Nip In The Air Quotes

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.

Sir?” said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room. He’s like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I’ve got a cousin who’s what they call a Theosophist, and he says he’s often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn’t quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.

Her mouth was on his with such ferocity, it knocked him back a step. He managed to haul her back so he could gasp for air and answers. "Not that I'm complaining." "Then don't. Shut up and put out Savoie." "You are so romantic, detective." She chained rough kisses about his neck. "What if I can't perform under this unexpected pressure?" Her hand dropped below his belt for an assessing fondle. "Just my luck. Appears to be high performance all the way." He chuckled and began to nuzzle and nip at her rather roughly, his attention supercharged by her aggression. "And what kind of handling are you looking for?" "Fast and reckless

there was a nip in the air;

The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the back of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that nosy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

You and McNab sat around talking about women and sports." "I don't believe we got to sports. He had a woman on his mind." Eve's sneer vanished. "You talked to him about Peabody? Damn it, Roarke." "I could hardly slap him back. He's so pitifully smitten." "Oh." She winced. "Don't use that word." "It fits. In fact, if he took my advice ..." He turned his wrist, glanced at the unit fastened there. "They should be well into their first date by now." "Date? Date? Why did you do that? Why did you go and do something like that? Couldn't you leave it alone? They'd have had sex until they burned out on it, and everything would go back to normal." He angled his head. "That didn't work for us, did it?" "We don't work together." Then, when his eyes brightened with pure amusement, she showed her teeth. "Officially. You start mixing cops and romance and case files and gooey looks at briefings, you've got nothing but a mess. Next thing you know, Peabody will be wearing lip dye and smelly girl stuff and dragging body skimmers under her uniform." She dropped her head in her hands. "Then they'll have tiffs and misunderstandings that have nothing whatsoever to do with the job. They'll come at me from both sides, and before you know it, they'll be telling me things I absolutely do not want to know. And when they break it off and decide they hate each other down to the guts, I'll have to hear about that, too, and why they can't possibly work together, or breathe the same air, until I have no choice, absolutely no choice, but to kick both of their asses." "Eve, your sunny view on life never fails to lift my spirits." "And -- " She poked him in the chest. "It's all your fault." He grabbed her finger, nipped it, not so gently. "If that's the case, I'm going to insist they name their first child after me.

He's like one of those weird birds in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.

Corruption hangs in the air around a great talent. Such a gift is unstable by nature, apt to embarrass its handlers. About her there is the whiff of the entertainer. Like vaudeville nipping the heels of grand opera. The maestro smells all this on Kathleen and cools his blood to a temperature undetectable by wild animals.

Reluctant to return to the empty rooms of Bluebell Cottage, Olivia ate fish and chips on the harbor wall, dangling her legs over the side just like she used to as a little girl, even though it made her mam anxious. The breeze nipped at the back of her neck and whipped up a fine sea spray that settled on her hands, leaving sparkling salt crystals as it dried. Fairy dust, she used to call it. She breathed in the fresh air and absorbed the view: tangerine sky and dove-gray sea, ripples on the surface of both, like dragon scales. She savored the sharp tang of vinegar on her tongue, letting her thoughts wander as the sun slowly melted into the sea, turning it to liquid gold.

The Chablis runs smooth throughout. Then the vol-au-vents, light as a puff of summer air, then elderflower sorbet followed by plateau de fruits de mer with grilled langoustines, gray shrimps, prawns, oysters, berniques, spider crabs and the bigger torteaux- which can nip off a man's fingers as easily as I could nip a stem of rosemary- winkles, palourdes, and atop it all a giant black lobster, regal on its bed of seaweed. The huge platter gleams with reds and pinks and sea greens and pearly whites and purples, a mermaid's cache of delicacies that gives off a nostalgic salt smell, like childhood days at the seaside. We distribute crackers for the crab claws, tiny forks for the shellfish, dishes of lemon wedges and mayonnaise.

The fish, whose tail was nipped, separated itself from the group and began to appear sickly, most likely from stress, Coal reasoned. He refused to be this fish, or the belly up fish, or the blue fish gasping for air. Rather, he resolved to be the other fish, the one who found purpose and meaning despite the unnatural environment, despite depending upon keepers for survival.

