Heating And Cooling Free Quotes

I walked past Malison, up Lower Main to Main and across the road. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me. I entered Royal Wood, went a short way along a path and waited. It was cool and dim beneath the trees. When Malison entered the Wood, I continued eastward.  I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer. We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?” He, of course, replied, “No.” “Well, we’re going to a better place.” When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds. Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.” “Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked. “My father’s a ghost,” he whispered. I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would.  He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.  Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path. “Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond! I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial! I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers. I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail. But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!

The passage is free for those who think you are not good enough for them: at your level, I think the best option is to sit back, relax and listen to a cool music, while watching them pack out of your life, and that's when you feel the intense release from the pit of hell.

Even viewed conservatively, trees are worth far more than they cost to plant and maintain. The U.S. Forest Service's Center for Urban Forest Research found a ten-degree difference between the cool of a shaded park in Tucson and the open Sonoran desert. A tree planted in the right place, the center estimates, reduces the demand for air conditioning and can save 100 kilowatt hours in annual electrical use, about 2 to 8 percent of total use. Strategically planted trees can also shelter homes from wind, and in cold weather they can reduce heating fuel costs by 10 to 12 percent. A million strategically planted trees, the center figures, can save $10 million in energy costs. And trees increase property values, as much as 1 percent for each mature tree. These savings are offset somewhat by the cost of planting and maintaining trees, but on balance, if we had to pay for the services that trees provide, we couldn't afford them. Because trees offer their services in silence, and for free, we take them for granted.

from CHAOS? Trust the imagination. Peace is knowing without need for detailed explanation. Joy is openness to possibility. Sing your humming heart free from the heat of all creation. Swim into cool whirling coloured pools. Sleep on rock of consciousness.

To day we made the grand experiment of burning the diamond and certainly the phenomena presented were extremely beautiful and interesting... The Duke's burning glass was the instrument used to apply heat to the diamond. It consists of two double convex lenses ... The instrument was placed in an upper room of the museum and having arranged it at the window the diamond was placed in the focus and anxiously watched. The heat was thus continued for 3/4 of an hour (it being necessary to cool the globe at times) and during that time it was thought that the diamond was slowly diminishing and becoming opaque ... On a sudden Sir H Davy observed the diamond to burn visibly, and when removed from the focus it was found to be in a state of active and rapid combustion. The diamond glowed brilliantly with a scarlet light, inclining to purple and, when placed in the dark, continued to burn for about four minutes. After cooling the glass heat was again applied to the diamond and it burned again though not for nearly so long as before. This was repeated twice more and soon after the diamond became all consumed. This phenomenon of actual and vivid combustion, which has never been observed before, was attributed by Sir H Davy to be the free access of air; it became more dull as carbonic acid gas formed and did not last so long.

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze, He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

Solar Thermal Power is revolutionizing energy uses in Surprise, Arizona. Solar energy utilizes the sun’s rays to generate and concentrate heat. This renewable energy source is reliable and can practically eliminate your monthly utility bill. Solar Thermal Energy can either significantly reduce your energy costs or even eliminate it forever! Cool Blew, Inc offers free estimates for installation of solar panels and for Ac service in Surprise, Arizona and the Phoenix metro area.

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze, He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete

Thieving was not a sheer absurdity. It was a form of human industry, perverse indeed, but still an industry exercised in an industrious world; it was work undertaken for the same reason as the work in potteries, in coal mines, in fields, in tool-grinding shops. It was labour, whose practical difference from the other forms of labour consisted in the nature of its risk, which did not lie in ankylosis, or lead poisoning, or fire-damp, or gritty dust, but in what may be briefly defined in its own special phraseology as "Seven years' hard". Chief Inspector Heat was, of course, not insensible to the gravity of moral differences. But neither were the thieves he had been looking after. They submitted to the severe sanction of a morality familiar to Chief Inspector Heat with a certain resignation. They were his fellow citizens gone wrong because of imperfect education, Chief Inspector Heat believed; but allowing for that difference, he could understand the mind of a burglar, because, as a matter of fact, the mind and the instincts of a burglar are of the same kind as the mind and the instincts of a police officer. Both recognize the same conventions, and have a working knowledge of each other's methods and of the routine of their respective trades. They understand each other, which is advantageous to both, and establishes a sort of amenity in their relations. Products of the same machine, one classed as useful and the other as noxious, they take the machine for granted in different ways, but with a seriousness essentially the same. The mind of Chief Inspector Heat was inaccessible to ideas of revolt. But his thieves were not rebels. His bodily vigour, his cool, inflexible manner, his courage, and his fairness, had secured for him much respect and some adulation in the sphere of his early successes. He had felt himself revered and admired. And Chief Inspector Heat, arrested within six paces of the anarchist nicknamed the Professor, gave a thought of regret to the world of thieves--sane, without morbid ideals, working by routine, respectful of constituted authorities, free from all taint of hate and despair.

