed at night… it would be fatal.” She felt Matthew’s hands clamp around her waist. “The bed’s not that tall,” he said. Picking her up as if she were a child, he deposited her on the mattress. “It’s just that you’re short.” “I’m not short. I’m… vertically disadvantaged.” “Fine. Sit up.” His weight depressed the mattress behind her and his hands returned to the back of her dress.

We set to work to bury people. We pushed them into the sides of the trench but bits of them kept getting uncovered and sticking out, like people in a badly made bed. Hands were the worst; they would escape from the sand, pointing, begging - even waving! There was one which we all shook when we passed, saying, 'Good morning', in a posh voice. Everybody did it. The bottom of the trench was springy like a mattress because of all the bodies underneath.

The serum wears off five hours later, when the sun is just beginning to set. Tobias shut me in my room for the rest of the day, checking on me every hour. This time when he comes in, I am sitting on the bed, glaring at the wall. “Thank God,” he says, pressing his forehead to the door. “I was beginning to think it would never wear off and I would have to leave you here to…smell flowers, or whatever you wanted to do while you were on that stuff.” “I’ll kill them,” I say. “I will kill them.” “Don’t bother. We’re leaving soon anyway,” he says, closing the door behind him. He takes the hard drive from his back pocket. “I thought we could hide this behind your dresser.” “That’s where it was before.” “Yeah, and that’s why Peter won’t look for it here again.” Tobias pulls the dresser away from the wall with one hand and wedges the hard drive behind it with the other. “Why couldn’t I fight the peace serum?” I say. “If my brain is weird enough to resist the simulation serum, why not this one?” “I don’t know, really,” he says. He drops down next to me on the bed, jostling the mattress. “Maybe in order to fight off a serum, you have to want to.” “Well, obviously I wanted to,” I say, frustrated, but without conviction. Did I want to? Or was it nice to forget about anger, forget about pain, forget about everything for a few hours? “Sometimes,” he says, sliding his arm across my shoulders, “people just want to be happy, even if it’s not real.” He’s right. Even now, this peace between us comes from not talking about things--about Will, or my parents, or me almost shooting him in the head, or Marcus. But I do not dare to disturb it with the truth, because I am too busy clinging to it for support. “You might be right,” I say quietly. “Are you conceding?” he says, his mouth falling open with mock surprise. “Seems like that serum did you some good after all…” I shove him as hard as I can. “Take that back. Take it back now.” “Okay, okay!” He puts up his hands. “It’s just…I’m not very nice either, you know. That’s why I like you so--” “Out!” I shout, pointing at the door. Laughing at himself, Tobias kisses my cheek and leaves the room.

Stiff.” I wake with a start, my hands still clutching the pillow. There is a wet patch on the mattress under my face. I sit up, wiping my eyes with my fingertips. Peter’s eyebrows, which usually turn up in the middle, are furrowed. “What happened?” Whatever it is, it can’t be good. “Your execution has been scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.” “My execution? But she…she hasn’t developed the right simulation yet; she couldn’t possibly…” “She said that she will continue the experiments on Tobias instead of you,” he says. All I can say is: “Oh.” I clutch the mattress and rock forward and back, forward and back. Tomorrow my life will be over. Tobias may survive long enough to escape in the factionless invasion. The Dauntless will elect a new leader. All the loose ends I will leave will be easily tied up. I nod. No family left, no loose ends, no great loss. “I could have forgiven you, you know,” I say. “For trying to kill me during initiation. I probably could have.” We are both quiet for a while. I don’t know why I told him that. Maybe just because it’s true, and tonight, of all nights, is the time for honesty. Tonight I will be honest, and selfless, and brave. Divergent. “I never asked you to,” he says, and turns to leave. But then he stops at the door frame and says, “It’s 9:24.” Telling me the time is a small act of betrayal--and therefore an ordinary act of bravery. It is maybe the first time I’ve seen Peter be truly Dauntless.