He's like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.

As he sat he felt the outside of her thigh, firm, against his, and she felt the outside of his, likewise firm, against hers. She said, “Aren’t you going to take that off?” She meant the black robe, which he had forgotten he was wearing, and he looked down at himself and over at her, and smiled, and answered, “You first.” She laughed. “Together, then.” “Together.” They stood and pulled off their robes, facing each other, and underneath both were wearing jeans and sweaters, there being a nip in the air tonight, and his sweater was brown and loose and hers was beige and clung to her torso like a soft second skin. He attempted chivalrously not to take in the sweep of her body, his eyes holding hers, but of course, as we know often happens in such circumstances, he was unsure as to whether or not he had succeeded, one’s gaze being less than entirely conscious a phenomenon. They sat back down and she placed her fist on her thigh, palm up, and opened it. “Have you ever done psychedelic mushrooms?” she asked.

The soft autumn sunshine of hazy gold lay on the streets, but there was a nip, a sharpness in the air that put an electric sparkle into everything. The solid world was really lighter than it looked. There was a covert brilliance ready to dart forth into swift-rushing flame. He felt the throbbing sheen and rustle on the golden light, and his heart sang with joy above the heavy streets and pavements. He was aware of a point of view that almost denied weight to inert matter, making the dead mass of the universe alive and dancing. The nip and sparkle in the air interpenetrated all these fixed and heavy things, these laborious structures, these rigid forms, dissolving them into flowing, everychanging patterns of fluid loveliness. He saw them again as powder, the parks and roads blown everywhere, the pavements lifted, the wall wide open to the sky. The solid earth became transparent, flooded with light and air. It seemed etherialized. It spread great golden wings towards the blazing sun and limitless sky. Air knew no fixed and rigid forms. Societies, of course, were only cages. He saw the huge cage of the earth blow open. Humanity flew out at last…

The July sun blazed in the middle of the sky and the atmosphere was gay and carefree, while in the windless air not a leaf stirred in the poplars and willows lining the banks of the river. In the distance ahead, the conspicuous bulk of Mont-Valérien loomed, rearing the ramparts of its fortifications in the glare of the sun. On the right, the gentle slopes of Louveciennes, following the curve of the river, formed a semi-circle within which could be glimpsed, through the dense and shady greenery of their spacious lawns, the white-painted walls of weekend retreats. On the land adjoining La Grenouillère strollers were sauntering under the gigantic trees which help to make this part of the island one of the most delightful parks imaginable. Busty women with peroxided hair and nipped-in waists could be seen, made up to the nines with blood red lips and black-kohled eyes. Tightly laced into their garish dresses they trailed in all their vulgar glory over the fresh green grass. They were accompanied by men whose fashion-plate accessories, light gloves, patent-leather boots, canes as slender as threads and absurd monocles made them look like complete idiots.

So Tony played baseball. That is, indeed, just about all that Tony did do. I don't know why it appealed so much to Tony. I suppose it was because in baseball you a part of something, the team, but at the same time you are alone. No one can get close to you, everyone is at his specific position on the field. Mostly, Tony liked to hit. That's what baseball is about, finally - one person with one stick of wood finding that one spot on the baseball that makes everything connect. Everything. Not just the bat and ball. It makes everything connect.' Tanya tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. 'Do you know what I mean?' Crybaby nodded violently - he'd had a few nips at the bottle himself. 'A guy I played with called it 'the sweet spot.' Oh boy, do I know what you mean! Sometimes you could smack that ball and everything would make sense. As long as that ball was up in the air, everything would make sense. I used to have a dream, when I was younger, that one day I'd pop one, and it'd go up in the air and over the infield and over the outfield and out of the park and just keep going. Around and around the world, just like the moon. And everything would make sense.

Subway tunnels breathe. They exhale when trains come and inhale when they leave. Their concrete lungs fill with smoke and soot and rubber and the scents of a hundred ladies’ perfumes. When trains aren’t running, the tunnels hold their breath. They might let wisps of warm air drift into the cold night, draw in slow nips of bracing frost, but mostly they sit still, waiting for trains to bring them back to life. A thousand times a day their breath coursed over Joe Tesla’s body. It was not so warm as human breath, nor yet so cold as stone. He was used to it, now. Because he lived here, underground, in the tunnels of New York City.