I dream that someone in space says to me: So let us rush, then, to see the world. It is shaped like an egg, covered with seas and continents, warmed and lighted by the sun. It has churches of indescribable beauty, raised to gods that have never been seen; cities whose distant roofs and smokestacks will make your heart leap; ballparks and comfortable auditoriums in which people listen to music of the most serious import; to celebrate life is recorded. Here the joy of women’s breasts and backsides, the colors of water, the shapes of trees, athletes, dreams, houses, the shapes of ecstasy and dismay, the shape even of an old shoe, are celebrated. Let us rush to see the world. They serve steak there on jet planes, and dance at sea. They have invented musical instruments to express love, peaceableness; to stir the finest memories and aspirations. They have invented games to catch the hearts of young men. They have ceremonies to exalt the love of men and women. They make their vows to music and the sound of bells. They have invented ways to heat their houses in the winter and cool them in the summer. They have even invented engines to cut their grass. They have free schools for the pursuit of knowledge, pools to swim in, zoos, vast manufactories of all kinds. They explore space and the trenches of the sea. Oh, let us rush to see this world.

Glaze: While the rolls are cooling, prepare glaze. Mix together honey, butter, and sugar in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring constantly. Bring the mixture to a rolling boil for 2 minutes (no skimping) while continuing to stir. Add whipping cream and vanilla, and mix well, keeping the stirring and heat constant until mixed through. Spoon glaze over the rolls. Because of the rolls’ shape, the sides will likely remain glaze-free and the glaze should pool in the dimples and crevices on the top of the buns.

I thought of the lands of Israel, Judaea and Samaria, of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, of Nazareth and the Sea of Galilee. Places where the sun bakes men’s heads, desiccates their bodies, afflicts their souls with thirst. Places that generate a yearning for oases where water flows cool, clear and free, where the air is balmy and fragrant, where food and drink are abundant. The afterlife suddenly struck me as a counterworld invented by men exhausted and parched by their ceaseless wanderings across the dunes or up and down rocky trails baked to white heat. Monotheism was born of the sand.

He took two quick steps forward, wrapped a hand around the back of my neck, and held me for his kiss. I hadn’t expected it—not while he was still so close to changing. I’m sure that’s why I didn’t pull out of his hold. The first touch of his lips was soft, tentative, asking where his hands had demanded. The man was diabolical. I could have resisted force, but the question of his kiss was an entirely different matter. I leaned into him because he asked with the light touch and the gentle withdrawal of his lips that begged me to follow where he led. The heat of his body, welcome in the over-cooled house, rewarded me as I leaned closer to him, as did the hard planes of his body, so I was drawn to press even tighter against him. He danced like that, too. Leading instead of pulling. It had to have been deliberate, something he worked at, because he was as dominant as they came—Alphas are. But Adam was more than just dominant: he was smart, too. And he didn’t play fair. Which is how he ended up against the wall with me plastered all over him when someone . . . Darryl, quietly cleared his throat. I jerked free and hopped back to the middle of the hallway. “I’ll just get Jesse’s clothes now,” I told the carpet on the floor and then took my red face into Jesse’s room and shut the door. I didn’t mind getting caught kissing, but that had been a lot more carnal than a kiss. Sometimes good hearing isn’t a blessing. “Sorry,” Daryl said, though his voice carried more amusement than apology. “I bet,” growled Adam. “Damn it. This has got to stop.” Darryl gave a full-throated laugh that lasted quite a while. I’d never heard him laugh like that. Darryl was pretty uptight usually. “Sorry,” he said again, sounding more apologetic this time. “Looked to me like you’d rather it not stop.” “Yeah.” Adam sounded tired. “I should have gone after her a long time ago.

They [mountains] are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight—that is what it is. Now think: out of that caldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped—up and away, and there they stand in the cool, cold sky—mountains. Think of the change, and you will no more wonder that there should be something awful about the very look of a mountain: from the darkness—for where the light has nothing to shine upon, it is much the same as darkness—from the heat, from the endless tumult of boiling unrest—up, with a sudden heavenward shoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of snow that lies like ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers; and the great sun, their grandfather, up there in the sky; and their little old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at night; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the rocks and caverns into a roaring organ for the young archangels that are studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the molten music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the glaciers fresh-born. Think too of the change in their own substance—no longer molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but hard and shining and cold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and the birds building their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its sides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in the valleys, and the gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like the rich embroidery of the garment below, and the rivers galloping down the valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with all these, think of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and be lost, and the frightful gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers, and the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with floating lumps of ice. All this outside the mountain! But the inside, who shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude, their walls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or iron, tin or mercury, studded perhaps with precious stones—perhaps a brook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaseless, cold and babbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or over a gravel of which some of the stones are rubies and emeralds, perhaps diamonds and sapphires—who can tell?—and whoever can't tell is free to think—all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of ages—ever since the earth flew off from the sun, a great blot of fire, and began to cool. Then there are caverns full of water, numbing cold, fiercely hot—hotter than any boiling water. From some of these the water cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood in the body: little veins bring it down from the ice above into the great caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let it out again, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds, through and through its bulk, until it springs newborn to the light, and rushes down the mountain side in torrents, and down the valleys in rivers—down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty lungs of the world, that is the sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in billows, twisted in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by millions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills, whence at last, melted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and borne by the servant winds back to the mountain tops and the snow, the solid ice, and the molten stream.

There’s one major shortcoming inherent to using this method of cooling. Unlike in a typical PWR, the water entering the reactor is the same water that passes through the cooling pumps and then as steam through the turbines, meaning highly irradiated water is present in all areas of the system. A PWR uses a heat exchanger to pass heat from the reactor water to clean, lower pressure water, allowing the turbines to remain free of contamination. This is better for safety, maintenance and disposal. A second problem is that steam is allowed to form in the core, making dangerous steam voids more likely, and further increasing the chances of a positive void coefficient. In ordinary boiling water reactors, which use water as both a coolant and moderator like in a PWR, this would not be such a problem, but it is in a graphite-moderated BWR.

