Jeans Pant Quotes

As for this," Magnus said sliding the stele into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter." - 219

The reason I want you to put a shirt on is, well, because, um..." "You've never seen a guy with his shirt off?" "Ha, ha. Very funny. Believe me, you don't have anything I haven't seen before." "Wanna bet?" he says, then moves his hands to the button on his jeans and pops it open. Isabel walks in at that exact moment. "Whoa, Alex. Please keep your pants on.

I'm going to enjoy every second, and I'm going to know I'm enjoying it while I'm enjoying it. Most people don't live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not.

So would you like to try on some clothes?" Beth nodded at what was in her arms. "I don't have many dresses but Fritz can get you some." You know what?" Marissa eyed the blue jeans the queen had on. "I've never worn a pair of pants before." I've got two pairs here if you want to try them out." Well, wasn't this a night for firsts. Sex. Arson. Pants.

Isabelle took out her invitation and waved it like a white flag. "I have an invitation. These"—she indicated the rest of the group with a grand wave of her arm—"are my friends." Magnus plucked the invitation out of her hand and looked at it with fastidious distaste. "I must have been drunk," he said. He threw the door open. "Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests." Jace edged into the doorway, sizing up Magnus with his eyes. "Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?" "Even then." Magnus's hand shot out, so fast it was barely a blur. He plucked the stele out of Jace's hand—Clary hadn't even realized he was holding it—and held it up. Jace looked faintly abashed. "As for this," Magnus said, sliding it into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter.

It's not your bra. It's our bra and I want it off." I slip it off her, pulling her against me as I rub my hands down the length of her back, then around to the button on the front of her jeans. "And I want to take off our pants." She grins against my lips and slowly nods. "Okay, but hurry," she whispers. "I can be quick," I assure her. "But I'll never hurry.

Dr. Pervy-Pants Dr. Depravity Dr. Ain't-Puttin'-Out Dr. Bossy-as-Fuck Dr. Obsessive-Compulsive Dr. Kinkybones Dr. Deviant Dr. Oh-So-Proper-I-Iron-My-Jeans Dr. Lick-My-Boots Dr. Smug-as-Shit Dr. Love-Me-Love-My-Butt-Nozzle Dr. Damn-Your-Dick-is-Motherfucking-Big Dr. Full-of-Shit Dr. Smack-a-Lot Dr. Ruined-Me-For-Anyone-Else

That’s right, honey, state your claim on Mr. Yummy Pants. I’d do the same if I were you.” A grin ticked at my mouth. I swept my gaze over the muscled roundness of Bones’s ass, which his black jeans only highlighted. Then I gazed at the snug fit of the front that had nothing to do with the cut of the denim. Finally, I met Tyler’s chocolate-colored eyes and winked back.

I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but every woman knew: Don't open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don't stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don't turn to look. Don't go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night. I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control. Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and not man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles. There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from.

That's a wonderful side effect of leather pants: when you pee yourself in them, they're more forgiving than jeans.

Once and for all the idea of glorious victories won by the glorious army must be wiped out Neither side is glorious On either side they're just frightened men messing their pants and they all want the same thing Not to lie under the earth but to walk upon it without crutches (Roux, act 1, scene 19)

All of them had been give a makeover. Leo was wearing pinstriped pants, black leather shoes, a white collarless shirt with suspenders, and his tool belt, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and a porkpie hat. “God, Leo.” Piper tried not to laugh. “I think my dad wore that to his last premiere, minus the tool belt.” “Hey, shut up!” “I think he looks good,” said Coach Hedge. “’Course, I look better.” The satyr was a pastel nightmare. Aphrodite had given him a baggy canary yellow zoot suit with two-tone shoes that fit over his hooves. He had a matching yellow broad-brimmed hat, a rose-colored shirt, a baby blue tie, and a blue carnation in his lapel, which Hedge sniffed and then ate. “Well,” Jason said, “at least your mom overlooked me.” Piper knew that wasn’t exactly true. Looking at him, her heart did a little tap dance. Jason was dressed simply in jeans and a clean purple T-shirt, like he’d worn at the Grand Canyon. He had new track shoes on, and his hair was newly trimmed. His eyes were the same color as the sky. Aphrodite’s message was clear: This one needs no improvement. And Piper agreed.

Where's my cell phone?" I ask. "And please put a shirt on." He reaches down and grabs my phone off the floor. "Why?" "The reason I need my cell," I say as I take it from him, "is to call a cab and the reason I want you to put a shirt on is, well, because, urn . . ." "You've never seen a guy with his shirt off?" "Ha, ha. Very funny. Believe me, you don't have anything I haven't seen before." "Wanna bet?" he says, then moves his hands to the button on his jeans and pops it open. Isabel walks in at that exact moment. "Whoa, Alex. Please keep your pants on.

An hour later, a nameless, cold-faced man returned with a tray of fresh pasta, warm bread, and a few bags of brand new comfort clothes: yoga pants, tees, a few sports bras, and...pink thong underwear? Well, of course. Wouldn't want to be held prisoner and have panty lines.

It was their mothers, long ago. Tibby noted with joy that all four of them were wearing jeans.

Who lives in a pineapple under your jeans?" He sang softly. "SpongeBob booty pants!" He ended his little song with a soft slap to my rear.

I felt my hand curl into a fist. Felt my elbow draw back. Felt my arm dart forward, my knuckles crack into Cole's jaw. I couldn't stop myself. His head whipped to the side, and blood leaked from a cut in his lip. Behind me, gasps of shock abounded. "I'm recovered," I said. "Believe me now?" Those violet eyes slitted when they found me. "Assault and battery is illegal." "So have me arrested." He closed what little distance there was between us. Suddenly I could feel his warmth of his breath caressing my skin. "How about I put you over my lap and spank you instead?" "How about I knee your balls into your throat?" "If you're going to play with that particular area, I'd rather you use your hands." "My hands aren't going near that area ever again." A pause. Then, "I bet I could change your mind," he whispered huskily. "I bet I could bash yours." I drew back another fist, but he was ready and caught me midswing. His pupils dilated, a sign of arousal. Another sign: he began to pant. He was acting like I'd tried to unbuckle his jeans rather than smack fire out of him. "Hit me again," he said, still using the same whispered tone, "and I'll take it as an invitation." I was just as bad. I trembled with longing I couldn't control and struggled to catch my breath. "An invitation to do what?" His grip loosened, his fingers rubbing my skin. A caress, not a warning. "I guess we'll find out together.

Was definitely throwing out those fuckin' jeans of hers tommorrow. Doesn't matter how fuckable a woman looks in a pair of pants if you can't get them off when it is time to tap ass.

You got your designer blue jeans, your designer shoes, your designer luggage. Now Miss Fancy Pants got her some designer pussy.

I slip her shirt over her head and she tries to cover herself, but I move her arms out of the way and kiss up her neck while I talk about all the things that are no longer just mine. 'Will, stop.' She laughs and attempts to pull my hands away from her bra. 'You can't take off my bra, we're in our driveway. What if they come outside?' 'It's dark,' I whisper. 'And it's not your bra. It's our bra and I want it off.' I slip it off her, pulling her against me as I rub my hands down the length of her back, then around to the button on the front of her jeans. 'And I want to take off our pants.

They don't understand that it's hard to be her, to be shopping with them. Like when Dana had pointed out a pair of jeans that Jennifer HAD to try, before darting into another section. Skinny girls can walk by a table full of pants, piled in high stacks, and peel a pair off the top. Easy. Effortless. But not girls like Jennifer.

Her shoes squished with the movement and, as she peered uncomprehendingly down at them, a tadpole emerged from the leg of her jeans and flopped about on the ground. "Eew!" She pointed a shaking finger at it. "A tadpole. I had a tadpole in my pants!" "Lucky tadpole," he murmured.

Larry had brought me blue jeans, a red polo shirt, jogging socks, my white Nikes, an extra cross from my suitcase, the silver knives, the Firestar complete with inner pants holster, and the Browning and its shoulder holster. He'd forgotten a bra, but hey, except for that it was perfect.

There was one dude in a jeans jacket who I swear to God shit in his pants when all of a sudden I was inches away from his face playing drums in the air.

He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, fully aware of her audience's appreciative gaze. He felt a little ridiculous about it, but maybe he did it slowly. Maybe he flexed his abs and biceps as he zipped his fly and buttoned his pants. Because really, putting on pants required a lot of muscle.

Kiss me," he growled. "I shouldn't—" "I. Don't. Give. A. Damn." Well hell. My lips touched his—barely. I pulled back and looked at him—unfamiliar, dangerous, and so exciting. I devoured his mouth without thinking. Don't think, just touch. I ran my fingers across his strong shoulders and down his arms. His skin felt hot under my hands, his body hard. He sucked in his abs so I could get into his pants, if I wanted to. I slid one hand over his stomach and under his jeans, touching his hard cock, smiling when he groaned.