Come here, Devlin, and let me hold you.” He shifted on the mattress and tucked his face against her shoulder, not even thinking of protesting. He loved her, and he had chosen to stay with her tonight, a dishonorable, painful, and just plain stupid decision, but he was damned if he’d regret it yet. He let a hand drift across the soft warmth of her stomach and hiked a knee across her thighs. “Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “You’re not,” she assured him, turning her face to kiss his temple. “You’re warm and you smell good and you feel just right.” He nodded, echoing the sentiment in silence before falling into a dreamless and profoundly restful sleep.

Judge clasped his hands over Michaels’ and nodded once. Michaels barely withdrew a few inches before he slammed back into Judge’s wanting ass. Over and over, rapid sharp thrusts, deeper than Judge could process. Judge twisted and grunted, growling against the sheets. “Still being stubborn, huh? Why won’t you let me hear you? That deep sexy voice of yours.” Michaels panted in his ear. “I can make you talk, babe.” “Fuck you,” Judge muttered. Thinking Michaels didn’t hear him… but he was wrong. Michaels chuckled low and demonically, and Judge knew he’d fucked up. “Better, but not quite what I had in mind.” Michaels’ body was shifting over of him, turning so that his legs straddled his right thigh and both his arms were on his left side braced on the mattress. Oh fuck. Michaels was getting ready to fuck him at an entirely different angle. An angle that was gonna have him pile-driving his prostate. “Fuck!” Judge yelled. Michaels thrusts were so powerful, that blunt cock-head punching his gland with a force so insane it made him see stars. Judge was arching his back again, this time raising both of them up. “Ahhhh. Fuck! Fuck!” “Yeah, babe. God. That’s. Good. Ahhh. Nice and tight,” Michaels said, after each thrust. “Shit. I’m ‘bout to come.” Judge’s

Mmmm. Fuck yeah. Syn was so glad to see a glimpse of Furi’s controlling side appear that it had him pumping his hips forcefully into the mattress while he pulled Furi’s smooth cheeks apart and dove in, eating his hole with all the fierce animalistic lust he felt. “Yeah, Syn. Eat that fuckin’ hole,” Furi panted, lifting and rubbing his ass against Syn’s face. Furi tasted better than the rich dessert they’d just consumed. Full of musk with a hint of his body wash. Syn knew he had to get that tight star to loosen up good so his lover wouldn’t experience much discomfort, the same way Furi did for him. Syn didn’t want to rush this, he had to calm down, they had all night. He slowed his energetic nipping to slow circles around Furi’s pucker before dipping inside for his first deep taste. Furi’s flavor was strongest there and it made Syn feel drunk. “Furi.

That’s very trusting.” Iris watches Anke search our backpacks. “We’re saving people’s lives. We thought we could be,”Anke says. I’m more fixated on her arm in my backpack than on what she’s saying, though. That bag is nearly empty, but it’s mine. She’s messing it up. Her hands might not even be clean. When she does stop, I immediately wish she hadn’t. “Denise,” she says, “I need to search your bed next.” My gaze flicks to my pillow. “I. I. Could I.” “She doesn’t like people touching her bed.” Iris stands, guarding me. “You’re touching it,” Captain Van Zand’s brother says. Iris shoots him a withering look. “I sat at the foot, which is the only place that’s OK for even me to touch, and I’m her sister.” Anke’s sigh sounds closer to a hiss. “Look, we have more rooms to search.” I squirm. No. Not squirm. I’m rocking. Back and forth. “Wait,” I say. “You can’t—” Iris goes on. “Just ’cause she’s too precious to—” the man argues. “Wait,” I repeat, softer this time, so soft that I’m not even sure Iris hears it. “Can I, can I just, wait. I can lift the sheets and mattress myself. You can look. Right? Is that good? Right? Is that good? If I lift them?” I force my jaw shut. No one says anything for several moments. I can’t tell if Anke is thinking of a counterargument or if she really is trying to make this work. Her lips tighten. “OK. If you listen to my instructions exactly.” “You’re indulging her?” Captain Van Zand’s brother says. “She’s just being difficult. Have you ever seen an autistic kid? Trust me, they’re not the kind to take water scooters into the city like she did.” “Denise, just get it done,” Anke snaps. I don’t stand until they’re far enough away from the bed, as if they might jump at me and touch the bed themselves regardless. I blink away tears. It’s dumb, I know that—I’m treating Anke’s hands like some kind of nuclear hazard—but this is my space, mine, and too little is left that’s mine as is. I can’t even face Iris. With the way she tried to help, it feels as though I’m betraying her by offering this solution myself. I keep my head low and follow Anke’s orders one-handed. Take off both the satin and regular pillowcases, show her the pillow, shake it (although I tell her she can feel the pillow herself: that’s OK, since the pillowcases will cover it again anyway)—lift the sheets, shake them, lift the mattress long enough for her to shine her light underneath, let her feel the mattress (which is OK, too, since she’s just touching it from the bottom) . . . They tell us to stay in our room for another hour. I wash my hands, straighten the sheets, wash my hands again, and wrap the pillow in its cases. “That was a good solution,” Iris says. “Sorry,” I mutter. “For what?” Being difficult. Not letting her help me. I keep my eyes on the sheets as I make the bed and let out a small laugh.