It is a hot summer day in Tennessee in the midst of the sixth decade of this century. The girl has climbed the fence to get to the swimming hole she has visited so many summers of her life in the time before this part of the land was enclosed. She stands now at the edge of it. Her body is sticky with heat. The surface of the water moves slightly. Sunlight shimmers and dances in a green reflection that seems as she stares at it to pull her in even before her skin is wet with it. Drops of water on the infant’s head. All the body immersed for baptism. Do these images come to her as she sinks into the coolness? The washing of hands before Sunday’s midday meal. All our sins washed away. Water was once the element for purification. But at the bottom of this pool, There is no telling what is there now. This is what the girl’s father will say to her finally: corroded cans of chemical waste, some radioactive substances. That was why they put the fence there. She is not thinking of that now. The words have not yet been said, and so for her no trouble exists here. The water holds up her body. She is weightless in this fulsome element, the waves her body makes embracing her with their own benediction. Beneath her in the shadowy green, she feels the depth of the pond. In this coolness as the heat mercifully abates, her mind is set free, to dream as the water dreams.

Chocolate Cola Cupcakes with Fizzy Cola Frosting Makes approx. 12 large cupcakes 200g flour, sifted 250g superfine sugar 1/2 tsp. baking powder pinch salt 1 large free-range egg 125ml buttermilk 1 tsp. vanilla extract 125g unsalted butter 2 tbsp. cocoa powder 175ml Coca-Cola For the frosting 125g unsalted butter, softened 400g confectioners’ sugar 11/2 tbsp. cola syrup (I used Soda Stream) 40ml whole milk Pop Rocks, to taste fizzy cola bottles, candied lemon slices, striped straws or candy canes to decorate Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two 6-cup muffin pans with paper liners. In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. In a separate bowl, beat together the egg, buttermilk and vanilla. Melt the butter, cocoa and Coca-Cola in a saucepan over low heat. Pour this mixture into the dry ingredients, stir well with a wooden spoon, and then add the buttermilk mixture, beating until the batter is well blended. Pour into your prepared pans and bake for 15 minutes, or until risen and a skewer comes out clean. Set aside to cool. To make the frosting, beat together the butter and confectioners’ sugar until no lumps are left—I use a free-standing mixer with the paddle attachment, but you could use a hand-held mixer instead. Stir the cola syrup and milk together in a pitcher, then pour into the butter and sugar mixture while beating slowly. Once incorporated, increase the speed to high and beat until light and fluffy. Carefully stir in your Pop Rocks to taste. It does lose its pop after a while, so the icing is best done just a few hours before eating. Spoon your icing into a piping bag and pipe over your cooled cupcakes. Decorate with fizzy cola bottles or a slice of candied lemon, a stripy straw or candy cane and an extra sprinkling of popping candy.

She slipped into the shadows and waited, like a she-wolf, for her quarry. Bay caught her breath when Owen Blackthorne stepped into the cool night air. He was close enough to touch. His shaggy black hair looked rumpled, as though he’d shoved both hands through it in agitation. When he started to move off the porch, Bay reached out and grasped his sleeve. A second later she was slammed back against the wall, a powerful male hand at her throat choking her. She could feel the heat of him, the solid maleness of him. And panicked. She clawed at Owen’s flesh with her nails and drove her knee upward toward his genitals. Her thrust her upraised knee aside, and the full weight of his over-six-foot frame shoved hard against her from shoulders to thighs. Bay froze, staring up at him in mute horror. Her body trembled in shock. She tried to speak, but there was no air to be had beneath the crushing pressure of his grip on her throat. “What the hell . . .?” He released her throat and grabbed her arms to yank her into the narrow stream of light from the kitchen doorway. She gasped a breath of air, coughed, then gasped another, pressing a shaky hand to her injured throat. She wrenched to free herself, but he let her go without a struggle and took a wary step back. She rubbed her arms where he’d held her, wishing she’d approached him more directly. “What are you doing out here, Mizz Creed?” His voice was clipped but controlled. The violence she’d felt in his touch was still there in his eyes, which glittered with hostility. “It’s Dr. Creed,” she rasped, glaring back at him. He lifted a black brow. “Well, Dr. Creed.” She opened her mouth to say I need your help. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing wrong with her voice. She just hated the thought of asking a Blackthorne for anything. “I haven’t got all night,” he said. “There’s an emergency at the barn—” “Ruby’s foal has already been delivered safely,” she said. “I made up that story because I wanted to speak privately with you.