What happens when I touch you, Kiera?" His tone, almost a growl, was getting as suggestive as his words [...] He ran a hand down his shirt, as he answered his own question. "Your pulse races, your breath quickens." He bit his lip and started simulating heavy breathing [...] "Your body trembles, your lips part, your eyes burn." He closed his eyes and exhaled with a soft groan, then reopened his eyes and suggestively inhaled through his teeth. [...] "Your body aches...everywhere." He closed his eyes again and exactly mimicked a low moan that I had made with him on several occasions. He tangled a hand back through his own hair, in a way that I had done time and again, and ran his other hand back up his chest, in a way that was only too familiar with me. [...] He swallowed and made a horribly enticing noise as he let his mouth fall open in a pant. "Oh...God...please..." He mimicked in a low groan, as his hands started running down his body, towards his jeans...

I was surprised he could do any amount of labor wearing the pants he had on. I don’t understand skinny jeans for men. Who wants to walk around with their balls in a vise?

I wish I had a boyfriend. I wish he lived in the wardrobe on a coat hanger. Whenever I wanted, I could get him out and he’d look at me the way boys do in films, as if I’m beautiful. He wouldn’t speak much, but he’d be breathing hard as he took off his leather jacket and unbuckled his jeans. He’d wear white pants and he’d be so gorgeous I’d almost faint. He’d take my clothes off too. He’d whisper, ‘Tessa, I love you. I really bloody love you. You’re beautiful’ – exactly those words – as he undressed me.

The fact that students passed him by in uniform and he was standing there in torn jeans and faded old concert T-shirt made me smile. The rebel in me could totally relate. I stopped in front of him. "They're not going to let you stay in school dressed like that. I got a huge lecture for wearing a black shirt the other day." He glanced my outfit, which didn't really diverge from my normal fashion, and arched an eyebrow. Black cargo pants, white tank, grey zip-up hoodie, with a blade strapped to my thigh and a dagger in my boot. "What? Pants are black. Shirt is white. Blade stays." I grinned wider. "Because I'm special.

Not being able to swipe into the subway when people are backing up behind you. Waiting for him at the bar. Leaving your purse open on a stool with a mess of bills visible. Mispronouncing the names while presenting French wines. Your clogs slipping on the waxed floors. The way your arms shoot out and you tense your face when you almost fall. Taking your job seriously. Watching the sex scene from Dirty Dancing on repeat and eating a box of gingersnaps for dinner on your day off. Forgetting your stripes, your work pants, your socks. Mentally mapping the bar for corners where you might catch him alone. Getting drunker faster than everyone else. Not knowing what foie gras is. Not knowing what you think about abortion. Not knowing what a feminist is. Not knowing who the mayor is. Throwing up between your feet on the subway stairs. On a Tuesday. Going back for thirds at family meal. Excruciating diarrhea in the employee bathroom. Hurting yourself when you hit your head on the low pipe. Refusing to leave the bar though it's over, completely over. Bleeding in every form. Beer stains on your shirt, grease stains on your jeans, stains in every form. Saying you know where something is when you have absolutely no idea where it is. At some point, I leveled out. Everything stopped being embarrassing.

I don't want to go back into that dressing room and take off my boots and my pants and start putting on jeans only to discover that the ones you brought me are all too tight, and then when I ask for the next size up, be informed that they're the biggest size you carry. I can't take that today. Seriously, I'll blow my head off. So look at me, look at my ass, look at my gut, take it all in, and then tell me honestly if you anticipate we're going to have a problem.

He stands up, slowly, and puts his hands on the zipper of his jeans, where I notice there's a bulge that looks like someone stuck a cucumber in his pants. That can be his...thing, can it? He undoes the button then his fly and then slides his jeans down. He's wearing those tight boxer-briefs things, like that guy in the Calvin Klein commercial, and I realize, it's definitely not a cucumber.

Mascara was dripping down her cheeks, splattering on her shirt. She backed away from him, eyes narrowing. Her shoes squished with the movement and, as she peered uncomprehendingly down at them, a tadpole emerged from the leg of her jeans and flopped about on the ground. "Eem!She pointed a shaking finger at it. "A tadpole. I had a tadpole in my pants!" "Lucky tadpole," he murmured. -Adam and Gabrielle

Sweet jeans," he panted, his fingers finding the bare flesh, feeling the proof of her desire. "I'm going to take you, Bayleigh. Lap up every bit of that sweet cream that's drenching my fingers. Do you know how I've wanted you for the past two weeks, driving myself crazy, imagining it was me fucking you instead of that damned vibrator you use ?

Hey,” Fitz said, leaning closer. “You trust me, don’t you?” Sophie’s traitorous heart still fluttered, despite her current annoyance. She did trust Fitz. Probably more than anyone. But having him keep secrets from her was seriously annoying. She was tempted to use her telepathy to steal the information straight from his head. But she’d broken that rule enough times to know the consequences definitely weren’t worth it. “What is with these clothes?” Biana interrupted, appearing out of thin air next to Keefe. Biana was a Vanisher, like her mother, though she was still getting used to the ability. Only one of her legs reappeared, and she had to hop up and down to get the other to show up. She wore a sweatshirt three sizes too big and faded, baggy jeans. “At least I get to wear my shoes,” she said, hitching up her pants to reveal purple flats with diamond-studded toes. “But why do we only have boy stuff?” “Because I’m a boy,” Fitz reminded her. “Besides, this isn’t a fashion contest.” “And if it was, I’d totally win. Right, Foster?” Keefe asked. Sophie actually would’ve given the prize to Fitz—his blue scarf worked perfectly with his dark hair and teal eyes. And his fitted gray coat made him look taller, with broader shoulders and— “Oh please.” Keefe shoved his way between them. “Fitz’s human clothes are a huge snoozefest. Check out what Dex and I found in Alvar’s closet!” They both unzipped their hoodies, revealing T-shirts with logos underneath. “I have no idea what this means, but it’s crazy awesome, right?” Keefe asked, pointing to the black and yellow oval on his shirt. “It’s from Batman,” Sophie said—then regretted the words. Of course Keefe demanded she explain the awesomeness of the Dark Knight. “I’m wearing this shirt forever, guys,” he decided. “Also, I want a Batmobile! Dex, can you make that happen?” Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if Dex actually could build one. As a Technopath, he worked miracles with technology. He’d made all kinds of cool gadgets for Sophie, including the lopsided ring she wore—a special panic switch that had saved her life during her fight with one of her kidnappers. “What’s my shirt from?” Dex asked, pointing to the logo with interlocking yellow W’s. Sophie didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the symbol for Wonder Woman.

My mother once made a quilt from dozens of pairs of second- and third- and fourth- hand blue jeans that she bought us at Goodwill, the Salvation Army, Value Village, and garage sales. My late sister studied my mother's denim quilt and said, 'That's a lot of pants. There's been a lot of ass in those pants. This is a blanket of asses.

I can’t use these things,” McKenna said, setting down her chopsticks. “Can I have a fork?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “But you are Chinese.” “Only my genes,” McKenna said. Ben looked at her pants. “Your jeans are from China?” McKenna shook her head. “Never mind.

My brother tried to sag his jeans until a stranger in the airport grabbed him by the ears and hitched his pants up to their proper place, sucking her teeth and shaking her head.

I understand, my lord. I…don’t wish to embarrass you again.” “Embarrass me? Jean, you misunderstand.” Maranzalla kicked idly at the toy rapier, and it clattered across the tiles of the rooftop. “Those prancing little pants-wetters come here to learn the colorful and gentlemanly art of fencing, with its many sporting limitations and its proscriptions against dishonorable engagements. “You, on the other hand,” he said as he turned to give Jean a firm but friendly poke in the center of his forehead, “you are going to learn how to kill men with a sword.

They are not faithful. Above all, they have a blemish, a wound, comparable to the bunch of grapes in Stilitano’s pants. In short, the greater my guilt in your eyes, the more whole, the more totally assumed, the greater will be my freedom. The more perfect my solitude and singleness.

His jean shorts started at his thighs and ended at his ankles. She had no idea why thugs liked this style of clothing, but it worked for her. It was hard to run with your pants falling down.

