Hyne Quotes

You can serve high tea around the dining room table, but afternoon tea is more of a living room occasion, with everything brought in on a tray or a cart.

A Michigander can be every bit as prickly as a New Yorker, just not out loud. The Midwesterner’s credo: keep it to yourself.

The hour [...] can be anywhere between three and six o'clock in the afternoon. The general rule is that the earlier tea is served, the lighter the refreshments. At three, tea is usually a snack -- dainty finger sandwiches, petits fours, fresh strawberrries; at six, it can be a meal -- or "high" tea -- with sausage rolls, salads, and trifle.

They listened to the Beatles for most of the journey, and Hynes explained to Gackowska why Abbey Road was the band’s best record, and how Sgt. Pepper’s wasn’t really a concept album, no matter what anyone claimed to the contrary. Then he had to explain to Gackowska what a concept album was, and a B side, until pretty soon he felt about a hundred years old and was tempted to check himself into a nursing home.

Plotting is an organic, and wildly inefficient process of trial and error.

Indeed, it was not unusual for the dais to be littered with panties and boxer shorts after one of Branwell's talks at the MLA.

She submitted patiently to all the handling of Hynes, as if she knew there were no use making any protest – but each day, just before four o’clock in the afternoon, something waked in her, and the training of a lifetime called her. She would tear against the wires of her pen or dash at the fence and try to leap it. She had not forgotten.

If Christians are always fighting each other,' I say, 'why do they always say, “Peace be with you”?

A spark embedded in a body meant for the use of others, shining for no one in the dark.

A slave digs his own pit and stands in it, peering over the edge at everyone else's feet and counting himself lucky whenever they don't step on him. That's what Aristotle thought, anyway.

If he needed an answer about how much he'd changed, that provided it. He didn't want Fatima Hynes or any other nameless female with vacant eyes and an ample bosom. He didn't want anyone else, ever. He wanted Evelyn Marie Ruddick—and he'd be damned if he was going to let Neckcloth Alvington have her without a fight. And if there was one thing he knew how to do better than anyone else in London, it was how to fight dirty

An advertising man understands even more viscerally than an academic that the world is made of discourse, Pescecane argued; he understands in his bones that true power resides in the infinite manipulability of signs.

As Amani frantically diced the ingredients for her Pan seared Mahi-Mahi with Mango Salsa, she recalled her first meeting with him during a class he taught on the presentation of food and organization the previous year. Amani had been immediately drawn to the tall, serious Californian, and not just because of his looks. With dark wavy hair, strong features and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen short of Paul Newman’s, David Spencer was everything Amani admired in a man, and then some. http://omadisonpress.com/romance/all-...

Perhaps what Aristotle and Seneca were saying boils down to the same infinite regress, a pair of facing mirrors in which my own image recedes into the distance, until I dissolve in the darkness: I do what I'm told because I'm a slave, and I'm a slave because I do what I'm told.

But once violence has been expended and empire has taken some person, place, or thing as its own, it gives that person, place, or thing a new name and erases the old one. This new name also erases the history of that person, place, or thing, as if everything that came before never happened.

As a first-generation Ethiopian immigrant, Sheba had lived in Charleston since she turned five years of age. She was Ethiopian by birth, but American by preference. She had worked hard, studied and sacrificed plenty to get where she was today, no easy feat for someone who had just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday. According to her friends, Sheba was a beauty, though when she looked in the mirror, she saw inevitable flaws; her cheekbones were too pronounced, her mouth a little too wide, her nose with that perturbing slant to it. Still, she accepted compliments gratefully, especially from her roommate, Janelle. Janelle was the true beauty, Sheba thought, with dark ebony skin so smooth that she could be a walking ad for Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate.

... the Romans created a wasteland and called it a peace. The entire empire is a mosaic of rape and murder and bastardy and forced labour, of which I am only one insignificant, dull-coloured fragment, off to the side, at the very edge. Insignificant, perhaps, but also representative. I, too, am a product of rape, murder, bastardy, and forced labour. I am the empire in a nutshell.

The only distinguishing characteristic of a literature professor at the millennium was that he or she wrote about other people's writing. Apart from that, the writing he wrote about didn't even need to be literature, or writing about literature, or even writing about writing about literature. He needed theory...In the unflickering glare, at the center of a severe perspective, Nelson suddenly felt the visceral truth of the world as text; he apperceived the fundamentally linguistic nature of reality. Everything was text, at every level of existence, all the way up from quarks to queer theory. Words arranged in lines; lines arrayed on pages; pages pressed together, bound, and trimmed in books; books arranged cover to cover along a shelf like the words in a line of text; shelves stacked one atop the other like lines of text on a page; rows of shelves pressed together, with just the barest passage for the reader, like the pages of a book.

