Mm Book Quotes

His hand lay across my stomach as he slept soundly. I entwined my fingers with his and breathed through the warmth that seeped through my chest. Such a simple, sweet thing to do, yet holding hands in bed was incredibly intimate.

And without my consent, with my defences in ruins, while my brain was sleeping, my stupid heart went and fell headfirst into love.

Because King Silas always gets what he wants, even if he doesn’t want anything more than to fuck with you.

I glanced back to Yanni to see him smiling at us. "You two can stop being so cute now." "Well, Spencer can," Andrew deadpanned. "I, unfortunately, am cute all the time." I laughed. "It's true. He is.

When I opened the door, Andrew was standing there like a remedy for heart palpitations. Or maybe he made them worse. It was hard to tell.

I kissed him softly and left my lips pressed to his for a few beats of my heart.

I think he won a tiny piece of my heart that day. If he didn't have the whole damn thing before then, he certainly had part of it now.

I get lost in you,” I whisper, wishing I could see her face but not wanting to move her. “Mm,” she says. “But it’s the kind of lost that’s like being found.

MM Romance books will change your life

I'm surprised I could actually talk with how much I was grinning.

I think you're something wonderful.

With a soft gasp from Aaron, the soundtrack started up in Joey’s brain again. Goldfrapp’s “Ooh La La” was perfect for blow jobs. If he sang along, his tongue did interesting things.

My last thought before falling asleep last night was a realisation that I was falling in love with Andrew. Well, not me exactly. My stupid, traitorous heart.

Hmm, do you mind if I put out your fire then?” I brushed his earlobe with my upper lip.

Sometimes, I just want to be comforted—I don’t want to be or appear to be stronger than I am.

Are you sure? What about your grandmother?” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter, and a beaming smile splayed across his mouth. “I’ll be out here with you when I come out.

You’re scared of sharing me in case you lose me?” - Adan

A smile curved the corners of his mouth under the dust-and soot-covered visor. “You’re crying? I answered his question with my tear-stricken gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.” He reached his hand out and I grasped it tightly.

If a writer's work lifts you, remain loyal to that experience, even after you've grown beyond it. The book did what it did at the time that you needed it. Don't put it down for not being able to grow with you. It did its job.

I’ll see you later,” I murmured. “Yeah.” Our foreheads pressed together. Our lips lingered half an inch apart. Thin ropes of dark hair hung over his forehead as sweat glistened across his face in the streetlights. “Love you.” “Love you more,” he murmured.

Touch me. Kiss me. I want you. I’ve never done it just for my pleasure, just for fun.

Victor waited until Ozols had passed out of the light before squeezing the trigger with smooth, even pressure. Suppressed gunshots interrupted the early morning stillness. Ozols was hit in the sternum, twice in rapid succession. The bullets were low powered, subsonic 5.7 mm, but larger rounds could have been no more fatal. Copper-encased lead tore through skin, bone, and heart before lodging side by side between vertebrae. Ozols collapsed backward, hitting the ground with a dull thud, arms outstretched, head rolling to one side. Victor melted out of the darkness and took a measured step forward. He angled the FN Five-seveN and put a bullet through Ozols’s temple. He was already dead, but in Victor’s opinion there was no such thing as overkill.

Well that ain’t so. You get babies from each other. But there’s this man, too—he has all these babies just waitin‘ to wake up, he breathes life into ’em…” Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself to sleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose the faded image of a gray house with sad brown doors. “Dill?” “Mm?” “Why do you reckon Boo Radley’s never run off?” Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me. “Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to run off to…

Every knot in the mystery I’d been trying to unravel was undone. I wanted Jack to be mine, and I wanted to be his.

If you can’t pay the bill, I’ll pay it for you.” “Thanks,” I said, and turned my head to the side. “But in exchange for what?

Eager?” “Just a little,” I breathed.

I don’t want to see my best partner heartbroken.” “It’s not like that.” “Uh-huh, sure.

Qian Meng suspected it'd be harder to rid himself of this man than it would be to get rid of his scars. Almost as if the cultivator was yet another one, this time branded across his soul.

What’s the story with you and that blonde woman?” I asked after a moment. “Sienna is my partner—I make a point of not mixing work and pleasure. It doesn’t go down well when things turn… pear-shaped.” “Fair enough, I guess.