Hi there, cutie." Ash turned his head to find an extremely attractive college student by his side. With black curly hair, she was dressed in jeans and a tight green top that displayed her curves to perfection. "Hi." "You want to go inside for a drink? It's on me." Ash paused as he saw her past, present, and future simultaneously in his mind. Her name was Tracy Phillips. A political science major, she was going to end up at Harvard Med School and then be one of the leading researchers to help isolate a mutated genome that the human race didn't even know existed yet. The discovery of that genome would save the life of her youngest daughter and cause her daughter to go on to medical school herself. That daughter, with the help and guidance of her mother, would one day lobby for medical reforms that would change the way the medical world and governments treated health care. The two of them would shape generations of doctors and save thousands of lives by allowing people to have groundbreaking medical treatments that they wouldn't have otherwise been able to afford. And right now, all Tracy could think about was how cute his ass was in leather pants, and how much she'd like to peel them off him. In a few seconds, she'd head into the coffee shop and meet a waitress named Gina Torres. Gina's dream was to go to college herself to be a doctor and save the lives of the working poor who couldn't afford health care, but because of family problems she wasn't able to take classes this year. Still Gina would tell Tracy how she planned to go next year on a scholarship. Late tonight, after most of the college students were headed off, the two of them would be chatting about Gina's plans and dreams. And a month from now, Gina would be dead from a freak car accident that Tracy would see on the news. That one tragic event combined with the happenstance meeting tonight would lead Tracy to her destiny. In one instant, she'd realize how shallow her life had been, and she'd seek to change that and be more aware of the people around her and of their needs. Her youngest daughter would be named Gina Tory in honor of the Gina who was currently busy wiping down tables while she imagined a better life for everyone. So in effect, Gina would achieve her dream. By dying she'd save thousands of lives and she'd bring health care to those who couldn't afford it... The human race was an amazing thing. So few people ever realized just how many lives they inadvertently touched. How the right or wrong word spoken casually could empower or destroy another's life. If Ash were to accept Tracy's invitation for coffee, her destiny would be changed and she would end up working as a well-paid bank officer. She'd decide that marriage wasn't for her and go on to live her life with a partner and never have children. Everything would change. All the lives that would have been saved would be lost. And knowing the nuance of every word spoken and every gesture made was the heaviest of all the burdens Ash carried. Smiling gently, he shook his head. "Thanks for asking, but I have to head off. You have a good night." She gave him a hot once-over. "Okay, but if you change your mind, I'll be in here studying for the next few hours." Ash watched as she left him and entered the shop. She set her backpack down at a table and started unpacking her books. Sighing from exhaustion, Gina grabbed a glass of water and made her way over to her... And as he observed them through the painted glass, the two women struck up a conversation and set their destined futures into motion. His heart heavy, he glanced in the direction Cael had vanished and hated the future that awaited his friend. But it was Cael's destiny. His fate... "Imora thea mi savur," Ash whispered under his breath in Atlantean. God save me from love.

It isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones--I've discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in the now. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. It's like farming. You can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, I am going to have intensive living after this. I'm going to enjoy every second, and I'm going to know I'm enjoying it while I'm enjoying it. Most people don't live, they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not. I've decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses.

Wow,” Ryan said, taking the excedo in from his bare feet to his worn jeans and wrinkled T-shirt. “Protesting showers?” “Bite me.” Trance stood aside and let Ryan inside, despite his growled words. Ryan strode to the living room, went straight to Trance's DVD player, and inserted one of his sex discs. Trance stood in the entrance to the living room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. “I don't remember making a movie date with you.” “Keep your dick in your pants, Romeo.” Ryan pushed Play and stood back. “What do you know about that?” Trance's eyes shot wide, and he yanked himself off the wall. “I know you need an ass-kicking if you came to watch porn with me—oh, fuck me, that's you. Turn it off! I don't need to see that.” Ryan hit the Pause button. “Well?” “Well, what?” Trance shuddered. “Christ. I'm going to have to gouge out my eyes now.

She'd been taught that pants were inappropriate for girls because they were immodest [...] If women's pants were suggestive, men's were equally so, and they revealed a great deal more of what was underneath them. There was almost always a bulge--you couldn't help but notice it--and if the pants were tight, you could see practically everything. And the way men were always drawing attention to it! Touching and scratching themselves with total unselfconsciousness, as if they were alone and not in public. She'd even seen Aidan do it a few times, absent-mindedly. And yet no one accused men of being improper or of encouraging sin by reminding women of what hung between their legs. She looked at herself in the mirror, irritated suddenly by the double standard. This was how her body was made. The fact that it was well made and encased in a pair of blue jeans didn't mean she was inviting anything.

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms. Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food. The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory. If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture. If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers. When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature: brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water. If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret. Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed. Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm. Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him. White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures. Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil. There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape. Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds. Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man. If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside a white woman. Sometimes there are complications. An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture. There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven. For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way. In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Most people don't live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not. I've decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a Great Author.

I make my own pants because I don't wear jeans. They are like golf pants. I just like to put a little funk into everything.

A brick could be used to stop the tears. The inside of my jeans’ pockets look suspiciously like handkerchiefs. Here, let me take off my pants so you can blow your nose. 


Hi there, Harper. Are you excited about the new house and baby brother on the way?” It was Austin’s mother. She was a really, really, really ooold woman. Forty.

When you revealed that the Rani was in fact the Nagi," Charlie said, "the players collectively pissed their pants." "I'd rather they creamed their jeans.

who made her feel like she was being carried off on a ride filled with peril and lust and discovery and triumph and failures and crazy hot love

Most people don't live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not.

I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control.

Hello?” “Hey.” She sounded pissed. “What the hell happened to you tonight? Jess said the three of us were meeting for Valentine’s Day, but you never showed.” “Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.” “Bianca, you’ve been saying that a lot lately. Something is always coming up or you have plans or…” Suddenly, I felt Wesley’s breath hit the back of my neck. He’d gotten up from the floor and slid up behind me without me realizing it. His arms slid around my waist from behind, his fingers undoing the button of my jeans before I could stop him. “… and Jess had her hopes up that we’d do something fun…” I couldn’t focus on a word Casey was saying as Wesley’s hand slid beneath the waistband of my pants, his fingers moving lower and lower. I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t tell him to stop or show any reaction at all. If I did, Casey would know I wasn’t alone. But, God, I could feel my whole body turning into a ball of fire. Wesley was laughing against my neck, knowing he was driving me crazy. “… I just don’t understand what’s up with you.” I bit my lip to keep from gasping as Wesley’s fingers slipped to places that made my knees shake. I could feel the smirk on his lips as they moved to my ear. Asshole. He was trying to torture me. I couldn’t handle it much longer. “Bianca, are you there?” Wesley bit my earlobe and pushed my jeans even lower with his free hand as the other continued to make me shiver.

I always imagined that when I got pregnant it would be awesome and everything would go perfectly, and I’d pose for all those artfully naked, pregnant Demi Mooresque pictures and put them all over my house, and suddenly I’d have less cellulite, and then I’d go into labor while I was standing in line at the bank, but it would be okay because the baby would get stuck in my pants leg, so it totally wouldn’t slam into the floor. Thank God for skinny jeans with maternity panels; am I right?

I really liked the leer he sent my way even as he covered up the goods with those pants again. I turned around like I was looking for my shirt as I wiggled my ass into my jeans. He groaned. Yep, the straight guy was liking him some skinny boy butt.

I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control. Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and no man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles. There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.

Part of her wanted to comfort him, to tell him everything was going to be okay. But the rest of her just wanted to throw him to the ground and rip those jeans off him. Funny how she could be so jealous of a pair of pants. They covered the sinfully male body she longed to explore.

Where the hell are you, Cimil?" "Popping tags with Roberto," she replied. "Popping what?" he asked. Cimil growled. "You shame Macklemore - I'm at a thrift store. Where else would a goddess find a microwave for her potpie and a new pair of pink hot pants? And a Lee Majors doll! Score!

The largest culture shock was being Black in this atmosphere. We had white coaches, and they wanted the Black players to be the embodiment of who they were. They would tell us to wear our pants or shoes a certain way; this is what it meant to “be a man.” They thought our path to manhood was to be found in skinny jeans and a tucked-in shirt. (Although now Migos, getting “Bad and Boujee,” has all kinds of young players dressing like that by choice. Go figure.) But they never understood or tried to understand us. They projected their morals and thought processes onto young Black men without figuring out who we were. This struck me as a recipe for our continually being misunderstood, misguided, and misjudged, ingredients for disaster and rebellion, or at the very least for stress and self-destruction and the creation of the very PTSD that afflicts players when it’s all over.

He raised his arm, braced it on the doorframe … “What the hell do you want?” I glanced down at his jeans. “Take off your pants.” His brows pinched together. “Come again?” “I’d love to, but I’m going to need you to drop those jeans first.” I ducked under his arm and stepped into his home. “I trust you have a condom or two.

we began the process of learning how incredibly difficult it is to live with someone who is totally anal and slightly OCD (ahem…Victor). And someone who is perpetually accidentally hot-gluing herself to the carpet, and who is sort of mentally unstable, but in an “At-least-I-still-remember-how-pants-work” kind of way (cough…that’d be me). Victor remarked that comparing myself with the sometimes naked hermit next door wasn’t exactly a strong mental-wellness benchmark, especially since I often ended up pantsless myself. I raised my eyebrow at his seemingly seductive remark until I realized he was referring to the time he found me half naked because I’d just hot-glued my jeans to the carpet.