As soon as we arrived home, I told Bliss I was going to take a shower. Sundays were a two-show day, so I certainly needed it. I let her go in first to brush her teeth. I waited for the water to turn on, then leapt into action. I found Hamlet’s feathered cat toy (the only reason she would ever willingly get close to Bliss), and hid it underneath the bed. Then I went to the closet and found the suit coat pocket where I’d hidden the ring. I popped open the box to look at it one more time. It wasn’t much. I was only an actor, after all. But Bliss wasn’t one to wear much jewelry any way. It was simple and sparkling, and I hoped she would love it as much as I loved her. A popping sensation filled my gut like those silly candy rocks that Bliss loved. What if I was pushing her too fast? No. No, I’d thought this out. It was the best way. I opened the top drawer of the nightstand, and slid the ring box toward the back. The water in the bathroom shut off, and I went back to the closet, shucking my shirt. I tossed it in the hamper at the same time Bliss walked in the room. She came up behind me and placed a hand on my bare back. She pressed a small kiss on my shoulder and asked, “Get Hamlet for me before you shower?” I smiled, and nodded. Bliss was so determined to make Hamlet like her that she played with the cat for at least half an hour before bed every night. Hamlet would stick around for as long as Bliss waved that feathered toy in the air, but the minute Bliss tried to touch her, she was gone. I found Hamlet in the kitchen, hiding underneath the kitchen table. I reached a hand down, and she butted her head against my fingers, purring. I picked her up at the same time that Bliss asked, “Babe, have you seen the cat toy?” I walked into the room, and deposited Hamlet on the bed. She hunkered down and eyed Bliss with distrust. “Where did you see it last?” I asked her. “I thought I’d left it on the dresser, but I can’t find it. “ I petted Hamlet once to keep her calm, then placed a quick kiss on Bliss’s cheek. “I don’t know, honey. Are you sure you didn’t leave it somewhere else?” She sighed, and started looking in other spots around the room. I turned and hid my smile as I left. I nipped into the bathroom and turned the shower on. I waited a few seconds, went back in the hallway.

What’s the meaning of this?” Papa strode toward us. “You’ve disturbed the entire household, Andrew.” Mama gripped his arm. “For goodness sake, Henry, don’t frighten the child. Haven’t you done enough damage? I told you not to whip him!” Papa made an effort to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he squatted in front of me. “What’s troubling you, son?” he asked. “Surely a spanking didn’t cause this.” Aching with sadness, I put my arms around his neck. I’d won, I’d finally beaten Andrew. I’d thought I’d be happy, but I wasn’t. “I don’t want to leave you and Mama,” I sobbed. Papa held me tight. “Now, now,” he said. “Where did you get such a silly notion? You aren’t going anywhere.” While Papa comforted me, Andrew climbed onto his father’s shoulders, piggyback style. No one saw him but me. No one heard him say, “Hush Drew, you’re shaming me in front of everyone.” Ignorant of Andrew’s presence, Papa shivered. “Fall’s coming. Feel the nip in the air?” Hannah and Theo were waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. “Mama,” Theo whispered, “is Andrew sick again?” Mama shook her head, but Theo looked unconvinced. Slipping his hand in Hannah’s, he watched Papa lay me on my bed. On the other side of the room, Andrew took a seat in the rocking chair. It was obvious he didn’t enjoy being invisible. Staring at Hannah and Theo, he rocked the chair vigorously. When that didn’t get their attention, he sang “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” at the top of his lungs. But no matter what he said or did, he couldn’t make his sister or his brother see or hear him. I knew Andrew was sad, but I was even sadder. When Mama leaned over to kiss me, I hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe. “I’ll never forget you,” I whispered. Mama drew back. “What did you say?” “Nothing,” I mumbled. “I love you, Mama.” She smiled. “Well, for goodness sake, you little jackanapes, I love you too.” Smoothing the quilt over me, she turned to the others. “What Andrew needs is a good night’s sleep. In the morning, he’ll be himself again, just wait and see.” “I hope so,” Andrew said.

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!