Is this an antique?” He nodded. “It was a wedding present from my grandfather to my grandma.” She traced the pattern with her fingers. “It’s beautiful.” “Yeah, it is,” he said, in a thoughtful tone. “They were honeymooning in France and she fell in love with it. When they got home, it was waiting for her.” “How romantic,” Maddie said, studying the rich detail work. Even back then, it must have cost a fortune. “My grandpa was desperately in love with her. If she wanted something, he moved heaven and earth to get it for her.” What would that be like? To be loved like that. Steve always acted like he’d do anything for her, but if he’d loved her unconditionally, wouldn’t he have liked her more? She looked back at Mitch. “How’d they meet?” He chuckled, a soft, low sound. “You’re not going to believe this.” She crossed her legs. “Try me.” He flashed a grin. “I swear to God, this is not a line.” “Oh, this is going to be good.” She shifted around, finding a dip in the mattress she could get comfortable in. He stretched his arm, drawing Maddie’s gaze to the contrast of his golden skin against the crisp white sheets. “My grandfather was old Chicago money. He went to Kentucky on family business and on the way home, his car broke down.” Startled, Maddie blinked. “You’re kidding me.” He shook his head, assessing her. “Nope. He broke down at the end of the driveway and came to ask for help. My grandmother opened the door, and he took one look at her and fell.” He pointed to a picture frame on the dresser. “She was quite beautiful.” Unable to resist, Maddie slid off the bed and walked over, picking up the frame, which was genuine pewter. She traced her fingers over the glass. It was an old-fashioned black-and-white wedding picture of a handsome, austere, dark-haired man and a breathtakingly gorgeous girl with pale blond hair in a white satin gown. “He asked her to marry him after a week,” Mitch said. “It caused a huge uproar and his family threatened to disinherit him. She was a farm girl, and he’d already been slated to marry a rich debutante who made good business sense.” Maddie carefully put the frame back and crawled back onto the bed, anxious for the rest of the story. “Looks like they got married despite the protests.” Mitch’s gaze slid over her body, lingering a fraction too long on her breasts before looking back into her eyes. “He said he could make more money, but there was only one of her. In the end, his family relented, and he whisked her into Chicago high society.” “It sounds like a fairy tale.” “It was,” Mitch said, his tone low and private. The story and his voice wrapped her in a safe cocoon where the world outside this room didn’t exist. “In the sixty years they were together, they never spent more than a week a part. He died of a heart attack and she followed two months later.” She studied the bedspread, picking at a piece of lint. “I guess if you’re going to get married, that’s the way to do it.” “Any