Natalie, if I was fixin’ to offer a proper thank-you,” he said, his Texas accent clear and present in his voice, “I’d kneel down right here and slide your jeans over your hips, down your damn-near perfect legs. I’d toss your pants across the room, followed by your panties. And then I’d lick you until the whole bar heard you come. Screaming. My. Name.

That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!” “Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!” “Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs.

I really identify with being a bookworm. I love reading, learning and books. I mean, I have 1000 books, all catalogued, already in my specially made library my dad made me. Books are my friends. I live in sweat pants and workout gear or t-shirt and jeans. I dress more for comfort than for fashion. I dress up if I have to go out but I can’t wait to come home and take off the makeup, heels and scratchy clothing.

I’ve stared at more male butt cracks (gluteal clefts) than I care to remember, whether it was just some guy bending over or gravity-defying pants that appear to hover like magic just above the anus without a belt. What I never hear is that men should seek out plastic surgeons to get their gluteal clefts sewn shut. I also can’t imagine a similar industry for men that profits from surgically trimming penises so they look better in tight jeans.

If women's pants were suggestive, men's were equally so, and they revealed a great deal more of what was underneath them. . . . And yet no one accused men of being improper or encouraging sin by reminding women of what hung between their legs. She looked at herself in the mirror, irritated suddenly by the double standard. This was how her body was made. The fact that it was well made and encased in a pair of blue jeans didn't mean she was inviting anything.

Jemma?” Ryder murmurs, his mouth hot against my skin. “Is this okay?” I tilt my head back against the wall, catching my breath. “Yeah,” I say, panting. “It’s definitely okay. Okay?” His forehead is resting on my shoulder now, his hands skimming my hips. “You sure? I don’t want to…I mean, I know things are kinda weird right now, but--” “Just kiss me, Ryder.” So he does. Does he ever. And, of course, that’s when the dang-blasted tornado siren decides to go off again. Seriously? Ryder steps back from me, looking a little disoriented. It takes us both a few seconds to get our bearings. “Storage room,” he says. “I’ll get the cats; you get the dogs?” I just nod, tugging my tank top back into place. Somehow it’d gotten pushed up, bunched around my bra. And Ryder…At some point he must have taken off his T-shirt, because he’s shirtless now, his jeans riding low on his hips. Focus, Jemma. The dogs. I’ve got to get the dogs.

How am I expected to believe that, Katja? I think you don’t wish to injure me at all. I don’t think you can.” She sauntered up to him. “Oh, vampire . . .” Her hand shot to the crotch of his pants and firmly clutched his sac. His eyes widened, and his feet shuffled to a wider stance that would keep his body from falling over. “I could geld you with one flick of my claws”—she tugged down, making him groan in pleasure and pain—“and I’d purr while doing it.” Her foreclaw sliced his jeans.

What's going on, miscreant?" Logan stood in the doorway, wearing his favorite frock coat as usual, but there were rips in his jeans. I lifted my eyebrows at his pants. "Holes?" He was impeccable about his fancy goth clothes. "Isabeau," he admitted ruefully. "The Hounds are a great tribe, but they have no sense of fashion." "So she tore your jeans?" He grinned. "No, she tore at a Hel-Blar. I just happened to get in the way." I grinned back at him. "Cool." Have I mentioned? Our girlfriends are fierce.

I grit my teeth as I try again to unzip my pants. The rope digs into my chafed wrists, and they scream in protest. It takes an agonizing amount of time, but I finally manage to unbutton my jeans, then drag them, the long johns beneath them, and my underwear all down. Pestilence’s impersonal gaze is on me, looking at my lady goods, which are on full display. Kill me now. He curls his lip. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace.

Any other orders?" "No,but an observation." "I'm fascinated." "No,you're irritated again,but I'll tell you anyway.Your mouth's more appealing naked as it is now than when it's painted as it was this morning." "So you don't approve of lipstick?" "Not at all.Some women need it.You don't, so it's just a distraction." Baffled,nearly amused,she shook her head. "Thanks so much for the advice." She started for the house-where she'd been going to change into something cooler in the first place. "Keeley." She stopped,but instead of turning merely glanced over her shoulder to where he stood,thumbs in the pockets of ancient jeans. "Yes?" "It's nothing.I just wanted to try out your name.I like it." "So do I.Isn't that handy?" This time he blew out a breath as she strode off-long legs in tight pants and tall boots. He lifted her soft drink, took a deep sip.Playing with fire with that one,Donnelly,he warned himself. Since he was damned sure singed fingers wouldn't be all he would get if he risked a touch,it was best to back away before the heat became too tempting to resist.

My car rounds the corner, riding the path to the body shop. When I spot Alex leaning on his motorcycle waiting for me in the parking lot, my pulse skips a beat. Oh, boy. I’m in trouble. Gone is his ever-present bandanna. Alex’s thick black hair rests on his forehead, daring to be swept back. Black pants and a black silk shirt have replaced his jeans and T-shirt. He looks like a young Mexican daredevil. I can’t help but smile as I park next to him. “Querida, you look like you’ve got a secret.” I do, I think as I step out of my car. You. “Dios mio. You look…preciosa.” I turn in a circle. “Is this dress okay?” “Come here,” he says, pulling me against him. “I don’t want to go to the wedding anymore. I’d rather have you all to myself.” “No way,” I say, running a slow finger along the side of his jaw. “You’re a tease.” I love this playful side of Alex. It makes me forget all about those demons. “I came to see a Latino wedding, and I expect to see one,” I tell him. “And here I thought you were comin’ to be with me.” “You’ve got a big ego, Fuentes.” “That’s not all I’ve got.

Oh my god.” He didn’t turn or say anything even though the frustration in Honor’s voice made it difficult. “My pants are stuck. I don’t think I can get them off without some help. Jesus, wet jeans are heavy and uncooperative.” A grin stretched across his face. “You want my help?” She let out a deep breath. “Yes, but you have to close your eyes.” “You going commando tonight?” he teased. “No, but…” He shut his eyes and turned. She took his outstretched hand and tugged him down to the ground. Once there, she helped him latch on to the bunched up denim at her thighs, he guessed. Do not peek, Bishop. Do not peek. “But?” “My panties are white and now see-through and there’s not a lot to them.” “Gotcha.” There wasn’t a red-blooded man alive who wouldn’t peek. “Let’s get these off you.” He pulled, she pushed and wiggled, and he got the pants to her feet in no time. “Thank you,” she said, a little out of breath. “No problem.” “Bryce!” “What?” Christ, she had sexy legs, and the barely-there material at their juncture left little to the imagination, so his thoughts leaped to about a dozen dirty scenarios. “Your eyes are open!

Goggles but no bathing suit?" she asked. Daniel blushed. "I guess that was stupid. But I was in a hurry, only thinking about what you would need to get the halo." He drove the paddle back into the water, propelling them more quickly than a speedboat. "You can swim in your underwear, right?" Now Luce blushed. Under normal circumstances, the question might have seemed thrilling, something they both would have giggled at. Not these nine days. She nodded. Eight days now. Daniel was deadly serious. Luce just swallowed hard and said, "Of course." The pair of green-gray spires grew larger, more detailed, and then they were upon them. They were tall and conical, made of rusted slats of copper. They had once been capped by small teardrop-shaped copper flags sculpted to look like they were rippling in the wind, but one weathered flag was pocked with holes, and the other had broken off completely. In the open water, the spires' protrusion was bizarre, suggesting a cavernous cathedral of the deep. Luce wondered how long ago the church had sunk, how deep it sat below. The thought of diving down there in ridiculous goggles and mom-bought underwear made her shudder. "This church must be huge," she said. She meant I don't think I can do this. I can't breathe underwater. How are we going to find one small halo sunk in the middle of the sea? "I can take you down as far as the chapel itself, but only that far. So long as you hold on to my hand." Daniel extended a warm hand to help Luce stand up in the gondola. "Breathing will not be a problem. But the church will still be sanctified, which means I'll need you to find the halo and bring it out to me." Daniel yanked his T-shirt off over his head, dropping it to the bench of the gondola. He stepped out of his pants quickly, perfectly balanced on the boat, then kicked off his tennis shoes. Luce watched, feeling something stir inside her, until she realized she was supposed to be stripping down, too. She kicked off her boots, tugged off her socks, stepped out of her jeans as modestly as she could. Daniel held her hand to help her balance; he was watching her but not the way she would have expected. He was worried about her, the goose bumps rising on her skin. He rubbed her arms when she slipped off he sweater and stood freezing in her sensible underwear n the gondola in the middle of the Venetian lagoon. Again she shivered, cold and fear an indecipherable mass inside her. But her voice sounded brave when she tugged the goggles, which pinched, down over her eyes and said, "Okay, let's swim." They held hands, just like they had the last time they'd swum together at Sword & Cross. As their feet lifted off the varnished floor of the gondola, Daniel's hand tugged her upward, higher than she ever could have jumped herself-and then they dove. Her body broke the surface of the sea, which wasn't as cold as she'd expected. In fact, the closer she swam beside Daniel, the warmer the wake around them grew. He was glowing.