Careful. I don’t want to have to do that again. Your veins are hard to find. You’d make a great pincushion for any trainee phlebotomist.” “Gee, thanks,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s guinea pig.

Chase grabbed Joey’s neck and hauled him into a kiss. Oh shit. Not again. It didn’t matter how many times it had been wrong, he still wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe it when he kissed a guy and everything inside said him. It had been wrong about Mark and Noah and Jorge and Tom and the whole list going right back to kissing Eduardo under the bleachers in tenth grade. Or maybe before. When he’d been three and told his mom he was going to marry his best friend Cody.

Qian Meng smiled, wide and blinding. It seemed to take the cultivator before him aback, Lei Hua's face going slack and his ruby lips parting. It was the first time the prince had shown such easy joy, and it revealed just how beautiful he was underneath his pain.

You are worthy," the man repeated, expectantly. "I, I don't know if I can say that," Qian Meng admitted, voice small. Lei Hua's soft smile tightened. "Then I will say it for you until you can muster it yourself. Again and again, for a lifetime—for two or three if that's what it takes.

Marin Marian-Bălaşa (full name) is the same as Marin Marian and/or Marin B. Marian. He authored articles, essays, and books under all these signatures. initially, the differentiation was meant to discriminate between various specializations; lately, he dropped the first (MM and MBM) ones.

Lei Hua had spent so much time alone. His family didn't count, for they loved him unconditionally. Qian Meng was the first to enjoy his company for exactly who he was, and it was an intoxicating feeling. One that made the cultivator unsure of whether he could even attempt to live without it.

Now, my all-time favorite accolade from a book reviewer was when Fernanda Pivano, Italy’s best-known critic, wrote in a leading Italian newspaper that “Tom Robbins is the most dangerous writer in the world.” I never read my reviews, even in English, but others sometimes pass choice bits along, so when I had occasion to meet the legendary Signora Pivano at a reception in Milan, I asked her what she meant by that wonderfully flattering remark. She replied, “Because you are saying zat love is zee only thing that matters and everything else eese a beeg joke.” Well, being uncertain, frankly, that is what I’d been saying, I changed the subject and inquired about her recent public denial that she’d ever gone to bed with Ernest Hemingway, whom she’d shown around Italy in the thirties. “Why didn’t you sleep with Hemingway?” I inquired. Signora Pivano sighed, closed her large brown eyes, shook her gray head, and answered in slow, heavily accented English, “I was a fool.” Okay, back to the New York Cinematheque. Why did I choose to go watch a bunch of jerky, esoteric, often self-indulgent 16mm movies rather than sleep with the sexy British actress? Move over, Fernanda, there’s room for two fools on your bus.

You are worthy," the man repeated, expectantly. "I, I don't know if I can say that," Qian Meng admitted, voice small. The cultivator's soft smile tightened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Then I will say it for you until you can muster it yourself. Again and again, for a lifetime—for two or three if that's what it takes.

like to see more of Vivian and Luca and maybe other Italian bachelors follow in Rafe’s footsteps, too. ;) I’d love to write a new romantic adventure for Rafe and Ari, too (but is that allowed for Kindle Worlds? Mm..).   Oh, and you can also write to me directly. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me via my website, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, or you can also email me.   A list of my works (arranged according to reading order) can be found here and you can also visit my author page on Amazon for book links.   Lastly, for updates on my newest releases and exclusive excerpts for upcoming releases, please consider signing up for my newsletter.   Thank you!

Lei Hua stared down at the shivering man before him, hands twitching to pull him into his chest. To soothe the prince's terrible past into something manageable. And if he couldn't do that, he wanted to storm out and kill every single person who'd ever wronged him. Tear their heads from their bodies and hold them out as favors of conquest.

You can't murder a book. Even I know that. But you know what you can do with a book, what you can do is burn it, or throw it out a window, or draw, mm, big hairy moustaches on all the ancient illustrations, and blacken the teeth of the women and children, and-- Oh God, don't. It's like talking about drowning babies. You are a terrible person.

The cultivator laughed, pointing at his slack expression. "My goodness, look at your face! Why ask if you thought I'd say no?" Qian Meng felt himself blush. "I don't know. It's a knee-jerk reaction to speak my mind when I'm around you. Is that some sort of power?" Lei Hua sat up, grinning as he clapped a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Yes, the power of charisma!" Qian Meng scowled, leaning away. "Forget I asked.

