Kristen Boss Quotes

Righty ho, biker boss,” I muttered quickly and Shy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be fuckin’ cute and, honest to God, if you lick your lip, I’ll lose my mind. Next time you lick your lip you do it when we are nowhere near a public place and I can let loose the reaction I’ve had half a million fuckin’ times over four fuckin’ years every time I’ve seen you do it.

So, my conservative-looking, suit-wearing boss has a tattoo and has his penis pierced?” I ask with a smile. Nate laughs and takes another pull on his beer. “Yes. You didn’t seem to mind the piercing, if memory serves correctly.

Just so you know, I speak English. You don’t have to macho-speak with shit like ‘you with me’ after you macho-speak with a bunch of bossing me around. I get you. I’m with you. Or if I’m not, I’ll tell you.” “Noted,” he muttered but sounded like he was smiling. I made the diplomatic decision not to look.

There is a metal bar with two small balls, one at the top and one on the underside, in the end of his penis, and I’m completely thrown. Nate, my suit-wearing, conservative-looking except for the long hair thing boss has his penis pierced?

I’d lived through six of these and had intimate details. No way that shit was happening with me. Some over-the-top macho guy forcing his way into my life, taking it over and bossing me around? Unh-unh. I didn’t care if it came with regular orgasms. That shit was not for me.

I will not blush, act like an idiot or a shrew. I will be professional. This is a job. Only a job. He’s my boss. He’s a handsome one but a jerky one and I slept with him, but he’s just my boss. I embrace my inner slut. Sluts wouldn’t blush, act like idiots or shrews. They would just go about their business. Therefore, I am a slut and I am proud,

Like I said, when I get pissed I say a lotta shit I don't mean and what I said about you I didn't mean," he repeated, beginning to look as impatient as he sounded. "And like I said, you're old enough to learn you shouldn't do that," I repeated too, probably also looking impatient. "That isn't me," he replied. "Well, then, this obviously is eating you and that's your consequence because I have feelings and you walked all over them and you can't order me to shake it off so you can feel better. It's there, burned in my brain and I can't just forget it because you tell me to. So you have to live with that. You can't and want me gone, say it now because I'm beginning to like Betty and I met Shambles and Sunny and I'm having dinner with them tomorrow night and I'd rather not make ties when I'm going to need to hit the road because my boss is going to get rid of me." "Shambles and Sunny?" he asked. "Shambles and Sunny," I answered but didn't share more. "Now, can we just move on and do our best to work together and all other times avoid each other or do you want me to go?" He moved forward an inch and I again fought the urge to retreat. "Forgiveness is divine," he said softly and I'd never heard him talk soft. He had a very nice voice but when it went soft, it was beautiful. This also sucked. (BTW, in the beginning a lot of things sucked! :D) I mean Lauren uses this word 'sucks'. "I'm not divine," I returned. "I'm also not Ace and I'm not Babe. I'm Lauren. You don't like my name, don't call me anything at all. Now can I clean the danged table?" I had my head tipped back to look him in the eye but I could tell he was expending effort to hold his whole body still. Then he said in that soft voice, "I'm sorry, Ace." "Me too," I replied instantly being clear I didn't accept his apology...

I envy the people who stop eating when they’re stressed. I’m an emotional eater. I eat my feelings, and unfortunately, they aren’t fat free. They taste a lot like Ben and Jerry’s.

Let your trust in God boss around your feelings about change instead of the other way around.

He hadn’t been kidnapped. He hadn’t been bossed around. He hadn’t been forced to receive an injection from some woman he barely knew. Why he sounded beleaguered she’d never know

In a particularly creepy twist, Kristen’s former employer revealed that the company’s Australian branch had fired Kristen two weeks before our Chile trip. Why? Because she’d assaulted her boss, Lucas, at a company outing. Apparently she shoved the tiny man into a shelf of liquor bottles following an altercation. Another disturbing detail:

Jason faced Kristen: Truth be, he's not a skier. But he use to be hell with a snowboard. Dean : Used to being the operative words But Kristen pictured a younger Dean, in a cooler coat and a trendy knit cap. Having seen him laugh, she guessed he'd probably laughed on the slopes, that he'd loved the challenge of the snowboard and the rush of speed as he flew down winding hills. Once again her heart ached that one tragic episode in his life had taken a probably happy young man and turned him into someone afraid to live. (Chapter 10)

They don’t see that they have a talent that is immensely valuable to those around them. Comparison

No offense to Brandon, but Kristen was turning into my favorite co-worker. And if I had to get bossed around, I’d rather it be by her any day.

The minute I saw it, regardless of the drugs pumping numbness through my system, I smiled. Pure Tack. The biker boss to end all biker bosses, his woman was unconscious when we officially became engaged.

It was good to see her. She filled me up. Even when she was giving me shit and bossing me around, it was like taking a deep breath just being near her. She charged my batteries, dragged me back to myself. She looked beautiful—but she didn’t look good. Pale. Thin. She’d lost weight—a lot of it. She wasn’t taking care of herself. I couldn’t do shit for myself at the moment, but I could do anything for her. I would take care of her if she let me. But this was the first time she’d even spoken to me in weeks. I hadn’t given up. I could never give up on her. But I’d gotten tired. She was so stubborn, so implacable, and my heart was worn. Without Kristen and Brandon, I couldn’t move anymore. I wanted to talk to him about her and talk to her about him. And both of them were gone. The enormity of it was too big to wrap my brain around. I was never going to see him again. Never sit with him in a duck blind and bullshit. Never talk to him again about Kristen, or Sloan, or anything. I wasn’t going to be his best man. He’d never be mine. Our kids wouldn’t play together. Eleven years. We’d been friends for eleven years. And he was just gone. His life was over. He’d gotten all he was going to get. And I didn’t know how to move on from that. So I didn’t move at all.

I called my hairstylist to book an emergency cut and color. Okay, maybe, it's vain, but if I have to drive all the way out to Macon's place by myself and somehow convince him not to press charges, I need to look as good as possible. So here I am, hair beautifully styled and angled just so around my face with pretty caramel and golden highlights designed to make my nut-brown hair look sun kissed. I went full out at the salon and had my brows shaped and a mani-pedi as well. Yes, I am guilty of primping, but it's not vanity; it's war paint. One does not go into battle without armor. To that end, I put on my favorite short-sleeve cream knit top that clings in all the good places but flows around my less desirable spots and an ink-blue skirt that hugs my hips and gently flares around my knees. Maybe it's overkill, but at least I look put together yet no nonsense. Unflappable. Professional.

The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that reduced men to obedient puppies. While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.

Setting my shoulders back, I cross the room, aware of my clicking heels and swaying hips, aware of Macon watching me. I'm being overtly sexual, but there is power in that. A woman can choose to embrace it when it suits. And it definitely suits me now. If my lipstick is stating, "Fuck off," my body is saying, "This is what you missed out on, and you haven't cowed me one bit." Petty? Maybe. Enjoyable? Definitely.