Is this an antique?” He nodded. “It was a wedding present from my grandfather to my grandma.” She traced the pattern with her fingers. “It’s beautiful.” “Yeah, it is,” he said, in a thoughtful tone. “They were honeymooning in France and she fell in love with it. When they got home, it was waiting for her.” “How romantic,” Maddie said, studying the rich detail work. Even back then, it must have cost a fortune. “My grandpa was desperately in love with her. If she wanted something, he moved heaven and earth to get it for her.” What would that be like? To be loved like that. Steve always acted like he’d do anything for her, but if he’d loved her unconditionally, wouldn’t he have liked her more? She looked back at Mitch. “How’d they meet?” He chuckled, a soft, low sound. “You’re not going to believe this.” She crossed her legs. “Try me.” He flashed a grin. “I swear to God, this is not a line.” “Oh, this is going to be good.” She shifted around, finding a dip in the mattress she could get comfortable in. He stretched his arm, drawing Maddie’s gaze to the contrast of his golden skin against the crisp white sheets. “My grandfather was old Chicago money. He went to Kentucky on family business and on the way home, his car broke down.” Startled, Maddie blinked. “You’re kidding me.” He shook his head, assessing her. “Nope. He broke down at the end of the driveway and came to ask for help. My grandmother opened the door, and he took one look at her and fell.” He pointed to a picture frame on the dresser. “She was quite beautiful.” Unable to resist, Maddie slid off the bed and walked over, picking up the frame, which was genuine pewter. She traced her fingers over the glass. It was an old-fashioned black-and-white wedding picture of a handsome, austere, dark-haired man and a breathtakingly gorgeous girl with pale blond hair in a white satin gown. “He asked her to marry him after a week,” Mitch said. “It caused a huge uproar and his family threatened to disinherit him. She was a farm girl, and he’d already been slated to marry a rich debutante who made good business sense.” Maddie carefully put the frame back and crawled back onto the bed, anxious for the rest of the story. “Looks like they got married despite the protests.” Mitch’s

Shara met me at the airport in London, dressed in her old familiar blue woolen overcoat that I loved so much. She was bouncing like a little girl with excitement. Everest was nothing compared to seeing her. I was skinny, long-haired, and wearing some very suspect flowery Nepalese trousers. I short, I looked a mess, but I was so happy. I had been warned by Henry at base camp not to rush into anything “silly” when I saw Shara again. He had told me it was a classic mountaineers’ error to propose as soon as you get home. High altitude apparently clouds people’s good judgment, he had said. In the end, I waited twelve months. But during this time I knew that this was the girl I wanted to marry. We had so much fun together that year. I persuaded Shara, almost daily, to skip off work early from her publishing job (she needed little persuading, mind), and we would go on endless, fun adventures. I remember taking her roller-skating through a park in central London and going too fast down a hill. I ended up headfirst in the lake, fully clothed. She thought it funny. Another time, I lost a wheel while roller-skating down a steep busy London street. (Cursed skates!) I found myself screeching along at breakneck speed on only one skate. She thought that one scary. We drank tea, had afternoon snoozes, and drove around in “Dolly,” my old London black cab that I had bought for a song. Shara was the only girl I knew who would be willing to sit with me for hours on the motorway--broken down--waiting for roadside recovery to tow me to yet another garage to fix Dolly. Again. We were (are!) in love. I put a wooden board and mattress in the backseat so I could sleep in the taxi, and Charlie Mackesy painted funny cartoons inside. (Ironically, these are now the most valuable part of Dolly, which sits majestically outside our home.) Our boys love playing in Dolly nowadays. Shara says I should get rid of her, as the taxi is rusting away, but Dolly was the car that I will forever associate with our early days together. How could I send her to the scrapyard? In fact, this spring, we are going to paint Dolly in the colors of the rainbow, put decent seat belts in the backseat, and go on a road trip as a family. Heaven. We must never stop doing these sorts of things. They are what brought us together, and what will keep us having fun. Spontaneity has to be exercised every day, or we lose it. Shara, lovingly, rolls her eyes.

