Kitten Heels Quotes

Grandma was wearing a blond Marilyn Monroe wig, a hot pink tank top, black Pilates pants, and black kitten heels. She looked like the senior version of an inflatable sex toy doll that needed more air.

Adrian looked over at me again. “Who knows more about male weakness: you or me?” “Go on.” I refused to directly answer the question. “Get a new dress. One that shows a lot of skin. Short. Strapless. Maybe a push-up bra too.” He actually had the audacity to do a quick assessment of my chest. “Eh, maybe not. But definitely some high heels.” “Adrian,” I exclaimed. “You’ve seen how Alchemists dress. Do you think I can really wear something like that?” He was unconcerned. “You’ll make it work. You’ll change clothes or something. But I’m telling you, if you want to get a guy to do something that might be difficult, then the best way is to distract him so that he can’t devote his full brainpower to the consequences.” “You don’t have a lot of faith in your own gender.” “Hey, I’m telling you the truth. I’ve been distracted by sexy dresses a lot.” I didn’t really know if that was a valid argument, seeing as Adrian was distracted by a lot of things. Fondue. T-shirts. Kittens. “And so, what then? I show some skin, and the world is mine?” “That’ll help.” Amazingly, I could tell he was dead serious. “And you’ve gotta act confident the whole time, like it’s already a done deal. Then make sure when you’re actually asking for what you want that you tell him you’d be ‘so, so grateful.’ But don’t elaborate. His imagination will do half the work for you. ” I shook my head, glad we’d almost reached our destination. I didn’t know how much more I could listen to. “This is the most ridiculous advice I’ve ever heard. It’s also kind of sexist too, but I can’t decide who it offends more, men or women.” “Look, Sage. I don’t know much about chemistry or computer hacking or photosynthery, but this is something I’ve got a lot of experience with.” I think he meant photosynthesis, but I didn’t correct him. “Use my knowledge. Don’t let it go to waste.

And so you came to my house on the soft pads of a midwinter kitten, the whisper of your black tresses sweeping your heels, and so you came to my heart just as quietly. Why, then, did you make such a terrible noise when you let go of my hand and departed, a great trumpeting of horns, a great beating of drums?

I couldn’t imagine how it would be possible to hike to the source of the Nile, or to climb up a ladder to investigate a malfunction inside a particle accelerator, wearing kitten heels and ten denier tights.

Which is an interactive sport for our family, since Gil likes to groan over the writing and point out the plot twists ahead of time, and Jeremy tears his hair out over the historical inaccuracies, and Dad makes corny jokes, till Mom reminds us, loudly, that some people are trying to watch the movie. Then we'll all quiet down for about five minutes, until Olivia remarks that the costume designer should have dressed the star in kitten heels instead, because it's a lot harder to run in stilettos.

When Miss Carter came back to the table she reported that laboratory tests had shown that the “sleepy” kitten had indeed been drugged.

up to the counter in her white kitten heels. “I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. I always try to get

In my dreams a small wolf slept inside of me and it wasn’t comfortable. It moved it’s heels and elbows and paws, struggled to make space between my lungs, stomach, bladder. Occasionally a scrabbling claw punctured something and I woke. What were you dreaming? Arabella wanted to know. I knew what it was dreaming. It was dreaming of being born. The form and scale of its occupancy shifted. Sometimes its legs were in my legs, its head in my head, its paws in my hands. Other times it was barely the size of a kitten, heartburn hot and fidgety under my sternum. I’d wake and for a moment feel my face changed, reach up and touch the muzzle that wasn’t there.

We keep marching, our feet trampling over Principal Wilson’s threats and our teachers’ warnings. We are marching because those words deserve to be run over. Steamrolled. Flattened to dust. We are marching in our Converse and our candy-colored flip-flops and our kitten heels, too. Our legs are moving, our arms are swinging, our mouths are set in lines so straight and sharp you could cut yourself on them. Maybe we hope you do.