Pulling her head back, Lillian stared at him with wondering eyes, her lips damp and reddened. Her hands left his hair, her fingertips coming to the hard angles of his cheekbones, delicate strokes of coolness on the blazing heat of his skin. He bent his head, nuzzling his jaw against the pale silk of her palm. “Lillian,” he whispered, “I’ve tried to leave you alone. But I can’t do it anymore. In the past two weeks I’ve had to stop myself a thousand times from coming to you. No matter how often I tell myself that you are the most inappropriate…” He paused as she squirmed suddenly, twisting and craning her neck to look down at the floor. “No matter what I— Lillian, are you listening to me? What the devil are you looking for?” “My pear. I dropped it, and— oh, there it is.” She broke free of him and sank to her hands and knees, reaching beneath a chair. Pulling out the brandy bottle, she sat on the floor and held it in her lap. “Lillian, forget the damned pear.” “How did it get in there, d’you think?” She poked her finger experimentally into the neck of the bottle. “I don’ see how something so big could fit into a hole that small.” Marcus closed his eyes against a surge of aggravated passion, and his voice cracked as he replied. “They… they put it directly on the tree. The bud grows… inside…” He slitted his eyes open and squeezed them shut again as he saw her finger intruding deeper into the bottle. “Grows…” he forced himself to continue, “until the fruit is ripe.” Lillian seemed rather too impressed by the information. “They do? That is the cleverest, cleverest… a pear in its own little… oh no.” “What?” Marcus asked through clenched teeth. “My finger’s stuck.” Marcus’s eyes flew open. Dumbfounded, he looked down at the sight of Lillian tugging on her imprisoned finger. “I can’t get it out,” she said. “Just pull at it.” “It hurts. It’s throbbing.” “Pull harder.” “I can’t! It’s truly stuck. I need something to make it slippery. Do you have some sort of lubricant nearby?” “No.” “Not anything?” “Much as it may surprise you, we’ve never needed lubricant in the library before now.

The younger Naren asked the Master: “Sir, have we any free will?” Master: “Just try to find out who this ‘I’ is. While you are searching for ‘I,’ ‘He’ comes out. ‘I am the machine and He is the Operator.’ You have heard of a mechanical toy that goes into a store with a letter in its hand. You are like that toy. God alone is the Doer. Do your duties in the world as if you are the doer, but knowing all the time that God alone is the Doer and you are the instrument. “As long as the upadhi [limitation or attribute] exists there is ignorance. ‘I am a scholar,’ ‘I am a jnani,’ ‘I am wealthy,’ ‘I am honourable,’ ‘I am the master, father, and teacher’—all these ideas are begotten of ignorance. ‘I am the machine and You are the Operator’ — that is Knowledge. In the state of Knowledge all upadhis are destroyed. When the log is burnt up entirely, there is no more sound; no heat either. Everything cools down. Peace! Peace! Peace!

I’m serious, you demon,” I spat, my dagger digging into his jaw. He seemed not to care at all. “Don’t come a step closer.” He didn’t, but he did, however, reach out his hand and lift a strand of my long hair. “So soft and pretty,” he murmured, “like silver silk.” I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and pressed the blade to the skin of his throat. His arrogant smile spread wide, the strands of my hair sliding through his fingers. I shivered at the sensation, not understanding why it both disturbed and thrilled me. “Don’t test me,” I warned, injecting as much venom as I could into my voice. “I’ll stab you right through the heart.” His scarlet gaze devoured me with fiery heat, but the timbre of his voice remained steady and cool. “My sweet, of that I am positively

It is important that they are cleaned and cared for properly to ensure they’ll last use after use. To clean them, first rinse the cloth well to remove excess debris. Machine wash them only with other microfiber cloths (they will pick up particles from regular laundry), using gentle, bleach-free laundry detergent and cool water on a regular cycle, or hand wash with dish soap in warm water and rinse thoroughly. Don’t use fabric softener or dryer sheets with these cloths; they will clog the fibers and render the cloth ineffective. It is best to hang them to dry or place in the dryer on low heat.

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We lay on our backs on hot sand and baked in the sun. Salt-crusted, preserved. Later, in the darkness of the green dome I felt his hand brush against my thigh, and with it the same electric pulse of need there had always been. Silence descended; everything stopped; I didn’t move, afraid to ignite a want that wouldn’t be satisfied, or lose a hope I’d held on to forever. He hesitated for a long moment, his hand stretching hot against my cold skin, a moment that hung between us in an unanswered question. Days passed. Clouds moved in from the south-west, white rolling cumuli disappearing inland. Winds changed direction: damp and light from the west; dry and cooling from the east; colder from the north-west, carrying hints of another season soon behind; then gently from the south, summer not quite yet spent. The heat reflected off the flat rocks, less jagged than those that surrounded them in the cove. We dried clothes on them, sat the stove flat on them to cook limpets, cracked an egg on them in the hope that it might fry, but when it didn’t, scraped it up and scrambled it, picking out bits of sand and grit. We lay on them, crisping to leathery brown. Bodies that fourteen months earlier were hunched and tired, soft and pale, were now lean and tanned, with a refound muscularity that we’d thought lost forever. Our hair was fried and falling out, our nails broken, clothes worn to a thread, but we were alive. Not just breathing through the thirty thousand or so days between life and death, but knowing each minute as it passed, swirling around in an exploration of time. The rock gave back the heat as it followed the arc of the sun, gulls called in differing tones as the tide left the shore and then returned, my hands wrinkled with age and my thighs changed to a new shape with passing miles, but when he pulled me to him and kissed me with an urgency that wasn’t in doubt, with a fervour that wouldn’t fail, time turned. I was ten million minutes and nineteen years ago, I was in the bus stop about to go back to his house, knowing his parents weren’t home, I was a mother of toddlers stealing moments in a walk-in wardrobe, we were us, every second of us, a long-marinated stew of life’s ingredients. We were everything we wanted to be and everything we didn’t. And we were free, free to be all those things, and stronger because of them. Skin on longed-for skin, life could wait, time could wait, death could wait. This second in the millions of seconds was the only one, the only one that we could live in. I was home, there was nothing left to search for, he was my home.