Lei Gong refused to look away from them, eyes narrowed to slits. Did he wonder just what caused scars like this, or was he well aware of the terrible injuries discipline whips left behind? He’d bet gold on the fact that Lei Gong didn’t have a single blemish marring his perfect skin, and that thought tore him up inside. Not because he wanted the man to have gone through a similar pain, but because he wished he hadn’t experienced his own.

Well, it’s not swollen,” he stated, rewrapping the bandage, “or bleeding or leaking, so I think it’s okay.” “I know. I’m training to be a nurse,” I replied. “Thanks though.” “Explains the curiosity and attitude.” “What?” I snapped. “I’m a trainee paramedic.” “Oh.” I looked away, chewing my lower lip. “Right.” “There’s a sense of rivalry between Emergency Medical Technicians, paramedics, and nurses—I don’t know the reason behind it.” “I know.

Then I realised that our Tiger too had cut out, and I tried to restart our motor frantically with the hand switch. I could hear that groaning voice from our turret still, and muttered dialogue between Wilf and Helmann, something about the gun. Then I saw our 88mm barrel swing around and depress in elevation, coming down over my head and pointing straight into the Stalin’s upper deck. I could actually see into the JS driver’s position through his vision slit – his lights were still on inside, and men were moving around in there, maybe struggling to restart their engine. In the next moment, we fired. I clearly saw our armour-piercing round burst through their upper armour, and enter inside the compartment. Through the Russian’s vision slit, I saw our warhead ricochet again and again inside there, flying chaotically around the confined space and bouncing off the steel walls, glowing bright red. Finally, the explosive charge in the rear of the shell detonated, in a plume of sparks.

I want to... have fun with writing again. Enjoy my work, enjoy playing with the language and characters like a sculptor plays with clay. But there's this manic focus on numbers--how many books have you written and how many have you sold and it's all push, push, push, and no time for reflection--but at heart, books are about dreaming... which is just the opposite. So I don't know... M.M. Bennetts comment to Nancy Bilyeau as related in Nancy's tribute "M.M. Bennetts: The Closest Friend I Never Met

Encyclopaedia. "They're a mixed lot," said Dravot, reflectively; "and it won't help us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they'll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm!" "But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it really. Here's the file of the United Services Institute. Read what Bellew says." "Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they're related to us English." I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps and the Encyclopaedia. "There is no use your waiting," said Dravot, politely, "It's about four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say good-bye to you." "You are two fools," I answered, "You'll be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommendation down-country?

My bones were broken so many times they might as well have been reformed, my skin was torn to the point of death. Yet every scar I bear reminds me of who I became, what I had lost, and what others could still lose because of things outside of their control. They are not a burden to me, nor is the pain, for it reminds me every day of what I value.” Lei Gong listened to him speak, breath held and heart stuttering. “Which is?” The dark cultivator turned toward him, eyes burning. “The same thing that you value. Justice for the sake of it, and the safeguard of those who need it. Our methods may differ, but our hearts are the same.

I was talking to my online book club, and they recommended …” She glances around the store as if we’re being watched and then leans in and lowers her voice. “Something called MM romance.” I purse my lips to stop from smiling. “We, uh, do have those books, but, umm, do you know what MM means?” When I started working here, I had no clue. She whispers, “It’s about the gays.” Do not laugh, Rainn. Do not laugh. It’s hard because her tone is so serious. “We keep those books over here.” We move toward the gay romance section, and her little face lights up. “Ooh, what’s better than one shirtless man on a cover but two?” A chuckle finally escapes. She reaches for a book, and my cheeks heat. “That one is kind of … advanced.