The renegade strand of hair nipped her eyes once more. With a swift, steady hand, Oscar pushed it away from her face. His fingertip left a trail of fire along her cheek. Camille reached up to help him tuck the strand back, and their fingers met. She knew for certain the flush had returned to her ears. Oscar dropped his arm and walked to the rail, wrapping his strong hands around the carved wood. “He is used to having things go his way,” Oscar said, his voice low and only for her ears. Camille moved to stand beside hm. “Have you always done everything he’s asked of you?” She was cautious not to come off sounding snide. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail tighter, as if to hold something back. Hold something in. “No.” She hadn’t expected him to give her an answer, and certainly not that one. “No? I don’t believe it. What have you done that’s gone against his wishes?” Oscar had been her father’s shadow since day one. He’d watched and obeyed William Rowen with the kind of devotion any eager apprentice would show his teacher. Oscar had been staring at the water, at the mounting churn of the waves. Now he shifted his eyes to her and fixed her with a look so strong and deep, she felt helpless beneath it. “He asked me to stop associating with you,” he answered, still hushed. Camille’s eyes watered with mortification and dread. Her father had spoken to Oscar, too. She wiped her sweaty palms on the hips of her trousers. “But clearly,” Oscar continued, leaning toward her, “I didn’t listen.” His gaze revolved out to the ocean again, releasing Camille. Air flowed back down her windpipe. This was beyond humiliation. Her father couldn’t do this. He couldn’t order people to stop speaking to her. “Why not?” she asked, her breath uneven from a cross of fury and the steadfast way Oscar had looked at her. “He could fire you.” He moved away from the rail. “If he wants to fire me for speaking to you, for looking at you…” He turned back to her on his way to the quarterdeck and held her gaze again. “Then I’ll risk it.” She watched in awe as Oscar took the helm from a sailor and placed himself behind the great spoked wheel. He’d risk everything he had to be able to speak with her, to just look at her. His bravery made her feel no taller than a hermit crab. She’d so quickly, dutifully, accepted her father’s request to set her focus solely on Randall. But she mattered to Oscar. She mattered, and that one truth made her wish she was brave enough to risk everything, too.

It was autumn in Bear Country, and the sights and the sounds of the season were all around. The leaves on the trees were turning orange, red, and gold. There was a nip in the air, and the sky was a brilliant blue. Flocks of geese flew overhead honking their way south for the winter. Out in his cornfield, Farmer Ben was up on his big red tractor harvesting his crop. Papa, Brother, and Sister Bear waved to him as they drove up the long drive to the farm. Papa was delivering some new furniture for Mrs. Ben. It was a fine new kitchen table and chairs. Ben climbed down from his tractor and went to meet them at the farmhouse. Papa and the cubs unloaded the table and chairs and carried them inside. Mrs. Ben was pleased.

They stood and pulled off their robes, facing each other, and underneath both were wearing jeans and sweaters, there being a nip in the air tonight, and his sweater was brown and loose and hers was beige and clung to her torso like a soft second skin. He attempted chivalrously not to take in the sweep of her body, his eyes holding hers, but of course, as we know often happens in such circumstances, he was unsure as to whether or not he had succeeded, one’s gaze being less than entirely conscious a phenomenon. They