sightlessly at the television. Was this what he truly wanted out of life? Endless nights like this one? Alone, bored. “But free,” he muttered, and lifted his can in a mocking toast to freedom. It was that damned Jessi, making him feel restless and frustrated and itchy. Her and all her suggestive glances. Her and her hot kisses. Her and her talk about the clinic and the house and the family she’d have there one day. He didn’t want that, dammit. But he did want her. His shower that night was a cool one. He dived into bed still wet, hoping the dampness would keep the oppressive heat from smothering him. And after a third beer, he fell into a jerky, restless sleep. But she didn’t leave him alone then, either. She was there, haunting his dreams, touching him, kissing him, teasing him, as he lay there paralyzed and unable to reciprocate. He thrashed in agony, his

Whenever liquid water makes the transition to ice, energy is given off to the surroundings. In the process, the water itself assumes a state that is both more ordered and lower in energy. It is a general rule that any system that can give off heat and thereby assume a state of lower energy will do so. For the purpose of illustration, let's assume that the energy set free by the freezing of water is extremely high-so high that it surpasses the energy that is by virtue of Albert Einstein's E = mc^2 connected with the very existence of the water molecules. What would happen? In this fictitious case, it would pay energetically if water in the form of ice were spontaneously created from a space that beforehand contained no water at all. Thus there would be a certain probability for this to occur-never mind that anti-ice would have to be produced too. Let's imagine that it occurs: a crystal of ice is created spontaneously out of the void. Like every crystal, it would have some preferred direction in space and a certain location. Consequently, the perfect symmetry of space would be broken. These imagined circumstances do not exist in reality as far as ice is concerned, but they apply roughly for one of the most imaginative constructs of physics-the so-called Higgs field. This field appears spontaneously in a void as its walls are cooled down-starting from the absurdly high temperature of 10^15 degrees. The field will appear in an ordered state; for a poetic simile, think of ice flowers growing on a window. The energy needed for its existence is smaller than the energy liberated by its falling into that ordered pattern. This pattern is not to be understood in terms of spatial geometry; rather, it refers to the abstract space made up of the properties of elementary particles. In geometrical space, it is merely a field resembling a particularly simple distribution; to every point in space, we assign one and the same complex number. This implies that the Higgs field does not break geometrical symmetry-it breaks an abstract symmetry of elementary particles. In fact, it was introduced into modern theoretical physics by the Scottish physicist Peter Higgs for that very reason-to break an abstract symmetry that would not permit elementary particles to have masses.

Do you think you would like to test it with me?” Pete asked. He held out his hand, and Beatriz thought for a moment before taking it. Together they climbed onto the amber-brown dance stage and walked across the boards into the very center. They stopped and faced each other. “I don’t know how to dance,” Beatriz admitted. “I don’t either,” Pete said. “I guess we’ll figure it out.” Beatriz took his free hand and put it on her waist. “It’s cold,” Beatriz said. “It is,” Pete said. He stood a little closer to her so that they were warm together. “There’s no music,” Beatriz said. “We need the radio.” But the station had long since gone quiet, and Diablo Diablo had long since turned back into Joaquin. Pete put his voice right by Beatriz’s ear so that his breath warmed her skin, and he began to sing. It was nothing extravagant, just Patsy Cline sung in his low and uneven voice, and they began to dance. It was very quiet. No one else would have seen if not for the desert. But when the desert heard Pete Wyatt singing a love song, it took notice. The desert loved him, after all, and wanted him happy. So when it heard Pete singing, it rose a wind around them until the breeze sang gently like strings, and when it heard Pete singing, it provoked the air to heat and cool around every stone and plant so that each of these things sounded in harmony with his voice, and when it heard Pete singing, it roused Colorado’s grasshoppers to action and they rubbed their legs together like a soft horn section, and when it heard Pete singing, it shifted the very ground beneath Bicho Raro so that the sand and the dirt pounded a beat that matched the sound of the incomplete heart that lived in Pete Wyatt. The sound of this roused the Sorias from their sleep. Francisco looked out of his greenhouse and saw Pete and Beatriz dancing, and he missed Antonia. Antonia looked out the window of her house and saw Pete and Beatriz dancing, and she missed Francisco. Luis the one-handed took out his future love’s box of gloves from beside his bed and counted them. Nana reached for the photograph of her long-dead husband. Michael had been sleeping rolled up in his own lengthy beard, but he woke up and returned to sleep rolled up with Rosa instead. Judith looked out her window and wept with happiness to see her sister happy, and Eduardo wept, too, because he always liked to dress to match his wife when he could.

No-Grain Granola Bars   Time: 2 ½ - 3 ½ hours Servings: 16     Granola bars make perfect breakfasts or afternoon snacks. These delicious granola bars surprisingly don’t contain any grains at all.   Ingredients:   1 cup assorted nuts 1 cup assorted seeds 1 1/2 cups coconut flakes 1 cup assorted dried fruit 1/4 cup almond butter 1/4 cup coconut oil 1/4 tsp. pure vanilla extract 1/2 tsp. cinnamon 1/4 tsp. nutmeg   How to Cook:   Finely chop half of the nuts and seeds with a knife or in the food processor. Roughly chop the rest. Put all the nuts and seeds in a large bowl and add the fruit and coconut. Heat the wet ingredients and spices on medium heat in a pan until the mixture bubbles and then add it to the bowl and stir it together. Spread the mixture into a baking sheet lined with tin foil or parchment paper. Press the mixture into a block with your hands or a spatula. Allow it to cool for 2 to 3 hours and then cut it into rectangular or square granola bars.       Tips: You can use any nuts, seeds and dried fruit you want for this recipe, although the nuts and seeds should be raw or dry roasted without added oil. Experiment until you come up with a flavor combination you enjoy.