So what do you want?” St. Just asked quietly. Winnie looked away, reminding him poignantly of Emmie in the midst of difficult discussions. “What do you want, princess?” he asked again. “I want…” Winnie’s little shoulders heaved, and still St. Just waited. “I want Emmie to s-s-stay.” She hurled herself across the mattress, sending her writing implements flying in her haste to throw herself into St. Just’s arms. “Don’t let her go away, please,” Winnie wailed. “I’ll be good, just… Make her stay. You have to make her stay.” He wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried, producing a handkerchief when the storm seemed to be subsiding. All the while he held her, he thought of Her Grace raising ten children, ten little hearts that potentially broke over every lost stuffed bear, dead pony, and broken toy. Ten stubborn little chins, ten complicated little minds, each as dear and deserving as the last, and all with intense little worlds of their own. Ye Gods. And what to say? Never lie to your men, St. Just admonished himself… “I don’t want her to go, either,” St. Just murmured when Winnie’s tears had quieted to sniffles. “But Emmie has her business to run, Win. She won’t go far, though, just back to the cottage, and we can visit her there a lot.” Like hell. “She isn’t going to the cottage,” Winnie replied with desperate conviction. “She’s going to marry Vicar and his brother will die and she’ll be rich, but far, far away. Cumbria is like another country, farther away than Scotland or France or anywhere.” “Hush,” St. Just soothed, fearing he was about to witness the youngest female crying jag of his experience. “Emmie hasn’t said anything to me, Winnie, and I think she’d let me know if she were going somewhere.” She had, however, told him to find another governess by Christmas at the latest. “She’s going,” Winnie said, heartsick misery in her tone. “I know it, but she’ll listen to you if you tell her to stay.” “I can’t tell her, Win.” St. Just rose to turn back the bedcovers. “I can only ask.” “Then ask her,” Winnie pleaded as she scooted between the sheets. “Please, you have to.” “I will ask her what her plans are, but that doesn’t affect your needing and deserving a governess. Understand?” When Winnie’s chin jutted, he dropped onto the bed and met her eyes. “We haven’t hired anybody yet, we haven’t even interviewed anybody yet, and we won’t expect you to tolerate anybody who isn’t acceptable to both Emmie and me, all right?” “I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said, but her tone was whimpery, miserable, and hopeless. “I understand that, and I only want you to have a governess you’re going to like, Winnie. All I’m asking is that you give somebody a chance to help you learn, whether Emmie’s here, back at the cottage, or married to the Vicar.” “I love Emmie,” Winnie said, reaching for Mrs. Bear. “I love Emmie, and I don’t want her to go, and I don’t want her to marry Vicar.” “Neither do I, princess.” St. Just blew out her candle. “Neither do I.” He

Thanks so much. You really came through.” “I like protecting you from lecherous mattress salesmen. You don’t need to thank me,” he joked. “How about a kiss instead?” Linc was taken aback. He opened his mouth, too surprised for a second to say yes. No never entered his mind. Kenzie’s slender arms twined around his neck and she raised herself up on her sneaker toes to make good on her offer. Linc let his hands slide over her body, stopping at the sweet curve of her jeans-clad hips. She flexed, catlike, arching her back to bring herself more tightly against him. Her moves were playful, feminine to the core, instantly arousing him. He kissed her back, gently at first, then with searching strength. She didn’t seem to want to stop. She nipped at his lower lip, then moved back a little, looking up at him with half-closed eyes as her hands moved into his hair. Linc stood his ground, enjoying the stroking caress. One hand moved down to his jawline. Soft and tender. He wasn’t used to her being this gentle. “Nice,” she said softly. He tried to remember how to talk. Too complicated. He hadn’t let go of her waist, but there was more air between them than he really needed. “And enough for now,” she added. He came to his senses. She stepped away from him, not looking at the new mattress that seemed to be the only thing in the room. Linc glanced at the expanse of tufted satin with a flash of regret. “We should think about it, you know,” she said. “We can’t just tumble into bed.” “Oh.” He didn’t need to think, he knew. He wanted her. Bad. “Kenzie…you can call the shots. Just tell me when.” Her mouth curved upward in an indescribable smile Linc would never forget. “Okay,” she said.