Before he could say my name, I closed the space between us. Quickly, my lips moved against his. The mental and emotional emptiness took over instantly, but physically, I was more alert than ever. Wesley’s surprise didn’t last as long as it had before, and his hands were on me in seconds. My fingers tangled in his soft hair, and Wesley’s tongue darted into my mouth and became a new weapon in our war. Once again, my body took complete control of everything. Nothing existed at the corners of my mind; no irritating thoughts harassed me. Even the sounds of Wesley’s stereo, which had been playing some piano rock I didn’t recognize, faded away as my sense of touch heightened. I was fully conscious of Wesley’s hand as it slid up my torso and moved to cup my breast. With an effort, I pushed him away from me. His eyes were wide as he leaned back. “Please don’t slap me again,” he said. “Shut up.” I could have stopped there. I could have stood up and left the room. I could have let that kiss be the end of it. But I didn’t. The mind-numbing sensation I got from kissing him was so euphoric-such a high-that I couldn’t stand to give it up that fast. I might have hated Wesley Rush, but he held the key to my escape, and at that moment I wanted him… I needed him. Without speaking, without hesitating, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and threw it onto Wesley’s bedroom floor. He didn’t have a chance to say anything before I put my hands on his shoulders and shoved him onto his back. A second later, I was straddling him and we were kissing again. His fingers undid the clasp on my bra, and it joined my shirt on the floor. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel self-conscious or shy. I mean, he already knew I was the Duff, and it wasn’t like I had to impress him. I unbuttoned his shirt as he pulled the alligator clip from my hair and let the auburn waves fall around us. Casey had been right. Wesley had a great body. The skin pulled tight over his sculpted chest, and my hands drifted down his muscular arms with amazement. His lips moved to my neck, giving me a moment to breathe. I could only smell his cologne this close to him. As his mouth traveled down my shoulder, a thought pushed through the exhilaration. I wondered why he hadn’t shoved me-Duffy-away in disgust. Then again, I realized, Wesley wasn’t known for rejecting girls. And I was the one who should have been disgusted. But his mouth pressed into mine again, and that tiny, fleeting thought died. Acting on instinct, I pulled on Wesley’s lower lip with my teeth, and he moaned quietly. His hands moved over my ribs, sending chills up my spine. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Only once, as Wesley flipped me onto my back, did I seriously consider stopping. He looked down at me, and his skilled hand grasped the zipper on my jeans. My dormant brain stirred, and I asked myself if things had gone too far. I thought about pushing him away, ending it right where we were. But why would I stop now? What did I stand to lose? Yet what could I possibly gain? How would I feel about this in an hour… or sooner? Before I could come up with any answers, Wesley had my jeans and underwear off. He pulled a condom from his pocket (okay, now that I’m thinking about it, who keeps condoms in their pockets? Wallet, yes, but pocket? Pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?), and then his pants were on the floor, too. All of a sudden, we were having sex, and my thoughts were muted again.

Humming again, he takes the hose and washes away the soap, taking his time, touching me everywhere with admiring hands. “We should probably get out of here,” he says eventually. “Yeah.” The water shuts off, and Wes grabs both towels off the rack where they wait. He ties one around his waist, then drops one over my head and begins to rub my hair dry. “I got it,” I say, lifting my heavy arms to do the work. “Could you see what Blake left me for clothes?” “He brought flannel pants, so I brought your jeans this morning. Hang on.” Wes dries himself hastily and climbs back into his boxers. I hear him thumping around in the room, jumping into his clothes. He returns with underwear and jeans for me. “Stand up, babe.

That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!” “Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!” “Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?” “Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione. “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!” “Why hide me, though?” asked Ron. “You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?” “But what about your mum and dad?” “They’re in Australia,” said Hermione. “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.” “You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed. “Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.” She beamed, but became solemn at once. “What about Luna?” “Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive--” began Ron. “Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!” “Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though…Loads don’t…” “She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.” “I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if--” “--if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” said Ron.

But what really won me over was his butt. What finally made it impossible for me not to like the man was how right out there on the Adventist basepaths, right in front of eighty or ninety of the kind of pious adult spectators who spent their every Sabbath if not their entire lives trying to forget the existence of things like butts, Beal's buns were trying to light a fire by friction inside his jeans; they were gyrating like a washing machine with its load off balance; they were thrashing against his pants like two big halibut against the bottom of a boat. And the wonderful thing, the amazing thing, was how once his older audience got over the shock of it, they began to look amused at, then fascinated by, and finally downright grateful toward his writhing reminder that yes, buns did exist, and yes, every one of us owned not one but two of the things, and yes, like the God who created them in His Image, they did indeed move in mysterious ways.

Dear Kenny, It’s the last day of camp and possibly the last time I will ever see you because we live so far apart. Remember on the second day, I was scared to do archery and you made a joke about minnows and it was so funny I nearly peed my pants? I stop reading. A joke about minnows? How funny could it have been? I was really homesick but you made me feel better. I think I might’ve left camp early if it hadn’t been for you, Kenny. So, thank you. Also you’re a really amazing swimmer and I like your laugh. I wish it had been me you kissed at the bonfire last night and not Blaire H. Take care, Kenny. Have a really good rest of the summer and a really good life. Love, Lara Jean I clutch the letter to my chest. This is the first love letter I ever wrote. I’m glad it came back to me. Though, I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if Kenny Donati got to know that he helped two people at camp that summer--the kid who almost drowned in the lake and twelve-year-old Lara Jean Song Covey.

Natasha, my boss at Ducat, was in her early thirties. She hired me on the spot when I came in for an interview the summer I finished school. I was twenty-two. I barely remember our conversation, but I know I wore a cream silk blouse, tight black jeans, flats—in case I was taller than Natasha, which I was by half an inch—and a huge green glass necklace that thudded against my chest so hard it actually gave me bruises when I ran down the subway stairs. I knew not to wear a dress or look too prim or feminine. That would only elicit patronizing contempt. Natasha wore the same kind of outfit every day—a YSL blazer and tight leather pants, no makeup. She was the kind of mysteriously ethnic woman who would blend in easily in almost any country. She could have been from Istanbul or Paris or Morocco or Moscow or New York or San Juan or even Phnom Penh in a certain light, depending on how she wore her hair. She spoke four languages fluently and had once been married to an Italian aristocrat, a baron or a count, or so I’d heard.

Sometimes a woman would tell me that the feeling gets so strong she runs out of the house and walks through the streets. Or she stays inside her house and cries. Or her children tell her a joke, and she doesn’t laugh because she doesn’t hear it. I talked to women who had spent years on the analyst’s couch, working out their “adjustment to the feminine role,” their blocks to “fulfillment as a wife and mother.” But the desperate tone in these women’s voices, and the look in their eyes, was the same as the tone and the look of other women, who were sure they had no problem, even though they did have a strange feeling of desperation. A mother of four who left college at nineteen to get married told me: I’ve tried everything women are supposed to do—hobbies, gardening, pick-ling, canning, being very social with my neighbors, joining committees, run-ning PTA teas. I can do it all, and I like it, but it doesn’t leave you anything to think about—any feeling of who you are. I never had any career ambitions. All I wanted was to get married and have four children. I love the kids and Bob and my home. There’s no problem you can even put a name to. But I’m desperate. I begin to feel I have no personality. I’m a server of food and a putter-on of pants and a bedmaker, somebody who can be called on when you want something. But who am I? A twenty-three-year-old mother in blue jeans said: I ask myself why I’m so dissatisfied. I’ve got my health, fine children, a lovely new home, enough money. My husband has a real future as an electron-ics engineer. He doesn’t have any of these feelings. He says maybe I need a vacation, let’s go to New York for a weekend. But that isn’t it. I always had this idea we should do everything together. I can’t sit down and read a book alone. If the children are napping and I have one hour to myself I just walk through the house waiting for them to wake up. I don’t make a move until I know where the rest of the crowd is going. It’s as if ever since you were a little girl, there’s always been somebody or something that will take care of your life: your parents, or college, or falling in love, or having a child, or moving to a new house. Then you wake up one morning and there’s nothing to look forward to.

The deafening report of the next rocket to go up masked my squeak when his hand slipped into my lap. “Oh, God.” I gasped, trying to pretend nothing was happening. Nope, absolutely nothing weird about cuddling with a near-stranger in the presence of my secret ex-lover. The pace of the detonations picked up, cloaking my gasps as the flat of his finger and then his palm rubbed up and down the crotch-seam of my jeans. He brought me right to the quivering brink of blowing my load in my pants, then backed off, cupping his hand almost protectively over the bulge there, covering but not trying to stimulate. “Here’s how it’s gonna be,” he growled in my ear between booms. “When this is over, we’re going back to my room and I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Then, when you can form words of more than one syllable again and string them reliably together into sentences, you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on here. But get this straight in your head: I. Don’t. Hide. Not from anyone, not for any reason. I don’t care what’s going on, if you expect me to be with you, don’t even think of asking me to pretend I’m not. Got it?