What the f**k is this?” Trevor didn’t rise to the bait, as he hadn’t for the last several days. Calmly, he asked, “What?” “This.” Edgard threw the pristine, custom-made saddle on the ground within Trevor’s peripheral view. Shit. How had Edgard found it? And why in the hell had that bastard gone snooping around instead of figuring out what was wrong with Meridian like he’d promised? “Trev? I asked you a question.” “You know damn good and well what it is, Ed.” “I figured you would’ve gotten rid of it by now.” “Well, I didn’t.” Edgard practically growled, “That don’t tell me why you still have it. That don’t tell me nothin’.” Trevor turned his face toward the opposite fence to gaze across to the mountains. His reasons for keeping the saddle seemed sentimental, sloppy and stupid now, but he’d be damned if he’d share those reasons with anyone, least of all Edgard, the man responsible for those feelings. Bootsteps made a sucking sound in the muck of the corral as Edgard closed the short distance between them. “I ain’t gonna drop it. Answer me.” “Fine. You said I could do whatever I wanted with it. So I kept it.” “You didn’t use it at all, did you?” Trevor shook his head, keeping his eyes averted. “Why not?” “I have plenty of other saddles, saddles I like better.” “That’s a piss-poor excuse. Try again.” He stayed mum, wishing the damn mud would open up and swallow him like a sinkhole. “Were you hoping if you kept it I’d come back?” Trevor’s heart said yes but his mouth stayed tight as a rusty hinge. “Answer the f**king question, Trevor.” Edgard’s arrogant streak snapped Trevor’s forced patience. “What do you want me to say? It’s obvious I saved the goddamn saddle.” “Why?” “Because it reminded me of you, all right?” He kicked a chunk of mud and stalked away. “Fuck this and f**k you.” Edgard rattled off something in Portuguese, something Trevor vaguely remembered as being a plea. Or was it a threat? Dammit. His feet stopped. Trevor’s gaze zeroed in on Edgard, who’d circled him until they were standing less than a foot apart. “Tell me why.” Be cruel, that’ll nip this in the bud once and for all. “I didn’t keep the f**kin’ thing because I had some girlish goddamn hope you’d come back lookin’ for it like Cinderella’s lost glass slipper, and we’d pick up where we left off after you left me.” He locked his eyes to the liquid heat in Edgard’s, not allowing the man to look away. “Especially after you made it crystal clear you weren’t ever comin’ back.” Angry puffs of breath distorted the air between them. Several beats passed before Edgard retorted, “But I am here now, aren’t I?” “What? Am I supposed to be flippin’ cartwheels about that fact? I don’t know what you want from me, Ed. Take the saddle back if that’ll make you happy. I’ve got no use for it. I never did.” Angry, disgusted with himself, Edgard, and the whole uncomfortable situation, Trevor spun and walked toward the barn. Edgard laughed—the taunting, soft laughter that was guaranteed to raise Trevor’s hackles and his ire. “It’s that easy for you? To get pissed off and walk away?” “Yep. You’ve got no right to act so goddamned surprised since it’s a trick I learned from you, amigo.” Not two seconds later, the air left Trevor’s lungs as Edgard tackled him to the ground. Trevor rolled to dislodge the man from his back; Edgard countered, took a swing and missed. Trevor bucked and twisted his shoulders, but Edgard anticipated the move and used the momentum against Trevor to try and shove Trevor’s face against the fence. Before Edgard cornered him and held him down completely to land a punch, Trevor rolled again and pushed to his feet. A noise echoed behind him, but he ignored it as he fisted his hands in Edgard’s shearling coat, dragging him upright until they were nose to nose.

Why bother with me? Why not find yourself an Indian woman?” “It is you I want.” He brushed his knuckles along the hollow of her cheek. “Your skin is moonlight. I am dark like night next to you.” He slid his hand behind her neck and drew her toward him. “Sunshine in your hair, moonlight on your skin, this Comanche’s bright one, no?” “No,” she replied in a raw voice. “You will eat?” “No.” He bent to taste the flesh at the hollow of her throat, his lips silken, his teeth nipping lightly, his warm, moist mouth sending jolts through her. “Like ermine, mah-tao-yo. So soft. And sweet like flowers.” She wedged her fists between them, her knuckles knotted against the warm, solid planes of his chest. As she opened her eyes, the room spun. “Please--please, don’t. I’m not even sure what your real name is. Please don’t.” “Hunter,” he whispered next to her ear. “Hunter of the Wolf, Habbe Esa. Lie on your back, Blue Eyes. You are weak, eh? Lie on your back and close your eyes. Let me chase your fear away. With nothing to fear, there is no need to die, eh?” “No.” She tried to push him away. “No.” He slipped an arm under her knees and drew her down the bed onto her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to evade his lips as they nibbled their way down her neck to her collarbone. And lower. Panic welled within her. She couldn’t fight him. Not when she trembled like this. Not when the world tipped sideways. He slid the tip of his tongue under the leather to trace wet circles on her chest--just above her breasts. Her nipples sprang taut, sensitized to the soft leather that grazed them when she oved. Never before had Loretta actually felt the blood drain from her face; she did now. Sucking in a draft of air, she tried to twist sideways, but his arm, roped with muscle and tensed against her, blocked her escape. As she shifted position, his lips found her ear and, in unison with his teeth and tongue, learned its texture, its taste, its shape, discovering with unerring accuracy the sensitive places. His warm breath made chills run over her.