Meet Brian Hynes, a skilled Sr Process Manager based in Nashua, NH. He is a specialist in economics and finance, with a deep understanding of market dynamics and financial analysis. Brian's chosen career path in finance stems from his interest in leveraging economic principles to make informed investment decisions. His goal is to build a successful career in the finance industry, utilizing his expertise to optimize financial strategies and drive business growth.

I live in a library now, surrounded by the greatest works of literature in the world, but I’m here to tell you, reader, literature is not the foundation of civilization. The foundation of civilization is hot water. Civilization is plumbing.

Suddenly self-conscious, the pointer a withered tulip, as if under a spell.

Trust me, little storm. If I fucked you, you'd know. You'd be feeling me for days. An experience you'd never forget.

Although there is general agreement that the 'Goldstein' book and the Appendix both stem from the same satiric impulse, the degree of Orwell's success in combining satire and naturalism remains a subject of debate. Crick may be right to leave the matter open: 'Perhaps [Orwell] had not solved the structural problem of integrating these two things into the narrative, or perhaps their unintegrated documentary appearance was fully deliberate.' But, if the 'documentary appearance' was deliberate, what did Orwell hope to achieve? Although Samuel Hynes, among others, has rightly noted the dependence of Orwell's imagination on 'the sense of recorded fact,' I cannot agree with him that the 'Goldstein' book and the Appendix serve 'as a kind of make-believe documentation' intended to 'make the world more horrible by verifying it.' On the contrary, I would suggest that the real horror of the 'Goldstein' book is not that it verifies the world of the novel but that it fails to verify any world. Does Big Brother exist? Does Goldstein exist? Does the Brotherhood exist? Did the Party write the 'Goldstein' book? Winston cannot get straight answers to his questions, and neither can the reader.

Just the sound of her breathing then, the feel of it against his neck, and he wonders how it could be that yesterday he felt so young but now feels like a man and it occurs to him that something begins at the same time something ends, so he’ll always be in motion, moving towards and away from things.

The truth is, I will never know, and neither will you. No touching final reunion will ever be performed in this play. Nothing will be revealed or redeemed or healed. The story will simply stop.

I’d rather have a black-market king, who loves me with the untamable fury of Hell, than a devil who dresses in white, regards me below his career, and flashes his bewitching smile to hide his blackened soul.

She plucks out three of them and hands them to Focaria, who grasps them in a pair of tongs, turns to the stove, and dips them into the pot of boiling water.

You’re no one’s passenger, Ivy. You’re the destination.

I’m twenty-two, need to be married before my birthday in December.” “Thirty-one,” I say with a chuckle, swirling the ice in my tumbler. “And our nuptials will transpire within the week.

She’s not a client, and we all agreed this was the direction things needed to go.

I’m going to marry her, doubling our reward.

Gage steers clear of her like she’s a plague. That’s going to take some time. His life disintegrated at the hands of the one person he trusted to be his future. She buried his trust in humanity, especially women, right along with his gentle-hearted corpse.

Every now and then, Wells gets a wild hair up his ass and throws us into full-on SEALs training. The man is a machine, always has been—fast, agile, matchless stamina. Unbeatable. On mornings like this, I generally assume his goal is twofold: Remind us how age hasn’t touched him—he’s still the best. And get one of us to puke. Won’t be me, asshole.

She’s a lot to rein in,” I muse.

he definitely wants me. To fuck me. Tame me. Own me.

Celeste Carver and I would be a disaster. Explosive. In every imaginable way. Images of her detonating assail me—her whimpers and moans and bellows of ecstasy, the feel of her trembling in my arms, both of us accelerating until we crash in a unified shattering. Sweaty. Spent. Wrecked.

The girl knows how to accentuate her best features. That’s for sure. And always in the classiest way—nothing about her ever screams trying too hard. It’s a poise that says take it or leave it, but you’ll regret leaving. Maybe that’s just my head. See? Fucked. Up.

While I’m enchanted by this softer side of her, there’s still that matter of her playing me in the elevator to resolve. Payback’s a bitch, Ace.

You appeal to the broken girl inside me, not the woman I’m meant to be.

By the end of the night, I’ll be the taste on your lips, the beating in your chest, the goddamn breath in your lungs. The goodbye you can’t bear.

I see you, Carver.” And everything freezes—the house stills, my mind quiets, the firelight drenches him in a butterscotch intimacy, and I’m seen by the only person I’ve ever truly needed to see me.

Prepare to be wrecked.

Once I’m beyond the threshold, I kick the door shut, spank her ass, and comply by dropping her onto my bed. Where she fucking belongs. “There. That’s better. Something’s been missing.

It’s the one thing all of us understand. The guy is no saint himself—none of our contacts are. But no matter how many unspeakable things we’ve done, we all respect the code of family. Nothing else matters if they’re involved.