Todd closed his eyes, then, and found himself picturing the other boy involuntarily—surprising himself with the intrusiveness of the thought. It was that fucking smile: there was something about the way the corners of Zack’s eyes had crinkled—the sincerity of it. Todd had felt that smile like it hurt. That smile was sparks. That smile was fireworks. That smile sizzled across the dark landscape of his soul, racing toward the shadows and lighting them up in brief eruptions of pure electric intensity, banishing the corruption in moments of flickering respite. Todd felt them coursing through him like thousands of tiny explosions. Like a squadron of gemstones erupting all at once into an armageddon of prismatic color. Like all that energy was going to carry him to some unknown destination where he could be weightless: wrapped in all its warmth and light and certainty forever and ever. And while he might not know where that place was he desperately needed to go there. To be there, always. Even if the process consumed him entirely. Even if it unmade him. Todd felt as though a sun erupted to life inside of him, then. He felt awake. Alive. And for the first time in so very long he felt the fullness of warmth filling him to the very boundaries of every expanse of himself—defiantly radiating against the cold and dark and shadow that had made it’s home across so much of him for so much of his life. And then—just like that—just as he’d arrived in Todd’s life: Zack was gone. And there was an emptiness that followed in the vacuum of the next few moments. A dark. And Todd felt it—deeply—as all those fireworks and all those sparks and all that color that had momentarily lit up so brilliantly across the insides of him lost the gravity that had once possessed it. The sparkle. And then it was just him there: Todd. Alone. But not entirely. Not ever. Because there was always that other thing. The shadowy thing. The one that he did his very best not to think about at all. It lived out along the wildest fringes of his mind—dancing along the tattered edges of the real—onyx eyes glittering, always. And it was hungry, too.

As she explained to her students, patients often awoke from very bad illnesses or cardiac arrests, talking about how they had been floating over their bodies. “Mm-hmmm,” Norma would reply, sometimes thinking, Yeah, yeah, I know, you were on the ceiling. Such stories were recounted so frequently that they hardly jolted medical personnel. Norma at the time had mostly chalked it up to some kind of drug reaction or brain malfunction, something like that. “No, really,” said a woman who’d recently come out of a coma. “I can prove it.” The woman had been in a car accident and been pronounced dead on arrival when she was brought into the emergency room. Medical students and interns had begun working on her and managed to get her heartbeat going, but then she had coded again. They’d kept on trying, jump-starting her heart again, this time stabilizing it. She’d remained in a coma for months, unresponsive. Then one day she awoke, talking about the brilliant light and how she remembered floating over her body. Norma thought she could have been dreaming about all kinds of things in those months when she was unconscious. But the woman told them she had obsessive-compulsive disorder and had a habit of memorizing numbers. While she was floating above her body, she had read the serial number on top of the respirator machine. And she remembered it. Norma looked at the machine. It was big and clunky, and this one stood about seven feet high. There was no way to see on top of the machine without a stepladder. “Okay, what’s the number?” Another nurse took out a piece of paper to jot it down. The woman rattled off twelve digits. A few days later, the nurses called maintenance to take the ventilator machine out of the room. The woman had recovered so well, she no longer needed it. When the worker arrived, the nurses asked if he wouldn’t mind climbing to the top to see if there was a serial number up there. He gave them a puzzled look and grabbed his ladder. When he made it up there, he told them that indeed there was a serial number. The nurses looked at each other. Could he read it to them? Norma watched him brush off a layer of dust to get a better look. He read the number. It was twelve digits long: the exact number that the woman had recited. The professor would later come to find out that her patient’s story was not unique. One of Norma’s colleagues at the University of Virginia Medical Center at the time, Dr. Raymond Moody, had published a book in 1975 called Life After Life, for which he had conducted the first large-scale study of people who had been declared clinically dead and been revived, interviewing 150 people from across the country. Some had been gone for as long as twenty minutes with no brain waves or pulse. In her lectures, Norma sometimes shared pieces of his research with her own students. Since Moody had begun looking into the near-death experiences, researchers from around the world had collected data on thousands and thousands of people who had gone through them—children, the blind, and people of all belief systems and cultures—publishing the findings in medical and research journals and books. Still, no one has been able to definitively account for the common experience all of Moody’s interviewees described. The inevitable question always followed: Is there life after death? Everyone had to answer that question based on his or her own beliefs, the professor said. For some of her students, that absence of scientific evidence of an afterlife did little to change their feelings about their faith. For others,

All the while, here we sit, lost souls—struggling to reach the light, to breathe fresh air again.

Bill rolled his eyes. “The MM book with the guys on steroids on the cover, okay? I saw it.” The picture was imprinted in Bill’s memory. How two such bulky individuals could possibly contort their bodies so wildly boggled the mind. They didn’t even look like they could bend over, although he assumed they could.

killed them!" How could he have killed them? How could he have killed them and then ate and laughed and continued to live as though nothing had happened?