You'll have free rein to neglect me. Strap me to a chair and give me a naughty striptease until I'm begging. Give me a hand job beneath the table in a restaurant and leave me on the verge of coming. Make me crazy. Make me pay for everything I've done. Everything you hate." He nipped at her earlobe. "Or simply prop your sweet arse up in the air and ask for a rough bang. I'll peel those little low-rider panties down to your ankles and orgasm you until you've finished on me - again and again - and I'm dripping with the evidence.

It was almost November and the leaves were starting to fall - before the war, she'd loved the autumn colours, going for a walk with a nip in the air. But now it meant that the soldiers would be covered in mud, suffering frostbite, more at risk of developing horrible infection, all of it adding to their misery. As the leaves drifted down, it made her feel sad, mournful, the seasons were still turning and the menace of war seemed unstoppable

Try to extend the exhales even more,” Olsson says as he takes tiny nips of air through his nose. “Breathe out twice as long for each inhale, three times,” he chides me.

Several times, I woke to the sound of him tapping his grey nails against the steering wheel.  When I opened my eyes to look at him, I could see his elongated canines.  At those times, I wanted to reach over and pat his leg, but I held myself back. When I woke to see his ears pointed too, I quietly studied him for a few minutes.  I knew I was the cause of his agitation.  He’d sensed my withdrawal.  I hadn’t wanted him to see my confusion.  I wanted to talk to Sam first, before saying anything to Clay.  But my approach obviously wasn’t the right one.  Clay had stuck by me through everything.  I needed to trust that he wouldn’t turn away from me after I revealed what had happened. “Clay...” He paused his tapping. “Could you pull over for a minute?” He glanced at me, lifted a concerned brow, but did as I asked.  The tires crunched on the snowy shoulder.  He stopped the car then turned toward me. A sad smile lifted my lips.  I hated to see him like this.  I tapped my lips.  I needed affirmation that we still had our connection, and he needed assurance I was fine. His tight grip on the steering wheel loosened, and he shook his head in amusement.  I held my breath as he leaned toward me. Clay cradled my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly.  I clutched his shirt, dragging him closer.  When he opened his mouth to nip my bottom lip, I groaned and willingly let him in.  We steamed the windows.  My lungs burned for air.  Finally, I had to pull away to catch my breath.  He wrapped his arms around me and placed small gentle kisses on the top of my head. His neck hovered in my line of sight.  I could give him what he wanted.  A quick bite and I wouldn’t need to worry about other potential Mates.  I could Claim him as my own.  But I didn’t want to hurt him anymore.  Physically or emotionally.  I pulled back from our make-out session. Clay gave me one last kiss on the lips then put the car in drive.  The smooth, tan skin of his very human ears called my attention, as did his clean, pink nails.  He looked content, no longer tapping his fingers while he stared ahead at the snow-covered roads. I

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

Thanks so much. You really came through.” “I like protecting you from lecherous mattress salesmen. You don’t need to thank me,” he joked. “How about a kiss instead?” Linc was taken aback. He opened his mouth, too surprised for a second to say yes. No never entered his mind. Kenzie’s slender arms twined around his neck and she raised herself up on her sneaker toes to make good on her offer. Linc let his hands slide over her body, stopping at the sweet curve of her jeans-clad hips. She flexed, catlike, arching her back to bring herself more tightly against him. Her moves were playful, feminine to the core, instantly arousing him. He kissed her back, gently at first, then with searching strength. She didn’t seem to want to stop. She nipped at his lower lip, then moved back a little, looking up at him with half-closed eyes as her hands moved into his hair. Linc stood his ground, enjoying the stroking caress. One hand moved down to his jawline. Soft and tender. He wasn’t used to her being this gentle. “Nice,” she said softly. He tried to remember how to talk. Too complicated. He hadn’t let go of her waist, but there was more air between them than he really needed. “And enough for now,” she added. He came to his senses. She stepped away from him, not looking at the new mattress that seemed to be the only thing in the room. Linc glanced at the expanse of tufted satin with a flash of regret. “We should think about it, you know,” she said. “We can’t just tumble into bed.” “Oh.” He didn’t need to think, he knew. He wanted her. Bad. “Kenzie…you can call the shots. Just tell me when.” Her mouth curved upward in an indescribable smile Linc would never forget. “Okay,” she said.