Some families sing Christmas carols and bicker over the last piece of pie. We make enough pie for everyone to have their own, fight over it anyway, and risk our lives for each other on a random Monday. She’s not growing up in a Hallmark movie. I want her to know that I love her enough to do more than just bake the damn pie. That my love isn’t afraid of scary places.

He said he’s like the sunrise. No matter how dark it gets, he’ll always show up.

That’s a far different world from the one you’re a part of now.” She swirls her wine and shrugs one shoulder. “It was the wild underbelly of this waxy life—an escape from a life I never wanted. But I don’t belong there anymore. Like I said, brokenness is the beginning. And for me, it was the catalyst to my acceptance. Knowing my place.” “And what place is that, Ace?” Her voice falls hollow again, like she’s somewhere else. “To be the one who smothers the flames and stops the bleeding.

If you’re looking at that world as an option, then wake up. Because choosing it means inescapable pain. Death surrounds them in all they do.

To all the good girls with fire in their bones, who drift into fantasies of being a queen by day and a slut by night. This one’s for you. Burn, girl. Burn.

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. —Anna Akhmatova, You Will Hear Thunder

To those who drown in silence but swim against the current for others. I see you.

Having four guards is a bit overkill, but my father has been ridiculously overprotective this past year, ever since he discovered that Ivy and her husband, Wells, are two of the five leaders for KORT—the country’s most powerful cabal. It’s the same cabal that The Order—the secret society my father is a member of—serves, so his paranoia shouldn’t be newfound. It was an eye-opening period for us both. Up until then, I believed my father simply owned a successful home-development business. He does, but it’s also a front for shady dealings, whatever they may be.

Cee, with the right placement, a pawn gets promoted to a queen. And you know who calls checkmate more than anyone? The queen. You hold all the power, squirt. You just don’t know it.” My older brother, Ben, gifted me that perspective when I was fifteen.

That’s the truth, beautiful girl. It’s like wearing an elegant evening gown that only hints at your assets, as is expected from a cultivated lady, all the while going pantyless underneath. Never let them see, always keep them guessing, and play their game. When you finally reveal what you’re hiding beneath that plastic veneer they’ve forced you to craft, you’ll render them speechless long enough to seize it all.

Wells’s eyes are firmly planted on his wife in utter adoration, like always. It makes my insides twist with a longing I never felt until I saw them together last July. Their love is hard to look away from.

You all deserve to have an epic love.

like it or not, the pretentious temptress, who incites me in every interaction, has taken up residence in my head, and I’m unwilling to invite anyone to join us.

I suppose that’s always been my problem though. Eagerness to tame the wild ones.

My dress certainly displays my assets. And he took note of every single one. But when I was on that staircase, he wasn’t only regarding my sultry bends. He was entangling my soul, reeling it in for closer examination. Trying to dissect me in a way I’ve never experienced, which was unsettling. Disconcerting.

A last hurrah.” A last hurrah. I should love that answer. No strings. One night of sex with the vixen I’ve been dreaming about for seven fucking months.

Of course, it isn’t lost on me that about the time I decided I wanted Celeste to be mine, she declared that I could never be her endgame. It’s a familiar wounding—albeit not one I’ve faced in well over a decade—but her wielding that machete of candor was far more gutting than I had been prepared for.

I can’t promise you a traditional fairy tale, baby. Ivy calls it a crimson-stained fantasy. There’s always threats and danger and the question of how many tomorrows we’ll have. We’ve all accepted it because we have each other, and today is worth it. This is who we are.

And acting as though I don’t exist. Now that I understand her better, I know it isn’t a snub. It’s her way of swallowing the future she’s choking on and avoiding the one she craves.

Ben was your brother’s name.” I think I probably knew that, saw it at some point in the Carver files, but it didn’t register until now. “Benjamin Caden Carver,” she confirms. “The Carver darling who was expected to be president someday. Charisma. Charm. A genius. A rising law associate. Driven. And real. That’s what made him better than all the rest. He was so damn real.

If she was sixteen when he died, he was a lot older than her. They have the same eyes. “It’s his birthday,” I say. And she celebrated with Ivy all day, showering her with nothing but joy.

Brian Hynes, based in Nashua, NH, leverages a decade of experience to navigate complex financial terrains with finesse. He excels in evaluating investment opportunities and pioneering budget strategies, delivering substantial savings for corporate clients. Brian's approachable and diligent demeanor offers invaluable insights, shedding light on businesses' future paths to success.

He says all the right things in his deep voice, regards me in all the right ways. But I feel nothing. No spark. No tingle. No heat. No prickle licking up my spine when our skin grazes against one another. He’ll be numbness, adorned in a gorgeous package.