I stare at my Erudite clothes while the others strip off their outer layers of clothing. “No time for modesty, Stiff!” Christina says, giving me a pointed look. I know she’s right, so I pull off the red shirt I was wearing and put on the blue one instead. I glance at Fernando and Marcus to make sure they aren’t watching, and change out of my pants too. I have to roll up the jeans four times, and when I belt them, they bunch at the top like the neck of a crushed paper bag. “Did she just call you “Stiff’?” Fernando says. “Yeah,” I say. “I transferred into Dauntless from Abnegation.” “Huh.” He frowns. “That’s quite a shift. That kind of leap in personality between generations is almost genetically impossible these days.” “Sometimes personality has nothing to do with a person’s choice of faction,” I say, thinking of my mother. She left Dauntless not because she was ill-suited for it but because it was safer to be Divergent in Abnegation. And then there’s Tobias, who switched to Dauntless to escape his father. “There are many factor to consider.” To escape the man I have made my ally. I feel a twinge of guilt. “Keep talking like that and they’ll never discover you’re not really Erudite,” Fernando says.

Allison got to the lobby first, dressed in jeans, a red sweater, and a cropped black jacket. Her feet had ordered her directly into flats the moment she’d gotten into her room, so she’d put on a pair of short black boots. She didn’t see Rick or Kim and flopped down on an overstuffed, garishly-clad club chair to wait. Despite the time of night, the place was packed, and she amused herself by watching people and guessing their stories. Caught up in trying to determine if a woman near the door dressed in a skin-tight black dress and bright red, four-inch, platform shoes was a high-class call girl, or a model, she almost vaulted out of her seat when a voice said, “Anyone sitting here?” She looked up at a man of about forty, dressed in olive green silk pants and a cream colored sweater. He was so attractive Allison couldn’t answer with anything other than a shake of her head. The fact that his eyes were the same color as hers only added to her disquiet. “Great.” He flashed a set of perfect teeth at her briefly, and dropped into the matching chair across from her. “I know you,” he added, “saw you on the ATCE show floor today. You work for Hoyt right? In marketing?” Allison nodded. The man put out his hand, “Craig Simmons.

He murmurs, low and hungry, "I really want to ruin you." Eden bites her lip. She can barely breathe as she rasps, "Then what are you waiting for?" He hums, content, as he reaches behind her to help lift her bralette up and over her head. Alexander grabs at her small breasts, easily covering her with his massive hands. She shivers, both amused and aroused at how small and protected he makes her feel. He leaves a line of kisses from her breasts down her stomach, marking her as he works his way down to her jeans. It's a wonder to watch his skilled fingers undo the front of her pants before tugging them off with great haste. All that remains is her matching white lace thong, one that leaves little to the imagination. Alexander growls. "You're really going to kill me, you know that?" "Sorry," she replies, breathless. "Don't be," he mumbles, moving in to lick at her mound through the fabric. Pleasure spears through her in a massive shock wave, the warmth of his tongue seeping through the lace. The throbbing wetness between her legs grows more and more unbearable with every second. But Alexander takes his time, mouthing at her through her thong with slow and controlled determination. It's torturous. It's heaven. "Take it off," she commands, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice. "Take it---" "Be patient." Eden whines. "But I want---" "I know." "Please---" "I told you. I want to ruin you." Eden moans, lightheaded and babbling nonsense. It's enough to make her toes curl. She's sure she sounds pathetic, panting and mewling like she's in heat.

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

I shake my head, knowing that if it hadn’t been for me, Ben wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I try to tell him that, but he swats my words away with his hand and says he wants to show me something. “Sure,” I say, wondering if he’s really as nervous as he seems. He clenches his teeth and hesitates a couple of moments; the angles of his face seem to grow sharper. Finally, he motions to the pant leg of his jeans. There’s a tear right over his thigh. “I know you saw it in the hospital,” he says, exposing the chameleon tattoo through the torn fabric. “I felt you . . . looking at it. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I did this back home, before I ever came to Freetown. Before I ever met you.” “So it’s a coincidence?” His dark gray eyes swallow mine whole. “Do you honestly believe that?” “No,” I say, listening as he proceeds to tell me that a few months before he got to town, he touched his mother’s wedding band—something that reminded him of soul mates—and the image of a chameleon stuck inside his head. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind,” he explains. “It was almost like the image was welded to my brain, behind my eyes, haunting me even when I tried to sleep.” “And you got the tattoo because of that?” “Because I hoped its permanence might help me understand it more—might help me understand what it had to do with my own soul mate.” “And do you understand now?” I ask, swallowing hard. “Yeah.” He smiles. “I suppose I do.” I take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together, desperate to know what he’s truly trying to say here, and what I should say to him as well. I close my eyes, picturing that moment in the hospital when I held his hand and wondering if he would’ve recovered as quickly as if it hadn’t been for the connection between us—the electricity he must have sensed from my touch.

But what should he wear? I thought about having him laid to rest in his uniform. But the truth is he hated wearing it. He really needed to be dressed in something he was comfortable in. And that wasn’t going to be in a suit, either: he hated being in a jacket and tie even more than in a uniform. Tie? Ha! I got a pair of his best pressed jeans. They had a nice crease in the pants leg, just like he liked. I found one of his plaid button-down shirts, another favorite. Kryptek, which produces tactical gear and apparel and was one of Chris’s favorite companies, had presented him with a big silver belt buckle that he loved. It was very cowboy, and in that way very much who Chris was. “You think I can pull this off?” he’d asked, showing me how it looked right after he got it. “Hell, yeah,” I told him. I made sure that was with him as well. But if there was any item of clothing that really touched deep into Chris’s soul, it was his cowboy boots. They were a reminder of who he was when he was young, and they were part of who he’d been since getting out of the military. He had a really nice pair of new boots that had been custom made. He hadn’t had a chance to wear them much, and I couldn’t decide whether to bury him in those or another pair that were well worn and very comfortable. I asked the funeral director for his opinion. “We usually don’t do shoes,” he said. It can be very difficult to get them onto the body. “But if it’s important to you, we can do it.” I thought about it. Was the idea of burying them with Chris irrational? The symbolism seemed important. But that could work the other way, too--they would surely be important to Bubba someday. Maybe I should save them for him. In the end, I decided to set them near Chris’s casket when his body was on view, then collect them later for our son. But Chris had the last word. Through a miscommunication--or maybe something else--they were put in the casket when he was laid to rest. So obviously that was the way it should have been.

I’ve worn Niki’s pants for two days now. I thought a third day in the same clothes might be pushing it.” Ian shrugged with indifference. “It might send Derian through the roof, but it doesn’t bother me. Wear what you want to wear.” Eena wrinkled her nose at him. “Do you really feel that way or are you trying to appear more laissez-faire than Derian?” “More laissez-faire?” “Yes. That’s a real word.” “Two words actually,” he grinned. “Laissez faire et laissez passer, le monde va de lui même!" He coated the words with a heavy French accent. Eena gawked at him. “Since when do you speak French?” “I don’t.” Ian chuckled. “But I did do some research in world history the year I followed you around on Earth. Physics was a joke, but history—that I found fascinating.” Slapping a hand against her chest, Eena exclaimed, “I can’t believe it! Unbeknownst to me, Ian actually studied something in high school other than the library’s collection of sci-fi paperbacks!” He grimaced at her exaggerated performance before defending his preferred choice of reading material. “Hey, popular literature is a valuable and enlightening form of world history. You would know that if you read a book or two.” She ignored his reproach and asked with curiosity, “What exactly did you say?” “In French?” “Duh, yes.” “Don’t ‘duh’ me, you could easily have been referring to my remark about enlightening literature. I know the value of a good book is hard for you to comprehend.” He grinned crookedly at her look of offense and then moved into an English translation of his French quote. “Let it do and let it pass, the world goes on by itself.” “Hmm. And where did that saying come from?” Ian delivered his answer with a surprisingly straight face. “That is what the French Monarch said when his queen began dressing casually. The French revolution started one week following that famous declaration, right after the queen was beheaded by the rest of the aristocracy in her favorite pair of scroungy jeans.” “You are such a brazen-tongued liar!

Carajo!" Paco says, throwing down his lunch. "They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn't know taco meat from a piece of shit. That's what this tastes like, Alex." "You're makin' me sick, man," I tell him. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what's left of my lunch into my brown paper bag. "Want some of it?" Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me. "Bring that one inch closer to me and you'll be sorry," I threaten. "I'm shakin' in my pants." Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better. "If any of that gets on me--" "What'cha gonna do, kick my ass?" Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won't have to deal with him right now. As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I'll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. "Fuck," Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. "Want me to clean it off for you?" "If your fingers get anywhere close to my dick, I'm gonna personally shoot you in the huevos," I growl through clenched teeth. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. "You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants." "How the hell am I s'posed to do that?" "Be creative." "Take mine." Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard. "Maybe I wasn't specific enough," I tell him, wondering how I'm going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I've peed in my pants. "I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You're so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus's elves." "I'm toleratin' your insults because we're like brothers." "Nine minutes and thirty seconds." It doesn't take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot.