Racing can give me a focus. It can give a direction to and motivation for my daily run. There is, of course, a time for everything. And racing will only ever be a part of my running. But sometimes I need what it is a race can give me – something to absorb my effort, my attention – moments where I am forced to step outside what is comfortable, time after time after time. I’m forced to focus on what I am feeling, on what I am enduring in the here and now, whether that is keeping warm in the cold, keeping cool in the heat, eating, drinking and looking after myself. Despite my physical effort, sometimes during a race I experience the moment where I am resting in stillness; I’ve stopped doing and I’m focused instead on being. And that is when I feel free. But of course the race itself is the smallest part of the story. It is the journey that is important; the everyday, the day in, day out. Start and finish lines are just steps on that journey. The prize is not a position, or a time; instead the getting to know myself, the work and the training must be its own reward.

A Summertime Prisoner's Psalm O Summer, zenith of the year, I praise your robust life, your hot blood. You are a liberator who calls us out-of-doors into your desert-like sun and heat, just as the God of Moses and Aaron called the children of Israel out of the brickyards of Egypt. Those who work in the warmth of this day are blessed to be outside, while others are stuck in buildings built of brick, constructed with concrete and glass. Chilled-but-artificial air blows upon the new slaves of electric Egypt's indoor brickyards. Fortunate are those children who play today under the great yellow face of our giant daystar, the sun. Free to jump through sprinkler sprays or ride their bikes in the free flight of real air-conditioned coolness. Corporate giants in their stainless steel skyscrapers dream of their treehouse days when every kid was truly a millionaire. O Liberator God, who called your children away from the mile's sweaty slavery, lead me, this day, into the glorious freedom of which the spirit of summer sings.

medium spaghetti squash (about 2½ pounds) 4 tablespoons butter, ghee, or coconut oil, divided 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 medium carrot, diced 2 stalks celery, diced ½ medium yellow onion, minced 1 small red bell pepper, diced 1 pound ground chicken 1 teaspoon garlic powder 1 teaspoon fine sea salt ¼ teaspoon black pepper 1 cup hot sauce (I prefer Tessemae’s or Frank’s RedHot) ¼ cup Super Simple Mayonnaise (see here) or store-bought mayo (I use Sir Kensington’s or Primal Kitchen Foods) 3 large eggs, whisked chopped scallions, for garnish sliced avocado, for garnish Preheat the oven to 400°F. Cut the spaghetti squash in half lengthwise. Place the squash cut side down on a baking sheet and bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until the skin gives when you press your finger to it. Remove the squash from the oven and reduce the oven temperature to 350°F. Grease a Dutch oven or an 8-inch square glass baking dish with 2 tablespoons of the butter. Let the squash cool for 5 minutes, remove the seeds, and then use a fork to remove the threads and place them in the greased baking dish. In a large sauté pan over medium heat, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter. Add the garlic, carrot, celery, onion, and bell pepper and cook for about 10 minutes, until the onion is translucent. Add the ground chicken, garlic powder, salt, and pepper and cook, using a wooden spatula to break up the chicken into small pieces, until the chicken is no longer pink, about 8 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, then add the hot sauce and mayo and mix well to combine. Add the chicken mixture to the baking dish and mix well with the spaghetti squash threads. Add the whisked eggs and mix everything together until you can no longer see the eggs. Bake for 1 hour or until the top forms a slight crust that doesn’t give when you press it in the middle. Let rest for 5 minutes before serving. Garnish with chopped scallion and avocado slices.

To Style: Always use a vent brush or pick for curly styles and a wire brush for straight styles. Avoid using standard hair brushes, as these brushes can create excessive tension, over-stretching the hair with abrasive strokes that may damage the hair. Think in reverse when brushing your wig. Start from the ends and work gradually toward the ends and work gradually toward the root area of the hairpiece. When using a wire pick work the curls from ends to root area as well. Styling is greatly enhanced between washings with Jacquelyn's Liquid Mousse. For curly or wavy styles, it is considered an essential styling tool. Just mousse, hand scrunch and pick the style into curls. On straight styles, mousse and brush lightly. Jacquelyn's Conditioners also are recommended to maintain your hairwear. To Restyle: To spot style, add mousse or gel and use electric rollers on a medium setting. Only hair directly in contact with rollers will be spot set. Remember never to use a curling iron with your wig. To completely restyle, we recommend taking your wig to a professional stylist. If you decide to restyle at home, going from curly to straight or vice versa, please read these guidelines. 1. Place wig securely on wig stand. Use electric rollers, regular rollers or pin curls. End papers are recommended with rollers or pin curls. 2. Removes tangles with a wig brush. 3. Using the same directional styling as on a human head of hair, pick up hair and wind on roller or curl, smoothing ends as you go. 4. Use a medium setting with electric rollers or hair dryer. With a hair blower, be sure to circulate medium heat evenly and continously, keeping about 12" from wig. 5. Allow hair to cool before removing rollers or pincurls. 6. Lightly backbrush or backcomb and tease up on areas desired. Brush style in place, using Jacquelyn's Liquid Mousse. Jacquelyn Wigs delivers the most natural and beautiful human hair wigs in the world. For over 40 years, we have consistently provided the highest quality of wigs in the industry at amazingly reasonable prices. To have a free consultation please call us or visit our website.