I love you," Avery whispered and slid his hands under Kane's back, gripping his shoulders as he slowly began to move his hips, pulling almost out and slowly pushing back into that delicious tightness, moving faster and harder with each thrust. "I…love…you…" Kane whimpered. Avery gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of Kane's neck. He wanted this to last, but the force of Kane's muscles gripping him felt too good. "You're finally mine." "And you're…finally…mine…" Kane declared, his hips rising to meet Avery's, thrust for thrust. "I've been yours since the first moment I laid eyes on you. Today was for you, baby." Avery gripped Kane's shoulders tighter, holding him in place as he drove himself deep into Kane's body. His knees dug into the mattress as he tried to get better leverage. He couldn't get close enough to Kane, couldn't get deep enough in the man he loved. He slammed his hips wildly against Kane, their loud grunts and moans filled the room, and the sound of their bodies slapping together added to the heat of the moment. Avery managed to slide his hand between their sweat-coated bodies and pump Kane's hard cock. His rhythm was erratic, he couldn't keep the pace, not with the way Kane's tight ass grasped him, but he wanted Kane to come before he did. His body strained, and he screwed his eyes shut, trying to prevent his release. He hung on until he felt Kane's cock twitch and hot jets of thick cream shot between his fingers and splattered on his chest. Kane shuddered and moaned beneath him, and his ass contracted around him. The smell and feel of Kane's release drove him insane. He grabbed Kane's thighs, pushed them back, lifting him higher, and plunged into him, pistoning his hips like a jack hammer. "Yes. So…good, baby." It wasn't a second more before his own release hit, and his cock jerked deep inside Kane's hot ass as he filled him with his come. "You're amazing," Avery roared as he slumped forward, falling on top of Kane.

Just leave him alone, I told myself miserably. He’s hoping you’re asleep. But I reached out a tentative hand for his, on the slim off-chance that I might be wrong. His fingers closed around mine. ‘Feeling a bit better?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’ I wriggled across the mattress and propped myself up on one elbow to kiss him. ‘Sure you’re not going to spew?’ he asked, running a hand over my hair. ‘Pretty sure,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure pretty sure is sure enough.’ But I could hear that he was smiling, and he pulled me down on top of him. ‘Oh, what the hell. I like living dangerously.

I'm seeing someone." It gets quiet enough to hear our breathing. "You're dating someone?" Aidan asks, sitting back down in my chair. Nadia retakes her spot on my mattress. I glance down at my hands, feeling my cheeks redden. "Not dating, really. It's more like I have feelings I haven't told her about yet." "Do we know her?" I shake my head. "Who is she?" Nadia inquires. I glance up and instantly hate the look of rejection on her face, The lies flow out of me too easily. "Her name's Ivy. She lives over in Harraway with her parents." "Is she our age?" "Yeah. She's only a year older." Try a lot older. I'm answering myself again. "An older woman? Awesome! What does she look like?" I close my eyes as I remember her human form from my dreams. "She's about my height, has long white-blond hair, and green eyes. Ivy's very beautiful." Beautiful? More like drop-dead gorgeous. "She sounds like it." Aidan leans back, putting his hands behind his head. "So where's you meet her?" "At the hospital in Harraway. Ivy does her service hours there." "How come we never saw her?" "You missed each other. She came there at different hours than you guys did." Nadia sticks her hands up and stretches. "What did you two do?" "Talk. Just what we do now. Ivy gave me her phone number and email before I left." "Have you talked to her since?" "Practically every day. She's a wonderful person. You guys would like her." That or you would run away in terror. "So let me get this straight." Aidan scrunches up his face as he thinks everything over. "The reason that you're not gag over Melanie anymore is because of some older chick you met in the hospital?" "Yep." Aidan lets out a long, low whistle. "Damn. If she's good enough to kick Melanie off the love pedestal, she has to be worth going after." I nod. "Yeah. Ivy is. I...I think I like her." If this were a cartoon, Nadia would have a rain cloud over her head—she looks that bashed from my news.

Just keep touching me.” Prophet did, one hand stroking, the other moving between Tom’s legs. “Come on. Push up on your knees again.” Tom did, his shoulders and face pressed to the mattress, his ass spread and vulnerable. He didn’t bother to protest, not when Prophet was sliding a finger along his ass, brushing his hole. Then he inserted a lubed finger inside him, pressing hard. Tom jolted. Was rewarded with a second finger and a third followed quickly. They twisted and stroked and pushed and he heard himself cursing. He’d ache in the morning from pulling so hard against the ropes, but he was good and bound . . . Prophet wasn’t letting him go anywhere. And for a second, just a second, that scared the fuck out of him, the way it was supposed to . . . But he was safe. Didn’t matter how bad the clamps burned. He could tell Prophet to stop all of it, and Prophet would. But the best part was that Tom would never have to do that. Prophet knew him too well . . . would always keep him safe, even as he pushed Tom’s boundaries. Prophet licked up the side of his neck. Tom shuddered again. “Killing me.” “And you love it.” Prophet put his face down next to Tom’s. “Yeah, I do.” Prophet smiled, a sleepy, contented-as-fuck smile. “Me too, Tommy. Me too.” And