She might have been brained right then but Ash managed to cup one hand behind her head to cushion the impact His other hand had a fistful of the back of her jeans, holding the waist so she didn't slide down him. She had both legs wrapped tight around his middle, her hand clutching his shoulders. Time slowed. The noise of the crowd disappeared. Ash was pressed hard into her, crushing her against the post, his body hot against her front. His bare chest rose and fell as he breathed deep. His hand formed a fist in her hair and pulled her head back until their eyes met in a stare that cut right through her. His irises weren't quite black but close. His strength was all around her, holding her, pinning he helplessly. She met his stare her teeth bared fiercely. Then she grabbed his head and yanked his mouth down onto hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss. Ash's mouth met hers and it was like a flame meeting oil- fire and raging heat. She arched into him as he shoved her into the post, pressing them even tighter together. His mouth moved with hers, against hers, fierce and carnal and demanding. She clamped her fingers over the back of his head and pulled him closer still, demanding even more. His hand tightened in her hair and she tilted her head farther back as their kiss deepened into something even wilder. Seconds later - minutes later? Ash pulled back with one last nipping bite to her bottom lip that made heat plunge through her middle. They held there, faces inches apart, both panting for air. Piper wasn't sure she could have unlocked her legs from around him even if she'd wanted to. Which she didn't. She'd never had her legs around such perfect abs in her life. That's when, belatedly, she noticed the crowd's reaction. They were all on their feet and the noise level was deafening. They were screaming and cheering. So swiftly Piper squeaked in surprise, Ash pulled her off the post. The next thing she knew, he'd flipped her over his shoulder in a fireman carry. The air whooshed out of her. Ash turned and lifted one hand in a gesture of triumph, his other arm clamped over the back of her thighs to keep her in place. "Well," the announcer called jubilantly, "It seems the Dragon has claimed his prize!

EVEN BEFORE HE GOT ELECTROCUTED, Jason was having a rotten day. He woke in the backseat of a school bus, not sure where he was, holding hands with a girl he didn’t know. That wasn’t necessarily the rotten part. The girl was cute, but he couldn’t figure out who she was or what he was doing there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to think. A few dozen kids sprawled in the seats in front of him, listening to iPods, talking, or sleeping. They all looked around his age…fifteen? Sixteen? Okay, that was scary. He didn’t know his own age. The bus rumbled along a bumpy road. Out the windows, desert rolled by under a bright blue sky. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t live in the desert. He tried to think back…the last thing he remembered… The girl squeezed his hand. “Jason, you okay?” She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece snowboarding jacket. Her chocolate brown hair was cut choppy and uneven, with thin strands braided down the sides. She wore no makeup like she was trying not to draw attention to herself, but it didn’t work. She was seriously pretty. Her eyes seemed to change color like a kaleidoscope—brown, blue, and green. Jason let go of her hand. “Um, I don’t—” In the front of the bus, a teacher shouted, “All right, cupcakes, listen up!” The guy was obviously a coach. His baseball cap was pulled low over his hair, so you could just see his beady eyes. He had a wispy goatee and a sour face, like he’d eaten something moldy. His buff arms and chest pushed against a bright orange polo shirt. His nylon workout pants and Nikes were spotless white. A whistle hung from his neck, and a megaphone was clipped to his belt. He would’ve looked pretty scary if he hadn’t been five feet zero. When he stood up in the aisle, one of the students called, “Stand up, Coach Hedge!” “I heard that!” The coach scanned the bus for the offender. Then his eyes fixed on Jason, and his scowl deepened. A jolt went down Jason’s spine. He was sure the coach knew he didn’t belong there. He was going to call Jason out, demand to know what he was doing on the bus—and Jason wouldn’t have a clue what to say. But Coach Hedge looked away and cleared his throat. “We’ll arrive in five minutes! Stay with your partner. Don’t lose your worksheet. And if any of you precious little cupcakes causes any trouble on this trip, I will personally send you back to campus the hard way.

Her hands found the button of his jeans, and then glided his zipper down. She wasted no time in seizing his cock with her hand, stroking him up and down as he pulled down his pants, then his boxers. He stopped her only so he could sheathe himself. And when he looked back up, she'd removed her robe, which fell around her in waves like drizzled icing. As he did, she began to guide his cock to her entrance, stroking her clit with the tip of him. He was already so fucking hard, and he hadn't even sunk into her yet. "Ready?" she breathed into his ear. He nodded, and his hands found her hips. His fingertips dug into her as he eased himself inside her, so slowly he could barely breathe, and they both moaned as she cradled him with her pussy. She braced her hands against the table as he slid further, burying himself deep inside her. Fuck. How did Nina feel so good? They both paused, him filling her. She stretched and tightened against him. He hadn't even begun to fuck her the way he planned to, but she already felt better than anything he could've imagined. He rocked into her, hitting her core deeper, and her head rolled back as a moan escaped. She fit around him in such a silky way that he already knew he'd want every waking moment to be inside her. She moved back and forth on his dick, his hands steadying her hips. He wanted to make sure that every time he pumped into her, she felt all of him. He was going to delve into her so deeply that she'd have no other choice but to come all over him. He needed to feel her heat pulsing against him. Her breathing quickened, and she said, "I need you." All he wanted was to hear this woman moan so loudly that he'd be able to hear it whenever he closed his eyes. So when he slid his cock back inside her, he made sure to push until he was all the way in. She arched her back in response, and he slowly pulled out, then pumped back in. Their moans, their thighs meeting and the slap of his balls against her ass were the only sounds in the room. He reached toward her heavy breasts and pinched one nipple tightly as he continued to fill her. "I'm..." She couldn't get the words out, but he knew what she was trying to say. She was going to come. He moved the hand that pinched her nipple down to her clit and gently rubbed. "I'm almost there," she said. He grunted in approval and pushed into her slower, bringing his length almost fully out, then plunging back in. She tightened around him. As her groans reached a crescendo, he knew he was going to erupt as well. He thrust hard and deep until his aching cock came.

Their eyes met. For a split second she caught a glimpse of heat in his eyes. Then Jake banked the flame and broke out of her embrace. Marnie felt a hot blush rise from her toes to her nose. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and her brain to function. Bewildered, she looked up to find him watching her. His heavy-lidded eyes held a strange desperation as he reached back and unhooked the vice of her ankles from around his wiast. Her legs dropped. Her heels thumped against the cabinet. Beneath his hawklike gaze she felt stripped bare and vulnerable. He studied her face, seeming to see more than her features. He seemed to delve into her mind, to touch things deep and frightening—parts of herself Marnie was still exploring. The muscles in his jaw knotted and unknotted. After a moment he stepped back and casually, but with difficulty, adjusted his jeans Heat flooded her cheeks. Legs splayed, nipples peaked to his clinical gaze, she’d never experienced such acute embarrassment in her life. Her breath hitched as she jumped off the counter, tugging her top down and her pants up. At a loss for hers, she half laughed. “I have absolutely no idea what to say.” Which was a reasonable start, she guessed. It was rare for her to be speechless. But then, this was a day of firsts. “I told you you weren’t my type.” The brass button on his jeans closed like the clasp of a miser’s purse. Other than a faint flush on the ridge of his cheekbones and what looked like a painful erection, he seemed totally unaffected by what had just happened. She stared at him. “Not your t—What do you call what just happened?” Marnie was confused. It was out of character for her to be sexually aggressive. But now that she’d done it, she wasn’t sorry. “What part of ‘I don’t want you’ didn’t you understand?” He’d wanted her. He might lie about it, but his body had been honest. He was as hard as petrified wood. “Then what”—she pointed—“is that?” He ignored the bulge in his jeans. “Just because I have it doesn’t mean I intend to use it.” Marnie stepped forward and touched his arm. He jerked away from her as if she’d used a cattle prod. “Was it something I said?” she asked quietly, dropping her hand to her side. “Look, I have a tendency to sort of speak without running the words through my brain first. But I know I didn’t give out mixed signals just now. I wanted to make love with you. It was very good. No, darn it, it was excellent. So if you have some sort of medical condition, let’s talk about i—” He moved backward, almost tripping over Duchess sprawled on the floor. The dog rose to hover anxiously between them. Jake’s eyes turned as he said, “I do not have a medical condition.” Marnie backed up—mentally as well as physically. Her hip bumped the counter. “Good.” He scowled and swore under his breath. “That is good, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively.