There’s surprise in his voice, as if women are somehow incapable of boldness. Or maybe his surprise stems from the fact that, in person, I’m anything but bold. Compared with other outsize personalities in the art world, I’m positively demure. No all-purple ensemble or flashy footwear for me. Tonight’s little black dress and black pumps with a kitten heel are as fancy as I get. Most days I dress in the same combination of khakis and paint-specked T-shirts. My only jewelry is the silver charm bracelet always wrapped around my left wrist. Hanging from it are three charms—tiny birds made of brushed pewter

P.S.” Kimmie continues, nodding toward my sculptor of Adam’s lips, the assignment was to sculpt something exotic, not erotic. Are you sure you weren’t so busy wishing me dead that you just didn’t hear right? Plus, if it was eroticism you were going for, how come there’s no tongue wagging out of his mouth?” “And what’s exotic about your piece?” “Seriously, it doesn’t get more exotic than leopard, particularly if that leopard is in the form of a swanky pair of kitten heels . . . but I thought I’d start out small.” “Right,” I say, looking at her oblong ball of clay with what appears to be four legs, a golf-ball-sized head, and a long, skinny tail attached. “And, from the looks of your sculpture,” she continues, adjusting the lace bandana in her pixie-cut dark hair, “I presume your hankering for a Ben Burger right about now. The question is, will that burger come with a pickle on the side or between the buns?” “You’re so sick,” I say, failing to mention that my sculptor isn’t of Ben’s mouth at all. “Seriously? You’re the one who’s wishing me dead whilst fantasizing about your boyfriend’s mouth. Tell me that doesn’t rank high up on the sik-o-meter.” “I have to go,” I say, throwing a plastic tarp over my work board. “Should I be worried?” “About what?” “Acting manic and chanting about death?” “I didn’t chant.” “Are you kidding? For a second there I thought you were singing the jingle to a commercial for roach killer: You deserve to die! You deserve to die! You deserve to die!

Isn't she doing this too? Connecting and disconnecting. Facing grief then turning from it. One minute she is caught up in minutiae. Will her feet get sore standing in heels at the church? Have they made enough food? Will the kitten get scared by dozens of strangers in the house? Should she shut him in a room upstairs? The next moment she is weeping uncontrollably, taken over by pain so profound she can barely move. Then there was the salad bowl incident; her own fury scared her. But maybe these are different ways of dealing with events for all of them. Molly and Luke are infantile echos of her, their emotions paired down, their reactions simpler but similar. For if they have difficulty taking in what has happened, then so too does she. Why is she dressing up, for instance? Why can't she wear clothes to reflect the fact that she is at her lowest end? A tracksuit, a jumper full of holes, dirty jeans? Why can't she leave her hair a mess, her face unmade up? The crazed and grieving Karen doesn't care about her appearance. Yet she must go through with this charade, polish herself and her children to perfection. She, in particular, must hold it together. Oh, she can cry, yes, that's allowed. People expect that. They will sympathize. But what about screaming, howling, and hurling plates like she did yesterday? She imagines the shocked faces as she shouts and swears and smashes everything. But she is so angry, surely others must feel the same. Maybe a plate throwing ceremony would be a more fitting ritual than church, then everyone could have a go...smashing crockery up against the back garden wall.