Suddenly something inside him snapped. Everything had happened so fast the last week he hadn't really processed anything; he'd made it a point not to process anything, but he couldn't ignore it any longer. He slipped down in the corner of the shower, burying his face in his hands, and he wept. He felt there must be some part of his soul missing, laying in the forest with the blood of all the men he'd killed. He knew Doyle was right; he knew he'd had to kill them; he had to if he wanted to live, but why? Why had they been willing to hunt him down? Why had they been willing to kill him? Shouldn't they have asked why? Shouldn't they have protested, questioned orders? But they hadn't. They hadn't. And he'd won… or he hadn't lost anyway. But the price, oh the price, it was high.

Voglio ribellarmi al destino.

Fuck. Yeah. He vacuumed in here. Son of a bitch. He vacuumed!

moaned loudly. The feeling of his cock entering me after having it in my mouth just felt so much more intense! It felt

I want to burn the fucking world.

I’m not scared.” “Neither am I. And I’m falling in love with you.

Lie back for me, baby.” He whimpers against my mouth. “What happened to Peach?” “It was always supposed to be baby.

....you told me you never wanted to see me again?” “I don’t think I said that.” “That’s what it felt like.” He gives me a weak excuse for a smirk. “You’re such an only child sometimes.

When I have him like this, he feels like he belongs to me. Like I found him and he’s mine, and that’s all there is to it. Close the book. We’re done.

I hate metaphors. If you can't understand something without a metaphor, what's the frigging point?

The relationship between BP and mortality in patients with stroke may be “U-shaped.” According to this notion, systolic BP (SBP) values above or below 140 to 180 mm Hg are associated with increased mortality. In the International Stroke Trial, SBP above 200 mm Hg was associated with an increased risk of recurrent ischemic stroke (50% greater risk of recurrence), while low BP (particularly <120 mm Hg) was associated with an excess number of deaths from coronary heart disease.

S.P. is a 68-year-old retired painter who is experiencing right leg calf pain. The pain began approximately 2 years ago but has become significantly worse in the past 4 months. The pain is precipitated by exercise and is relieved with rest. Two years ago, S.P. could walk two city blocks before having to stop because of leg pain. Today, he can barely walk across the yard. S.P. has smoked two to three packs of cigarettes per day (PPD) for the past 45 years. He has a history of coronary artery disease (CAD), hypertension (HTN), peripheral vascular disease (PVD), and osteoarthritis. Surgical history includes quadruple coronary artery bypass graft (CABG × 4) 3 years ago. He has had no further symptoms of cardiopulmonary disease since that time, even though he has not been compliant with the exercise regimen his cardiologist prescribed, he continues to eat anything he wants, and continues to smoke two to three PPD. Other surgical history includes open reduction internal fixation of the right femoral fracture 20 years ago. S.P. is in the clinic today for a routine semiannual follow-up appointment with his primary care provider. As you take his vital signs, he tells you that, besides the calf pain, he is experiencing right hip pain that gets worse with exercise, the pain doesn't go away promptly with rest, some days are worse than others, and his condition is not affected by a resting position. � Chart View General Assessment Weight 261 lb Height 5 ft, 10 in. Blood pressure 163/91 mm Hg Pulse 82 beats/min Respiratory rate 16 breaths/min Temperature 98.4° F (36.9° C) Laboratory Testing (Fasting) Cholesterol 239 mg/dL Triglycerides 150 mg/dL HDL 28 mg/dL LDL 181 mg/dL Current Medications Lisinopril (Zestril) 20 mg/day Metoprolol (Lopressor) 25 mg twice a day Aspirin 325 mg/day Simvastatin (Zocor) 20 mg/day Case Study 4 Name Class/Group Date ____________________ Group Members INSTRUCTIONS All questions apply to this case study. Your responses should be brief and to the point. When asked to provide several

A wish: to abolish walls between mouths. Mm-mmm the taste of it. Luckily keeps flowing in the text and on my tongue, erotic substitutes, and luckily that tipsy feeling in the dark, inside beside a cheek so just enjoy, rejoice in the juice, turn and return to that first excitement. What is excitement? Encouragement to do what you feel like doing when seen by someone else / the reader in company with Lucy, Georges or Alexandre, or Elle; being used to spinning out one’s dreams by muddling one’s own reflection in the mirror so marvellously that paradoxes come to life and whatever the cost force a retake of the sentences, the caresses that started the excitement (what did we say it was?), stimulated spine and breasts dandled in a hand, a phallus emerged invitation to oblivion, to the feel of rhythmic shudder, loins more titillating than some corny happy-ever-after tale, pelvic basins the pornographic mudholes of one’s imagination. Narrator fem. / masc. Pelvic basins liquid base.