You’re…you’re what? Where?” I stood up and glimpsed myself in the mirror. I was a vision, having changed into satin pajama pants, a torn USC sweatshirt, and polka-dotted toe socks, and to top it off, my hair was fastened in a haphazard knot on the top of my head with a no. 2 Ticonderoga pencil. Who wouldn’t want me? “I’m outside,” he repeated, throwing in a trademark chuckle just to be extra mean. “Get out here.” “But…but…,” I stalled, hurriedly sliding the pencil out of my hair and running around the room, stripping off my pathetic house clothes and searching in vain for my favorite faded jeans. “But…but…I’m in my pajamas.” Another trademark chuckle. “So?” he asked. “You’d better get out here or I’m comin’ in…” “Okay, okay…,” I replied. “I’ll be right down.” Panting, I settled for my second-favorite jeans and my favorite sweater of all time, a faded light blue turtleneck I’d worn so much, it was almost part of my anatomy. Brushing my teeth in ten seconds flat, I scurried down the stairs and out the front door. Marlboro Man was standing outside his pickup, hands inside his pockets, his back resting against the driver-side door. He grinned, and as I walked toward him, he stood up and walked toward me, too. We met in the middle--in between his vehicle and the front door--and without a moment of hesitation, greeted each other with a long, emotional kiss. There was nothing funny or lighthearted about it. That kiss meant business. Our lips separated for a short moment. “I like your sweater,” he said, looking at the light blue cotton rib as if he’d seen it before. I’d hurriedly thrown it on the night we’d met a few months earlier. “I think I wore this to the J-bar that night…,” I said. “Do you remember?” “Ummm, yeah,” he said, pulling me even closer. “I remember.” Maybe the sweater had magical powers. I’d have to be sure to hold on to it. We kissed again, and I shivered in the cold night air. Wanting to get me out of the cold, he led me to his pickup and opened the door so we could both climb in. The pickup was still warm and toasty, like a campfire was burning in the backseat. I looked at him, giggled like a schoolgirl, and asked, “What have you been doing all this time?” “Oh, I was headed home,” he said, fiddling with my fingers. “But then I just turned around; I couldn’t help it.” His hand found my upper back and pulled me closer. The windows were getting foggy. I felt like I was seventeen. “I’ve got this problem,” he continued, in between kisses. “Yeah?” I asked, playing dumb. My hand rested on his left bicep. My attraction soared to the heavens. He caressed the back of my head, messing up my hair…but I didn’t care; I had other things on my mind. “I’m crazy about you,” he said. By now I was on his lap, right in the front seat of his Diesel Ford F250, making out with him as if I’d just discovered the concept. I had no idea how I’d gotten there--the diesel pickup or his lap. But I was there. And, burying my face in his neck, I quietly repeated his sentiments. “I’m crazy about you, too.

The door was still open, so I shut it and was returning to my desk when I braked. There was a backpack resting on the other side of my desk chair. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t Missy’s. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Holly’s or the cousin’s. “Shit,” I muttered under my breath. “Huh?” she barked, her head swinging around to me. A quick glance confirmed what I already knew. She was drunk. “Nothing.” She pulled out one of her shirts, but it wasn’t her normal pajama top. She was really drunk. I picked up Shay’s bag and checked the contents to make sure it was his. It was. I saw his planner with his name scrawled at the top, so I zipped that bag and put it in the back of my closet. No one needed to go through it. I didn’t think Missy would, but I just never knew. Dropping into my chair, I picked up my phone to text Shay as Missy fell to the floor. I looked up to watch. I couldn’t not see this. I was tempted to video it, but I was being nice. For once. As Missy wrestled with her jeans and lifted them over her head to throw into her closet, I texted Shay. Me: You left your bag here. Missy let out a half-gurgled moan and a cry of frustration at the same time. She didn’t stand, instead crawling to the closet. She grabbed another pair of pants. Those weren’t her pajamas, either. As she pulled them on—or tried since her feet kept eluding the pants’ hole—my phone buzzed back. Coleman: Can I pick it up in the morning? I texted back. Me: When? Missy got one leg in. Success. I wanted to thrust my fist in the air for her. My phone buzzed again. Coleman: Early. My playbook is in there. I groaned. Me: When is early? I’m in college, Coleman. Sleeping in is mandatory. Coleman: Nine too early for you? I can come back to get it now. Nine was doable. Me: Let’s do an exchange. You bring me coffee, and I’ll meet you at the parking lot curb with your bag. Coleman: Done. Decaf okay? I glared at my phone. Me: Back to hating you. Coleman: Never stop that. The world’s equilibrium will be fucked up. I have to know what’s right and wrong. Don’t screw with my moral compass, Cute Ass. Oh, no! No way. Me: Third rule of what we don’t talk about. No nicknames unless they reconfirm our mutual dislike for each other. No Cute Ass. His response was immediate. Coleman: Cunt Ass? A second squeak from me. Me: NO! I could almost hear him laughing. Coleman: Relax. I know. Clarke’s Ass. That’s how you are in my phone. The tension left my shoulders. Me: See you in the morning. 9 sharp. Coleman: Night. I put my phone down, but then it buzzed once again. Coleman: Ass. I was struggling to wipe this stupid grin off my face. All was right again. I plugged my phone in, pulled my laptop back toward me, and sent a response to Gage’s email. I’ll sit with you, but only if we’re in the opposing team’s section. He’d be pissed, but that was the only way. I turned the computer off, and by then Missy was climbing up the ladder in a bright pink silk shirt. The buttons were left buttoned, and her pajama bottoms were a pair of corduroy khakis. I was pretty sure she didn’t brush her teeth, but before my head even hit the pillow, she was snoring

Luna left, too, with a cheery, “Thanks for the morning entertainment. That provided a better jolt than a cup of espresso.” Then it was just Arabella, her brother, and the really, really big man, who had just turned his gaze on her. Given his threats and violent solution, Arabella should have been quaking. At the very least staring at her toes lest she incur his wrath. But the gentlest blue eyes caught hers, and his tone was soft and soothing when he addressed her. “You must be Arabella. I’m Leo, the pride’s omega.” “More like enforcer,” Jeoff muttered, still rubbing his head. “If you behave, then I don’t have to resort to my methods.” “He started it,” Jeoff accused, pointing at finger at Hayder, who emerged from the bedroom clad in low-hipped jeans that hugged his corded thighs and a soft T-shirt that clung to his chest. “Hey, it’s not my fault you jumped to the wrong conclusion when I answered the door.” “What else was I to think? You’re in my sister’s condo wearing only a rag.” “Protecting her.” “The same way you protected her last night when you took her out and flaunted her?” “I took her to dinner.” “What the hell do you mean you took her out to dinner? You put my baby sister in danger.” “She wasn’t in danger.” “They snatched her off the street!” “And I got her back.” The men glared at each, toe-to-toe, bodies bristling. Leo, who’d seated himself on a stool by the kitchen island, cleared his throat. “Don’t make me get off this stool.” The tension remained, but the impending violence moved down a few notches. Seeming satisfied, Leo turned to her. “Coffee?” He addressed that to Arabella, holding out a cup he’d brewed from the machine on the counter. With a wary look at both Hayder and her brother, she went toward him but then almost scalded herself when Hayder barked, “Baby, where are your pants?” Oh yeah. She peeked down at her bare legs. To his credit, Leo didn’t, but he did smile. “How about I add some sugar and milk to this while you find some pants? You look like you need something sweet.” She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Yes, please.” Still ignoring the other two men, she stepped past them to the bedroom, where she scrounged in a drawer for pants. As she dressed, she listened to the arguing. “She’s leaving with me.” Her brother hadn’t relented. Neither did Hayder. “Wrong. Arabella isn’t going anywhere.” Ouch. She knew her brother wouldn’t like that. She was right. “Excuse me? You don’t get a say. She’s my sister, my responsibility. I’m taking her.” Arabella stepped back into the living room. “What of the danger though, Jeoff? The pack is in town, and they’re looking for me.” “We’ll figure something out.” “We already have. She’ll stay here with me where she’s safe.” Hayder crossed his arms over his impressive chest, looking much too determined— and sexy. A certain brother wasn’t impressed. “As safe as she was last night?” Hayder rolled his eyes. “Oh please. What part of ‘we had the situation under control’ can you not grasp? Leo, tell the wolf that Arabella was never in any danger.” “I don’t lie to my friends,” Leo said as he re-handed Arabella her coffee. She took a sip of the hot brew and sighed as she listened to the arguing. When Leo patted the stool beside him, she hopped on. For such a big man, he offered a strangely calming effect. On her at least. Hayder and Jeoff, on the other hand, just couldn’t stem their tirade. “I was wrong to stick her here. So you can forget I asked.” “Too late. She’s part of the pride now.” “She’s a wolf, or have you forgotten? She belongs with her own kind.” Jeoff crooked his finger at her and inclined his head to the door. Arabella didn’t move, more because Hayder’s next words froze her. “She belongs with me. Arabella is my mate.