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They could pick from a number of different ratios, and generally preferred two to one.” The reason we’re free to pant to our heart’s content is the same reason you need a shower on a summer day: we’re the only mammals that shed most of our heat by sweating. All the pelt-covered creatures in the world cool off primarily by breathing, which locks their entire heat-regulating system to their lungs. But humans, with our millions of sweat glands, are the best air-cooled engine that evolution has ever put on the market.

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

Although complete removal is not possible, neutralization (abhibhava) is possible. Just as watery liquidity can be neutralized by mixing [water] with earth, or fiery heat by means of mani, mantra, and so on, just so all the fluctations (vritti) of the mind can be neutralized by means of the practice of Yoga. In describing the condition of the jīvan-mukta, the embodied liberated being, Vidyāranya quotes profusely from the Yoga-Vāsishtha. This extensive Kashmiri work, which is presented as a dialogue between the Sage Vasishtha and Prince Rāma, states (5.90–98): He is a jīvan-mukta for whom, even though he is busy with ordinary life, all this ceases to exist and [only] the space [of ultimate Consciousness] remains. He is a true jivan-mukta whose face neither flushes nor pales in pleasure or pain and who subsists on whatever comes his way. He is a true jivan-mukta who is awake when sleeping, who knows no waking, and whose knowledge is entirely free from any vāsanā. He is a true jīvan-mukta who, though responsive to feelings such as attachment, hatred, fear, and other feelings, stands wholly pure within, like space. He is a true jīvan-mukta whose real nature is not influenced by egotism and whose mind is not subjected to attachment, whether he remains active or is inactive. He is a true jīvan-mukta whom the world does not fear and who does not fear the world, and who is free from joy, jealousy, and fear. He is a true jīvan-mukta who is at peace with the ways of the world; who, though full of all learning and arts, is yet without any; and who, though endowed with mind, is without it. He is a true jīvan-mukta who, though deeply immersed in all things, keeps his head cool, just as anyone would, when engaged in attending to other’s affairs; and whose Self is whole. After leaving the condition of living liberation, he enters into liberation after death, on the disintegration of the body by lapse of tenure, even as the wind comes to a standstill. Depending on their operative karma—the so-called prārabdha-karman—the sages look and behave differently. Some, like the famous King Janaka, are very active; others prefer silence and the solitude of forests or mountains. Some let the body drop as it will; others undertake the gargantuan discipline of transmuting the body into light, as is the objective in some Tantric teachings. These external distinctions tell us nothing about the spiritual realization of those sages. All of them, however, can be expected to emanate a palpable peace that, in the words of Saint Paul, “passeth all understanding.

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Sensations were completely different. Like the night she had run free as the wolf, Savannah now had the senses of a bird of prey. Her vision was sharp and clear, her eyes enormously wide. She spread her wings experimentally, then flapped them in the light drizzle. They were much bigger than she had anticipated. It delighted her, and she flapped them harder so she could create a wind, causing waves in the water standing in the patio. Are you having fun? Gregori’s voice held a hint of laughter. This is so cool, lifemate, she answered. Her rapidly beating wings lifted her into the air. The light mist was already passing overhead. The air was warm and heavy with the promise of moisture, but she soared high, reveling in her ability to do so. Gregori’s larger, stronger body dropped over hers, close and protective, guiding her in the direction of the bayou. As high up as they were, the sharp eyes of the raptor could spot the smallest of movements below. Details were vivid and clear. Even colors were different. Infrared vision, heat sensors— Savannah wasn’t certain what it was exactly, but the way she perceived the world was a different and unique experience. She dipped beneath Gregori and soared away from him, turning sideways and circling high above him. In her mind she could hear him swearing. As always he sounded arrogant, elegant, Old World, completely in command. Laughing, she caught a thermal and rode it up over the river. The male dropped down to cover her with his huge wings, fencing her in. Spoilsport! she accused him, her touch in his mind a whisper of lightness, of invitation to join in her fun. You are in a great deal of trouble, ma femme. He knew the threat was empty when he made it; he would give her the world. But why did she have to be such a little dare-devil all the time? Anyone choosing to live with you would have to have a sense of adventure, don’t you think? Her soft laughter played over his skin like music, like the gentle breeze blowing from the mountains in their homeland. Even within the bird’s body, he stirred to life, need and hunger rising to become a part of him. Relentless. Demanding. Savage in its intensity. It was more than simple lust. More than hunger. More than need. It was all of it merged together with a tenderness he had never conceived he could feel. When she was at her most outrageous, her most defiant, that was when his heart melted.

Little one, why do you persist in fighting me? His voice, whispering so softly in her mind, was filled with tenderness. Do you know what will happen to you without me? Her entire being responded to the velvet caress of his voice, the rising tide of love. If he had continued to argue and chastise, she would have had a chance, but the moment he spoke in that tender, caressing way, she was lost. At once she felt overwhelming despair. She could never be free of him, never. Is that such a terrible fate, love? His voice turned her heart over. To be with me? This time there was a single thread of hurt. Am I truly such a monster then? I don’t know how to be with you. I feel trapped, like I can’t move or think. Shea pressed her fingers to her temple, her back to the tree. I don’t want to need you. I don’t want to be with any of them. He was moving steadily toward her, not fast, not slow. The rain drove down on his broad shoulders, glistened off his back. The coolness only added to the gathering heat in his body. She seemed small and defenseless. With each step into the night, with the soil beneath his feet, and the ancient’s blood flowing in his veins, his strength grew. I need you just to breathe, Shea, he admitted starkly. I am sorry that terrifies you. I wish that I had more control, but I cannot be alone like that, not ever again. I try to keep my presence in you but a shadow. Perhaps with time I can let go a bit. Being with me terrifies you, but being without you terrifies me. A note of amusement crept in. We are so compatible.