The Worms New Testament was printed in octavo, which simply means that a single page was equivalent to one-eighth of a single large sheet. It measured roughly 6¾” by 4¼” (170 mm x 108 mm). It was small, and practical in its smallness. This little brick of paper could easily be tucked in a gown or a sleeve (pockets were not in fashion just yet). Stealth was the wiser fashion for an outlawed book. Concealment was part of the charm of having

If the internal pressure in the lungs compared to the ambient pressure exceeds 80 mm Hg (equivalent to around 2 to 3 ft water pressure), the lungs may be damaged and gas bubbles can be forced directly into the arterial side. This can be from holding one's breath when there is a pressure change (ascending) to ascending so fast that normal exhaling is not fast enough (run away ascent).

...soon I discovered that a good book is the next best thing after a porch to hide under." -Julia

Jaxon had always been the one to make sure to never put his escapades on any of his credit cards, although she knew he was unfaithful and his travel agent booked all trips. “Mm

Blank 8mm tapes VHS-C Tapes Floppy Discs Typewriter Ribbon 3.5mm Disc Toner Cartridges Printer Ink

We will all explode, like an atomic bomb Someday ... The safety will go off it can't hold forever Our hearts will raise faster and faster, Our blood will spur, our perception will increase The time that we perceive, we will control it! We won't let it go. Things will become reality and reality will be just a next page on a book. And like the talented writer, who once he's got his muse knows no stop, we won't know any stop. We will fly, just like words in poetry. We will rhyme and create melody, Music. We will be infinite

We will all explode, like an atomic bomb Someday ... The safety will go off it can't hold forever Our hearts will raise faster and faster, Our blood will spur, our perception will increase The time that we perceive, we will control it! We won't let it go. Things will become reality and reality will just be a next page on a book. And like the talented writer, who once he's got his muse knows no stop, we won't know any stop. We will fly, just like words in poetry. We will rhyme and create melody, Music. We will be infinite

Lei Gong's eyes were a deep, luminous crimson ringed in amber. A color he'd never seen in any human, nor God. It was a gaze a maiden fell into without resistance, and one any average man fled from. But he was no average man.

Why did you believe me to be a God?" "You are willing to commit deeds others do not have the courage for in order to protect the world from evil. That is righteous, that is just." Qian Meng blinked at him. Is that what he was doing?

The dark cultivator hoped that if he was angry for long enough, the God would decide he wasn't worth the effort of sweet words and kind smiles.

What had he done to deserve this? Was killing evil people truly so detestable? Or was it because he held no allegiances? Refused to cultivate the normal, rule-paved path? Tall trees attract the wind, but he had never thought being exceptional by his own merit was a crime. That it meant every person he'd slain, no matter how obviously criminal they were, was suddenly touted as innocent. Where was justice? Where was the amiable, gentle strength of the cultivators he'd looked up to all his life?

If he didn't need to, Qian Meng preferred not to think about the blood shed that day. Both his own and others... But the world wouldn't let him. It had been so long since it occurred, and yet the rumors grew out of control rather than diminish. He'd long since known the explanation—only villains were remembered so clearly, and Qian Meng had never once claimed to be the hero.

He wanted to move closer, to ask questions and learn. The compulsion burned within him to the point of tasting ash on the back of his tongue. But there was a clear line between those with power and those without, and Qian Meng was well aware of which side he stood on.

Even upon first meeting him, Qian Meng was certain the man was a storm to be weathered. Wherever he went, the cultivator surely grasped exactly what he wanted without resistance. People no doubt threw themselves at his feet just to be noticed, even if it was simply to step over them.

Maintaining the shivering balance of power in this god-forsaken palace was a priority if only to stave off future pain. And yet... Here he was. Sitting across from the cultivator and reveling in the way their energies had become so synced Qian Meng could feel them Lei Hua from a Li away. Two Li. A lifetime, perhaps. As if they were blessed by the Celestial Beings to meet and bond over magic. It was a fool's notion, or a desperate one, or both. Qian Meng was well aware of that.

Qian Meng felt a small part of himself aching to speak past his loathsome feelings, but he was, by and large, a coward always looking to save himself some pain.