northern New Jersey, April can either be awash with daffodils or buried under a foot of snow, and waiting to see which way it will go kills me. I hate the April version of winter—some days, that nip of spring teases the air and gets you thinking about warm sunshine, but mostly it’s just cold enough to be miserable. The snow turns black and ugly in about six minutes, and the salt used on the roads gets in between the pads of my dog’s feet. Ever try washing the feet of a sixty-pound lump of wet fur? Whimpering, quivering wet fur? No fun at all. On the flip side, what if it does get warm and sunny right away? That whole process of morphing out of winter woolies and sweaters and scarves

That same nip is back in the air. Fall has finally swallowed up the last bites of summer.

Give me the long, straight road before me, A clear, cold day with a nipping air, Tall, bare trees to run on beside me, A heart that is light and free from care. Then let me go! - I care not whither My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be Free as the brook that flows to the river, Free as the river that flows to the sea.

You know, you never truly get over the first pucker of your nips when that mountain air hits you,

The bond, of course, shared every needy beat of my heart with Devin--- his answer through the bond was immediate and primal. It hit me as a wave, knocking my feet out from under me. I grabbed his arm tighter to keep from falling over. He took a shaky breath while his eyes roamed over me. His eyes met mine and I felt the rush of heat between my legs. "You need to let me go, darling, before we start something I intend to finish." My eyes met Devin's and darted away. "I can't take it anymore. I know this the path we were on before... before. And this wasn't how I pictured us getting here, but I want this. That is, if you do too?" He closed the distance and wrapped his arms around me. The air left me in a rush as he lifted me off my feet and took me to the foot of the bed. Falling on my back, I was caged in his arms as he leaned forward. "Now, don't you feel ridiculous asking?" His low voice was playful as he looked down at me, hungry and fierce. The heat between us was an inferno, and we were teetering on the edge of it. I knew it, he knew it, and whoever made the next move would break the dam and it would all come rushing out. Of the things I wanted to do, I picked one at random as I snaked a hand around his neck, gently pulling the tie on his hair as it fell forward. That did it. He leaned down, kissing my collarbone and making his way up my neck, peppering in heated words as he went. "Feel free to touch, darling. It's all yours." He nipped at my ear and a thrilling shiver ran down my spine. A sound escaped me that only proved to spur Devin on. His hand moved to my hip, squeezing, and brushing the skin above my leggings with his thumb, leaving a trail of inferno in its wake.

There was a real nip in the air this morning, not unusual for the third week in October.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash. I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I’m going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, “Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?” And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, “It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.” Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff’rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn’t it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they’re both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that’s upsetting, but I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore. The next thing I’m going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I’m going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it’s not summer, it’s not winter, and it’s not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it’s fall, fuckers. Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well, then you’re going to fucking love my house. Just look where you’re walking or you’ll get KO’d by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you’re going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned. For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer. Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!

His lips touched hers, just a brush, once, twice, over the full softness of her lovely mouth, discovering what she knew of kissing. With devastating instinct, she echoed him, dragging her lips softly across his, with his, until the desire in him was coiled so tightly his limbs trembled from it. "Susannah." A ragged whisper. She sighed a warm breath out against his lips and brought her other hand up to hold his face; in her hands he could feel her tension and urgency. And he'd meant to linger over this kiss, to take it deeper with delicacy and finesse, and then to end it, but he found he could not. His desire was suddenly untenable; he was convinced only the taste of her could ease it. He touched an impatient tongue to her lips and coaxed them open. When she parted her mouth he sought her tongue, and discovered, with a low sound in the back of his throat, the hot, silken sweetness inside her mouth. Her tongue tentatively moved, tangled with his. Oh, God. "Like this?" she whispered. "God, yes," he breathed. She smiled against his mouth. "No smiling," he murmured. "Only kissing." Their mouths moved languidly over each other at first, nipping, delving deeply, retreating. And gradually it built to urgency. He rose up over her to take his kisses deeper still, to taste the contours of her mouth, teeth clashing against her teeth, and still it never seemed enough. The sensation was like soaring in place; Kit couldn't feel the ground beneath him, or the air above him; he was aware only of the sweetness of the woman joined with him, and distantly he marveled, he'd never felt quite so lost. He tucked his hip in firmly against hers, astounded at how painfully aroused he was. "Sweet," he murmured, moving his lips from hers to kiss, to nip beneath her chin, to draw his tongue down the cord of her throat. Her breathing was rushed, and with the rise and fall of her chest he could see the tight darkness of her nipples beneath the fine fabric of her dress. "Sweet," he sighed again, moving his mouth to breathe against her breast; he touched his tongue to her nipple through the fabric. She caught her breath at the sensation, arced up a little to meet him. And as she did, his fingers, five feathers, began to stroke the tender skin inside her thigh.