and drew her strength directly from our magickal Oklahoma earth. “U-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, it seems I need help at the lavender booth. I simply cannot believe how busy we are.” Grandma had barely spoken when a nun hurried up. “Zoey, Sister Mary Angela could use your help filling out cat adoption forms.” “I’ll help you, Grandma Redbird,” Shaylin said. “I love the smell of lavender.” “Oh, honey, that would be so sweet of you. First, could you run to my car and get into the trunk. There is another box of lavender soaps and sachets tucked back there. Looks like I’m going to sell out completely,” Grandma said happily. “Sure thing.” Shaylin caught the keys Grandma tossed to her and hurried toward the main exit of the school grounds which led to the parking lot, as well as the tree-lined road that joined Utica Street. “And I’ll call my momma. She said just let her know if we get too busy over here. She and the PTA moms will be back here in a sec,” said Stevie Rae. “Grandma, do you mind if I give Street Cats a hand? I’ve been dying to check out their new litter of kittens.” “Go on, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya. I think Sister Mary Angela has been missing your company.” “Thanks, Grandma.” I smiled at her. Then I turned to Stevie Rae. “Okay, if your mom’s group is coming back, I’m gonna go help the nuns.” “Yeah, no problem.” Stevie Rae, shielding her eyes and peering through the crowd, added, “I see her now, and she’s got Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Wilson with her.” “Don’t worry. We can handle this,” Shaunee said. “’Kay,” I said, grinning at both of them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I left the cookie booth and noticed Aphrodite, clutching her big purple Queenies cup, was right on my heels. “I thought you didn’t want a lecture from the nuns.” “Better than a lecture from PTA moms.” She shuddered. “Plus, I like cats more than people.” I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” We’d only gotten partway to the Street Cats tent when Aphrodite slowed way down. “Seriously. Effing. Pathetic.” She was muttering around her straw, narrowing her eyes, and glaring. I followed her gaze and joined her frown. “Yeah, no matter how many times I see them together, I still don’t get it.” Aphrodite and I had stopped to watch Shaunee’s ex-Twin BFF, Erin, hang all over Dallas. “I really thought she was better than that.” “Apparently not,” Aphrodite said. “Eeew,” I said, looking away from their way too public display of locked lips. “I’m telling you, there’s not enough booze in Tulsa to make watching those two suck face okay.” She made a gagging sound, which changed to a snort and a laugh. “Check out the wimple, twelve o’clock.” Sure enough, there was a nun I vaguely recognized as Sister Emily (one of the more uptight of the nuns) descending on the too-busy-with-their-tongues-to-notice couple. “She looks serious,” I said. “You know, a nun may very well be the direct opposite of an aphrodisiac. This should be entertaining. Let’s watch.” “Zoey! Over here!” I looked from the train wreck about to happen to see Sister Mary Angela waving me over to her.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he’s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn’t stand it there without her, so he came looking. “It was the waste of a trip. She’s not here,” I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. “She’s not here. You can hiss all you like. You won’t find Prim.” At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. “Get out!” He dodges the pillow I throw at him. “Go away! There’s nothing left for you here!” I start to shake, furious with him. “She’s not coming back! She’s never ever coming back here again!” I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She’s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won’t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he’s there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night. In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well. Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.

When I swung open the door, there he was: Marlboro Man, wearing Wranglers and a crisp white shirt and boots. And a sweet, heart-melting smile. What are you doing here? I thought. You’re supposed to be in the shower. You’re supposed to be with the sex kitten. “Hey,” he said, wasting no time in stepping through the door and winding his arms around my waist. My arms couldn’t help but drape over his strong shoulders; my lips couldn’t help but find his. He felt soft, warm, safe…and our first kiss turned into a third, and a sixth, and a seventh. It was the same kiss as the night before, when the phone call alerting him to the fire had come. My eyes remained tightly closed as I savored every second, trying to reconcile the present with the horror movie I’d imagined just moments earlier. I had no idea what was going on. At that point, I didn’t even care. “Ummmmm!!! I’m t-t-t-ttellin’!” Mike teased from the top of the stairs, just before running down and embracing Marlboro Man in a bear hug. “Hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, politely patting him on the back. “Mike?” I said, smiling and blinking my eyes. “Will you excuse us for a couple of minutes?” Mike obliged, giggling and oooo-ing as he walked toward the kitchen. Marlboro Man picked me up and brought my eyes to the level of his. Smiling, he said, “I’ve been trying to call you this afternoon.” “You have?” I said. I hadn’t even heard the phone ring. “I, um…I sort of took a nine-hour nap.” Marlboro Man chuckled. Oh, that chuckle. I needed it badly that night. He set my feet back down on the floor. “So…,” he teased. “You still cranky?” “Nope,” I finally answered, smiling. So, who is that woman in your house? So…what did you do all day? “Did you ever get any sleep?” So, who is that woman in your house? “Well,” he began. “I had to help Tim with something this morning, then I crashed on the couch for a few hours…it felt pretty good.” Who was the woman? What’s her name? What’s her cup size? He continued. “I would’ve slept all day, but Katie and her family showed up in the middle of my nap,” he said. “I forgot they were staying at my house tonight.” Katie. His cousin Katie. The one with the two young kids, who had probably just gone to bed when I’d called earlier. “Oh…really?” I said, my chest relaxing with a long, quiet exhale. “Yeah…but it’s a little crowded over there,” he said. “I thought I’d come over here and take you to a movie.” I smiled, stroking his back with my hand. “A movie sounds perfect.” The busty, bronze mystery girl slowly faded into oblivion. Mike came barreling out of the kitchen, where he’d been listening to every word. “Hey--if you guys are goin’ to the movie, c-c-c-can you drive me to the mall?” he yelled. “Sure, Mike,” Marlboro Man said. “We’ll drive you to the mall. It’ll cost you ten bucks, though.” And as the three of us made our way outside to Marlboro Man’s diesel pickup, I had to bite my lip to keep myself from articulating the only seven words in the English language that were in my vocabulary at that moment: God help me--I love that man.

