Knot My Type Quotes

Kink isn't just about an orgasm. The act can add to sexual pleasure, but sometimes it's less about the sex and more about the release. You're stirring feelings up in the other person. You're giving them what they're searching for—for some that's a sexual release.

Chronic pain is something you learn to deal with. Constantly telling people about it gets tiresome. Who wants to hear that?

You can often tell what style someone practices merely by looking at the type of knot someone has in the front of a hakama. Some iaido schools have elaborate systems for tying their hakama. My sensei uses a simple square knot: he’s mostly concerned that the knot is properly placed and doesn’t come undone. It’s hard to be deadly while your pants are falling down.

It’s going to be dangerous,” she warns. “I know.” “Which weapon do you favor? I’ll buy whatever you need while I’m in the city tomorrow.” “I…I don’t necessarily favor one over another.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I laugh. “Besides, won’t we travel during the day? Will I need a weapon?” Cassia’s eyes go wide. “Braeton, you can fight, can’t you?” “I’m…adequate…at most things.” She closes her eyes, groaning, and my face goes hot. “I’ll take a sword,” I tell her. “What type?” she asks. “Let’s go with…sharp.” The princess’s eyes fly open, and her lips part with horror. I laugh, bumping her shoulder with mine. “A long sword—and a shield if you can find one.” “Oh, Braeton, I thought you were serious.” She presses a hand over her heart as she laughs. “Goodness. Can you imagine a prince who doesn’t know how to fight?” I laugh with her even though I’m cringing on the inside. It will be all right, though. We’ll simply avoid trouble by traveling during the day. The princess smiles at me, making my stomach knot. For the first time in my life, I wish I’d spent less time in our library and more time in the practice yard with Gage and Kier.

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.

This river, a blue garment bordered with rich green life in many hues and patterns, now flows twisted and knotted – rumpled with thirty big dams, 135 medium and 3,000 small dams. This is what they have done to the oldest river in the subcontinent, the dyke of whose valley housed the oldest human settlement and gallery in this part of the world, Bhimbetka; the river that nurtures the Satpura forests, the oldest again. They are now talking of interlinking rivers. It is like infusing all blood types into all bodies. It is mass murder.

Because my own dangerous susceptibility makes it important that I not follow Ellery’s hypnotic suggestions too closely or get too deeply involved, I find myself, in my comfortable navy-blue seat, going farther and farther away inside my head, sort of Creatively Visualizing a kind of epiphanic Frank Conroy-type moment of my own, pulling mentally back, seeing the hypnotist and subjects and audience and Celebrity Show Lounge and deck and then whole motorized vessel itself with the eyes of someone not aboard, visualizing the m.v. Nadir at night, right at this moment, steaming north at 21.4 knots, with a strong warm west wind pulling the moon backwards through a skein of clouds, hearing muffled laughter and music and Papas’ throb and the hiss of receding wake and seeing, from the perspective of this nighttime sea, the good old Nadir complexly aglow, angelically white, lit up from within, festive, imperial, palatial… yes, this: like a palace: it would look like a kind of floating palace, majestic and terrible, to any poor soul out here on the ocean at night, alone in a dinghy, or not even in a dinghy but simply and terribly floating, a man overboard, treading water, out of sight of all land. This deep and creative visual trance—N. Ellery’s true and accidental gift to me—lasted all through the next day and night, which period I spent entirely in Cabin 1009, in bed, mostly looking out the spotless porthole, with trays and various rinds all around me, feeling maybe a little bit glassy-eyed but mostly good—good to be on the Nadir and good soon to be off, good that I had survived (in a way) being pampered to death (in a way)—and so I stayed in bed.