Sit down," Thad whispered. When she did, he pulled her to the edge of the mattress and lifted both her legs, placing her thighs on his shoulders. Then he dipped his head and read her open with his tongue. She gasped, and sound sent a jolt of sensation straight to his dick. Fuck! He knew she would taste good, but this was so much better than good. He stroked her with his tongue, dragging slow, firm licks from her clit on down, and then back up again. Ashanti lifted her hips, grinding against his mouth as he continued to lap at her. Her cries filled the room, hesitant as they were. Thad wanted her to tell her to let go, to just give in and not hold back. But he didn't want to stop what he was doing long enough to speak. He caught her by the waist and held her down while he wedged his tongue inside her, driving in and out. Her legs moved restlessly against his shoulders, as if she didn't know what to do with herself. He tried to make out what she was saying between her breathy pants and realized it was his name. She was calling his name over and over again. Thad had never heard anything sexier in his entire life. It drove him to keep going until he felt her legs shake and tense. She came against his tongue. But instead of stopping, he ramped up the intensity, closing his mouth over her clit and sucking until she came again and again and again. Her body was limp by the time he lifted her legs and set them back on the bed. He stood. As he stared down at Ashanti completely spent on his mattress, Thad realized his ego would never need stroking again. "Are you okay?" he asked her. "I'm a puddle," she said. "Don't ask me to move, because I can't." Nope. No ego stroking necessary for the newly crowned king of cunnilingus.

I wanna be choked and pounded into the mattress while you spank my ass raw as you call me your good little girl.

Do you have any body fat? It’s like lying on a pavement. You’re absolutely solid.” “I’m sorry the body I work so hard for doesn’t make a good mattress for you. I’m pretty sure you like my body for other reasons, though.

No wonder all the girls at this school were cranky. They couldn’t possibly get a good night’s rest on these damn mattresses. Jesus.

There's no place to sleep," I said. Don't worry about that. You must be tired from your journey, and weariness makes a good mattress.

Brailsford and his team continued to find 1 percent improvements in overlooked and unexpected areas. They tested different types of massage gels to see which one led to the fastest muscle recovery. They hired a surgeon to teach each rider the best way to wash their hands to reduce the chances of catching a cold. They determined the type of pillow and mattress that led to the best night’s sleep for each rider. They even painted the inside of the team truck white, which helped them spot little bits of dust that would normally slip by unnoticed but could degrade the performance of the finely tuned bikes.

I saw a bush taxi rumble down the one good road in the moonlight. Kids hung from it even at this hour, and three young men lay on their bellies on its roof, holding down a mattress with the weight of their own bodies. I felt that wave of absurdity, of pointlessness, that usually caught me in the earliest hours.

But the flock of Silicon Valley unicorns had grown so large that Benioff himself had become nervous. The kind of rapid expansion that venture capital made possible wasn’t sustainable without discipline. In the middle of the decade, Benioff had issued a warning: “There’s going to be a lot of dead unicorns.” Neumann had begun pitching WeWork as a new breed of SaaS business: “space as a service.” The idea was that companies of all sizes would no longer handle their own real estate portfolios but would instead turn over the management of their physical space to WeWork, transforming the company into something like a real estate cloud—a “platform.” This was a goal shared by every ambitious start-up of the decade, no matter how specious the claim. Facebook, Uber, and Airbnb identified as platforms, as did Beyond Meat, the pea-protein burger maker (“plant-based-product platforms”); Peloton, the indoor exercise bike company (“the largest interactive fitness platform in the world”); and Casper, the mattress company (a “platform built for better sleep”). It was no longer good enough for companies to simply be what they were.

The inversion of the 3rd Law of Behavior Change is make it difficult. A commitment device is a choice you make in the present that locks in better behavior in the future. The ultimate way to lock in future behavior is to automate your habits. Onetime choices—like buying a better mattress or enrolling in an automatic savings plan—are single actions that