Slowly she became aware that the tiny compartment was filled with a sharp, spicy scent. It was like nothing she had ever smelled before—wild and somehow completely masculine. Mmm, nice. Her nose twitched—it seemed to be coming from Sylvan. But when did he have time to put on cologne? “Are you wearing aftershave?” she asked dreamily. “Aftershave?” He sounded confused. “You know—cologne. Perfume. A scent you put on your skin to make you smell good. Don’t the Kindred have anything like that?” “No, we have a very enhanced sense of smell. We don’t like anything that covers up our natural scent.” “Then what smells so good?” She was rubbing her cheek against the warm, hard wall of his chest in a way that would have seemed terminally wrong and uncomfortable just a few minutes ago. Yet now it seemed perfectly natural and right. Why was that? And why didn’t she want to let him go? She could feel the hard ridge of his cock branding her belly, just as it had during the Luck Kiss but even that didn’t alarm her. Instead, she felt herself responding. Her nipples were suddenly tight and achy and the small pair of bikini underwear she had on under her green bridesmaid’s dress felt too tight. Their lace crotch seemed to rub against her in a way that was both irritating and pleasurable. She took another deep breath. “Mmm…smells like…I don’t know what, but incredible,” she murmured, still rubbing against him like a cat. Sylvan stiffened against her. “Sophia, you’re not acting like yourself. This scent…you say it smells extremely good?” “Yes, can’t you smell it? I—” She looked up as she spoke and saw that he was looking down at her again. There was a troubled look in his pale blue eyes, but it wasn’t his eyes that bothered her—it was his mouth. His fangs were out. Long and sharp and prominent, they gleamed in the dim light of the tube like daggers ready to pierce flesh. My flesh! she realized in a flash. “Oh!” She jumped away from him and would have fallen backwards out of the transport tube if he hadn’t caught her by the arm. “Let me go!” She pulled away from his hand and took another step back. Her kitten heels made clattering echoes in the vast open space of the docking bay. “What? What’s wrong?” Sylvan frowned at her as he unfolded himself from the small space and stepped out of the tube. “Y-your fangs.” Sophie pointed with a trembling finger. With a muffled curse he clapped a hand over his mouth. A look of painful concentration crossed his face and then he took his palm away from his lips and she saw that his fangs were back to their normal length. “Forgive me.” He spoke as though it hurt to get the words out. “I didn’t…didn’t realize…” “It’s okay.” She shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do or say. It was clear she’d offended him by pointing out his fangs.