Your presence makes me rise from bed each morning and smile as I go to sleep. While I may tease you about it, my words are true. Meeting you was no mistake, and you are not a burden.

Oh, no," the king murmured, leaning so close Qian Meng was forced to lock gazes with him. "It seems you've become stubborn as of late, and I do not blame you. It's a human response when one has something to fight for.

His twin twitched, and Qian Meng smirked a little. He knew it was a struggle for Zihao to look him in the eye. The coward lasted all of ten seconds at best, but it was enough. A shiver of revulsion echoed between them, their very cores recognized a finite difference. While being of the same blood, they were a paradox. Destined to rebound off one another for eternity, forever linked, but never united.

Everything felt perfect, like he’d paid the terrible price for happiness and he was, finally, reaping the rewards. The smile blooming on his lips was hesitant, and he pressed two fingers there. It was then that the universe struck back.

deep dish is, I’m craving stuffed crust.

I want to unfold him like a map, trace all his beginnings and endings, then wrap myself up in him, tight.

Miranda was suddenly reminded of the roses in the garden at Mallow: one day so beautiful in their velvety perfection, and the next, overblown and fading. Stella was like the roses, she thought; and like them, she would fade quickly. Her looks were not of the kind that will outlast youth, and soon there would be nothing left of that bright prettiness, and little to show that it had ever existed.

She brays like a donkey.” “Mm, I was thinking she sounded more like a goose.

Are you Colt?” he muttered, coming to stand in front of me. “Yeah.” “I want an hour.” “Two-fifty now, two-fifty later,

Okay… what do I have to do?” “What’s your name?” “Colt.” “You don’t want to get mixed up in this shit, Colt. It’s dangerous, in more ways than one.” He turned and began walking again. “No, I don’t want to,” I breathed, jogging to keep up with his long strides. “I have to… I don’t have much of a choice.

You saved me, again.” I glanced around, thankful no one was around or they would have been staring. I felt so stupid in his arms. Small, weak, and klutzy. The side of Brett’s mouth quirked as his brows pulled together. “Again?” “Last night,” I murmured, looking back at him as he set me down beside him. “You’re like a knight—always there when I need you.” “I’m no knight, Colt. Far from it—you know that.” ”Robin Hood, then.” He chuckled.

Oh yeah, and how do I know that? Because from where I stand, if you hadn’t stepped in, I think he might have.” He laughed. “Damien doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He spiked your drink because he was nervous—why do you think he backed down so easily?” “So that makes it all okay, does it?” I snapped. “Because he was too nervous to get laid for the first time the simple, safe way? That’s petty and sick...” Then something occurred to me. “But why me?” Brett dropped his gaze to his tan suede hiking boots. He paused and tapped a toe against the linoleum. “Brett?” I snapped, knowing he was keeping something from me. “I may have suggested he talk to you,” he murmured. “What? Oh for fuck’s sake!” “Damien wouldn’t have hurt you, Colt.

You should have followed me out! That guy could have just as easily taken advantage of me, Brett!” “Exactly why I’m here now, making sure you’re okay.” “Too bad if Chris ended up dragging me off to a gutter instead of a hospital then, huh?

Your crowd isn’t very… honorable,” I muttered, “I thought you were better than that.” His eyes narrowed. “My crowd has changed.” “So you like hanging around troublemaking no-hopers now?

I was denying myself. I knew, but… I was faced with the past again, you know. To admit that I liked you, I had to also admit that I’m gay, and while I don’t have a problem with that…” He trailed off, sighing as he shook his head. “It’s confusing.” “No, it’s not.” I took his hand and twined our fingers. For some reason, it felt familiar. “You don’t want to be the gay kid who made his father crash, but by admitting you like me, you had to face your past… like I do every day.

The name’s Damien,” he stated, sliding behind the table. He wore an open black jacket and jeans. “Colt.” “I haven’t seen you here before.” “First time.” I lifted the glass to my mouth. “Are you enjoying yourself?” I nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. The music is great,” I replied, turning my head. “Do you come here often?” “Almost every night.

I was calling you earlier when your name and number flashed up on my cell’s screen. But instead of it being you, it was Chris.” “You still have my number programed into your phone?

Do you visit all your patients?” I asked, peeking up at him. He chuckled, and slid behind the nurses’ station. He paused in the doorway of the stockroom, then turned. “Only the really special ones,” he murmured, chocolate gaze sparkling as he winked and entered the supply room.