Before you begin baking, be sure all the ingredients are at room temperature. They will mix more easily and the finished cheesecakes will have a smoother texture. Crust: Purchase a package of your favorite chocolate wafer cookies. (For a gluten-free option, omit the crust, letting the bottom chocolate cheesecake layer become the crust.) Cheesecake Filling: 3 packages (8 ounces each) cream cheese, softened 1 cup sugar 2 tablespoons cornstarch 3 large eggs ½ cup sour cream 1 teaspoon vanilla extract For Chocolate Filling: 1½ cups semisweet chocolate chips, melted and cooled For Peppermint Filling: 1 cup crushed peppermint candy canes (approximately 6 large candy canes) 1 teaspoon peppermint extract Sour Cream Topping: 1¼ cups sour cream ⅓ cup sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Garnish: Chopped peppermint candies and chocolate chunks. Heat oven to 325 degrees F. Put paper liners in 24 muffin cups. Put a chocolate wafer cookie in each muffin cup. Filling: Beat cream cheese, sugar, and cornstarch in a large bowl until smooth. Beat in eggs one at a time, just until blended. Fold in sour cream and vanilla. Divide batter between two bowls. Mix melted chocolate into one bowl. Stir crushed peppermint candies and extract into the other bowl of batter. Put a spoonful of chocolate filling into the bottom of each muffin cup over crust. Carefully smooth until even with a small knife. Spoon peppermint filling over chocolate layer to cover until the cups are almost full. Smooth with knife as before. Bake 18–20 minutes, being careful to not overbake.

Oil-Free Sautéed Almonds 1 6-ounce bag sliced almonds ⅛ teaspoon salt 1 ½ tablespoons maple syrup Cook just the almonds in a skillet over medium-high heat until slightly brown. Stir in the salt and cook until the almonds are fully brown. Stir in the maple syrup—and keep stirring, as it will start to bubble and can burn quickly. Pour the almonds on a plate to cool. Note: This recipe also works with chopped pecans. Note: Add ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper for some kick—or a lot more for a real punch.

For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

Frankincense and Myrrh Lotion This homemade body lotion made from a mixture of frankincense and myrrh is a fantastic recipe. Not only does it alleviate anxiety symptoms but it also hydrates the skin with essential nutrients and vitamins. Ingredients ¼ cup of olive oil ¼ cup of coconut oil ¼ cup of beeswax ¼ cup of shea butter 2 tablespoons of vitamin E 20 drops of frankincense essential oil 20 drops of myrrh essential oil Plastic lotion dispenser bottles Directions Combine shea butter, beeswax, coconut oil and olive oil in a bowl. Add some water to a large saucepan and heat over a medium temperature until the water starts to boil. Place the bowl into the saucepan and heat the ingredients at the same time as stirring the mixture. Remove the bowl from the stove and place it in the fridge for an hour until it becomes solid. Remove the mixture from the fridge and use an electric hand mixer to whisk the ingredients until fluffy. Combine the vitamin E and the essential oils and continue to mix. Add to the plastic lotion dispenser bottles and store in a cool place. Lavender Soap Homemade Bar This homemade bar of lavender soap not only provides relief from anxiety but is also extremely beneficial for the skin. It’s simple to make, free from chemicals and easy on the pocket. Ingredients 20-30 drops of lavender essential oil Soap base 3 drops of vitamin E Decorative soap mold or oval bar molds Directions Add water to a large pan and heat it over a medium temperature until it starts to boil. Add the soap base to a glass bowl and then place the bowl in the saucepan until the base has melted. Take the bowl out of the saucepan and allow it to cool down. Add the vitamin E and the lavender and stir together thoroughly. Transfer the mixture into a soap mold and allow it to cool down and become completely solid before removing it from the soap mold. Store the soap at room temperature.

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Gluten-Free Chocolate Cupcakes with Ganache Frosting 2 cups blanched almond flour ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon baking soda 1 cup sugar 2 large eggs 1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract Preheat oven to 350. Line cupcake pan with paper liners. In a large bowl, mix together almond flour, cocoa powder, salt, and baking soda. In a medium-sized bowl, combine sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry mixture until thoroughly combined. Scoop the batter evenly into paper liners. Bake 20 to 25 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cupcake comes out clean. Let cool before frosting. Makes 24. Ganache Frosting ¾ cup heavy cream 8 ounces dark chocolate chips 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Pinch of sea salt In a medium saucepan, bring the cream to a boil then remove it from the heat. Stir in the chocolate until it is melted and smooth, then stir in the vanilla extract and salt. Let the ganache stand at room temperature for 5 minutes, then move to the refrigerator and chill until the ganache thickens and becomes shiny and spreadable. This could take anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes, depending on the temperature of your refrigerator. Garnish idea: Pomegranate seeds or a chocolate dipped strawberry.