Wear whatever is comfortable and practical, my lady,” he said in a low voice. “We’re likely to be walking through some dark and dirty areas and the entire planet is polluted.” “Got it.” Kat sighed. “Wading through polluted muck. So I guess my favorite pair of kitten heels is out.” Lock gave her a wan smile. “I wouldn’t recommend them. Unless you want me to carry you the whole way. I wouldn’t mind.” Kat straightened up and lifted her chin. “Thank you, Lock, but I think I’ve had enough of the damsel in distress routine for a little while.

Garrett’s about to have a kitten at the thought of you going alone.” Donovan snorted. “He’s just pissed because he’s out of action. It’ll be good for him to have to sit and cool his heels. Man works too damn much. He’ll have an ulcer before he’s forty. If he lives that long.” “Shi-it. Don’t tell Ma that. She’d henpeck him to death.” Both men stopped and stared at each other in realization. Slow grins spread across their faces and they burst into laughter. “Oh hell. Garrett’ll kill us for this, but it’ll be worth it,” Donovan chortled. “You wanna tell her or should I?

Malcolm looked around the room. “Just so we have this straight. I’m going undercover in a cult that might be planning to use explosives to harm a lot of people in the name of the Bible.” He tried to quiet the rioting in his head. “I’ve slept with the mark, who we all know I want to save. The new shrink wants to get into my head, and I don’t want that.” “I really do want inside your head,” Nari said, her eyes lighting up. Mal ignored her and looked at Wolfe. “You’re a little nuts and now have a kitten in your pocket.” Wolfe nodded. “And you, our leader.” Mal focused on Angus. “Not only are you obsessed with a serial killer case that might just exist in your mind and splits your focus, but you have a high-heel-loving dog that’s also an alcoholic.” “What’s your point?” Force asked, his dark eyebrows slashing down. His point? What the hell was his point? He scrubbed both hands down his whiskered jaw. “I’m not going to ask what could go wrong. You know why? I just want to know what’s going to go right.” “Probably not much,” Wolfe said cheerfully. Then he fed another Goldfish Cracker to his kitten while the dog clip-clopped around the room and scratched up something called Jimmy Choos.

You ready, Dead Boy?” Granny asked. Oh, hell to the no…She was dressed in a boob tube, peasant skirt and sequined kitten heels. Weres did not look their age. Granny could easily pass for mid-forties even though she was in her eighties, but a boob tube was wrong on anyone over five. “Granny, I really don’t think you should…” “You are smokin’ hawt,” Dwayne yelled as he fist bumped my elderly grandma. What the hell was I thinking? He had more than two hundred years on both of us. Weird was my new normal—accept and continue. “Okay

When I first stepped foot on foreign soil on behalf of my country in 1997, America was arguably the sole superpower of the world. Since then, our country and the world had been rocked first by terrorism on a sustained international scale, then a war that opened with shock and awe but quickly descended into loss and devastation, and then a global economic crisis. Reframing the story of American power in the world was central to the new mission: We were no longer focused on sending boots on the ground. No, this time we were sending Hillary Clinton in kitten heels.