And isn’t one of those protocols to never get involved with a client?

It’s worse. She’s the job. Her father is our fucking client. And, furthermore”—he throws out his arms—“we agreed she needed to be brought into our inner circle. But everything tonight suggests you’re going to be coming into her inner circle.

We’re erasers.” “Erasers? What’s that?” “If someone needs to disappear—have their identity erased—we make it happen.

This girl holds more power over me than I’d like, which needs to be fixed, but fuck if that sass of hers doesn’t undo me.

The women who captivate men like us aren’t the pieces of ass you generally convince to drop their panties. They’re the pains in the ass—independent, doing-fine-without-you, crawl-under-your-skin women who fuck with your head.” “Yeah,” Ty interjects with a chuckle. “You’re so fucked, man.

Eat the forbidden fruit or ignore the slithering snake licking at your neck. Never look back or turn to salt. Obey the king’s absurd edict or be devoured by lions for your convictions. No wonder children harbor so much anxiety—that was just first grade in Catholic school.

It’s like Liam Graves is on the other side of a pendulum I’m involuntarily attached to. My focus always swings to him.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Pursuing Liam is like carving granite—a block of stone that is strong, beautiful, and durable. Perfect for countertops, floors, building veneer. Headstones. Not what you choose for the finer, more delicate areas of life that require the finesse of intricate sculpting. My family would never approve.

Things tightly held are generally those with the greatest value.

he saw the best in even the most depraved

Your life is as meaningful as you believe it to be,

there is more to that brown-eyed vixen who incites me.

Ty handles the pro bono work in their erasing business, which is separate from KORT. While they earn millions erasing identities for nefarious persons on the run, they also hide abuse victims for free.

I like that you make me feel something, Liam. It doesn’t matter what the emotion is. It’s more than I ever feel.

Her nails scrape into my scalp, her back bowed in pleasure, but that doesn’t prevent her from dropping a bomb. “This doesn’t change my plans. You know I still have to date those other guys, right?” Not even debatable. I sink my teeth into her nipple, my clipped, “Yep,” met with her sultry moan. “With the intent of marriage,” she tacks on, breathless. Never gonna happen. “Uh-huh.

Nursing your own grief or heartache doesn’t negate the joy you feel for another’s blessings.

His spicy cedarwood scent clings to me like a wetsuit, dragging me under to depths I’m not prepared to endure. Weightless. Senses heightened. Everything in sharp focus. I can’t shake him off. I’m immersed in all he is even though he’s far above the surface. He’s with me. I can smell him. Feel him. Taste him.

A dark angel,” he corrects, ashing the cigarette. He passes it to me as his plume of smoke billows out into the night. “They were cast out. I was three when my mother died. Between three and seventeen, I lived in nineteen foster homes, not counting temporary placements. At seventeen, I got signed off to join the Navy. Two years in, I met Wells. He was—don’t ever fucking repeat this to him—he was like a goddamn machine.

A life without risk is flatlining, squirt. Don’t let ambitions or the allure of luxury and prestige rob you of the thrill a single moment can deliver. That’s all life really is—a string of moments. Make ’em good.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to fit. She’s spent hers embracing the ways she didn’t. My hero.

I’m not too proud to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re in me now, Ace.

It’s only hard because you want exactly what I do. Your goals belong to other people. Whether you or your family admit it or not, you were born into this life.” You belong with me. Mine.

This man feeds my wildest fantasies—taboo desires I never felt safe enough to ask for.

You deserve every bit of happiness we can scrounge up in this fucked-up life. The only one who has never thought that is you.

makes me think of chess. I won the Ohio State Chess Championship when I was fifteen. My greatest weapon was that no one feared me.

On the flip side, if someone is missing, we find them.” “So, you erase people and find people who’ve been erased?” I repeat, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s telling me, all that it would entail.

Ivanna Kingston takes a proper dress and corrupts it into becoming the eighth deadly sin.

That dress is exquisite. Tasteful. Elegant.” Threading my fingers into her hair, I slide my cheek against hers, speaking low into her ear. “But you in it is unholy.

We don’t contract kill. That’s a whole different racket. Our kills are only done when the completion of the mission requires it or if the client’s safety demands it.

He’ll be my husband in a little more than twenty-four hours. I might as well reap every benefit he has to offer. And his body is irrefutably one of those benefits.

There is no escaping choices. They swirl around us, lurking inside life lessons and simple mundane actions alike. Empowering? Sometimes. Exhausting? Definitely.

CELESTE

I’ve got you. But you need to trust me.” I’m sure he simply means that in regard to our evening sexcapade, but it twists something inside me. I’m not in the habit of trusting people. But with Liam, on some level, I think I’ve trusted him for a while. Even when he was a jerk, he felt like a shield.