The incidental camouflage provided by his ashen coat against the tile flooring ‒ likewise denoted as being a series of twelve inch gray slate squares by all of them again ‒ save for Nate’s mother ‒ in concert with his current focus on the mixer and its hypnotic, simultaneous whir; which drew his visual attention to the blue pearl granite countertop directly in front of him and induced his total disregard for the feline's entrance. He therefore failed to observe that it was marked by an inordinately determined gait ‒ itself relatively less peculiar than the paradoxical lack of conviction in his clenched jaws, out of which a visibly dispirited common brown rat was loosely dangling by the nape of its neck. Upon shutting off the mixer and sensing a presence, Nate glanced intuitively downward ‒ just as Zero had raised his head sharply and looked up with eager, widened eyes ‒ then becoming struck by a sense that it appeared in the moment as if the incongruous mouser had been instead transporting an itsy-bitsy newborn kitten. Then in the next, he casually dropped the rodent at his owner's feet. Being sufficiently emboldened by its youthful size and appearance to first crouch and then kneel to the floor for a closer look, Nate endeavored to roust the lethargic rodent with a toothpick. He was taken aback to discover a set of tiny ‒ though notably bulging ‒ coal black eyes returning his gaze. Their vacant helplessness inspired him toward an appreciably more sober contemplation of its plight than he’d undertaken upon witnessing Zero capture and kill a field mouse behind his apple tree the previous spring. An instance whereby he had caught but a fleeting glimpse of its limp body as his typically passive, then suddenly feral tomcat clamped down on its entire neck just prior to seeking a more private spot in which to consume his prey. Nate realized that if he'd intended to eat this latest catch, his since neutered pet would have remained outside and carried it in a similar manner; so being the softhearted sort, while possessing a firm understanding that upon his mother's imminent arrival in a chic skirt with matching heels, the tragic scene of a dying and worse yet ‒ possibly bleeding ‒ brown Norway rat on her Montauk Blue tile flooring would be ill-received, he suffered the burden of understanding that this rodent's fate might be in his hands.

He heard her scrambling out of her chair and following behind him with the click of her kitten heels. Those damn shoes will be the death of me one day.

with younger kittens. Encourage him to chase the feather, and to get up and move around. This quickly teaches him that the halter doesn’t interfere with his movements. After five minutes, take it off. As with the crate training, short five-minute sessions repeated several times a day over the first three days work wonders. You can then gradually increase the amount of time that he wears the halter. Be sure to give him a scrumptious treat each time you take off the halter, so he recognizes there is a lovely end in sight when he puts up with the bother. Once your kitten wears the halter without protest, clip on the leash, pick up the end, and simply follow him around. Don’t try to influence his movements at first. Unlike leash-trained dogs that are supposed to “heel” and follow the owner, leash-trained cats direct the action. After several days of short sessions where you follow him around, try offering gentle guidance of his movements. One or two pull-release tugs are enough. Don’t drag him—that just invites him to

The only heels I care about are the ones on your dainty feet. I don’t give a fuck about anyone else’s, or who the fuck they’re attached to. You know, you’re really cute when you get all jealous, like a kitten showing her claws.” “I’m not jealous,” I say too quickly, but my heart goes pitter-patter at his confession.

kitten heels,

I crossed over to the window, staring out at the electronic billboard on the building directly across the intersection. It was me. Giant me. In nothing but a skimpy black corset, thong, and heels, leaning on a bar and looking every inch the sex kitten. Beside me was a bottle of vodka that I didn't remember being there in the photoshoot. The image pixelated out, only to be replaced by an even sexier one of both Archer and I. I was in his lap, our eyes locked and our lips just a fraction away from a kiss. On the table in front of us was that same vodka and a martini.

Barky was at her heels, and he let out a low, plaintive growl. She scooped him up and held him to her face the way Birdie had held the kitten---so naturally. They sniffed each other's noses. It felt kind of good.

The woman matched the room. Pale pastel Chanel suit. Oscar de la Renta kitten heels. Diamond the size of a Krispy Kreme donut.

I know you’re a … cute little kitten … when my daughter is around, but you should still make sure you don’t startle them.” “Cute little kitten?” Jack was incredulous. “I guess you’re more like a domesticated mountain lion,” Michael clarified. “You’re all growl and claws, but you also like to purr when you see something you like.” “Your whole family is just … unbelievable,” Jack said, turning on his heel and moving away from Michael without a backward glance. “Un-freaking-believable!

Teddy Shoes, where you could buy patent-leather pumps with a kitten heel in men’s thirteen.

Everything took so long. Before, I’d simply bathed, run a comb through my hair and pulled on my trousers. Being feminine apparently meant taking an eternity to do anything, and involved quite a bit of advanced planning. I couldn’t imagine how it would be possible to hike to the source of the Nile, or to climb up a ladder to investigate a malfunction inside a particle accelerator, wearing kitten heels and ten denier tights.