It’s happening again. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. I see it in the roll of the waves, the way they’re bearing in at a slant. Fast. Relentless. I feel it in the nip of the air on my skin, smell it in the rotting leaves and damp earth, hear it in the silence of the watching crows. You’re coming for me again and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. This is how it happens. One night I go to bed and everything’s fine. Everything’s under control. The story has ceased to be a story. It’s real. Solid. Unbreakable. Then I wake up and it’s changed. Cracks have appeared overnight and I realize that I’ve been fooling myself all this time, that I’ve only ever been the most fragile of constructions. I’m the hunted. I’ll always be the hunted.

It's the jingle in the bells, the carols in the air, The nipping spirits counting down the days. Mostly it's the far away star warming hearts, zipping through time the art of anticipation. It's no wonder Christmas comes around in a wink.

The cold not only bears down on human bodies, but also bends sound. The forest sits under an inversion, chilled air pooling under a warmer cap. The colder air is like molasses for sound waves, slowing them as they pass, causing them to lag sound travelling in higher, warmer air. The difference in speed turns the temperature gradient into a sound lens. Waves curve down. Sound energy , instead of dissipating in a three dimensional dome, is forced to spread in two dimensions, spilling across the ground, focusing its vigor on the surface. What would have been muffled, distant sounds leap closer, magnified by the jeweler’s icy loupe. The aggressive whine of the snowmobile mingles with the churr and chip of red squirrels and chickadees. Here are modern and ancient sunlight, manifest in the boreal soundscape. Squirrels nipping the buds of fir trees, chickadee poking for hidden seeds and insects, all powered by last summer’s photosynthesis; diesel and gasoline, sunlight squeezed and fermented for tens or hundreds of millions of years, now finally freed in an exultant engine roar. Nuclear fusion pounds its energy into my eardrums, courtesy of life’s irrepressible urge to turn sunlight into song.

Fuck me, Corbin,” I repeat from a moment ago, and he doesn’t waste any time. He sets a punishing rhythm. In. Out. My back presses into the wall, scraping back and forth with his harsh movements, but I tilt my head up, letting him take me. He wraps his lips around the front of my throat, his teeth grazing my windpipe, and I thrust myself further toward him. God, his teeth. When they touch my skin, it ignites me. He pulls us off the wall, walking backward until his legs meet the bed. He sits, and I land with a grunt on top of him. “Ride me,” he says. I lean back, my hands fisting his thighs, digging into the soft hairs coating them. I press my breasts into the air, my long hair dusting my ass as I slowly work my hips back and forth, teasing, while he watches me with hooded eyes. His hands are looped behind his head as he enjoys the show. I work my hips faster, pumping his cock up and down inside me, my breasts puckered and bouncing. It feels incredible—to be what this gorgeous guy is focused on, is hard for. I relish the power and control I have as I sit astride him. His groans urge me on, and when he bites down on his bottom lip, I feel my control slipping. My movements become jerkier as I stare at him, memorizing the way he looks in this very moment. I lean forward, gripping his chest with my fingers, and I lower my head, nipping his chin, his nose, his forehead. He holds my sides, keeping me steady before rapidly thrusting up into me, and I love the sensation, his pubic bone rubbing against my clit with each pound. “Yes, right there. Oh God. Yes, keep doing that.” My words come out in a huff with each thrust, and I dig my fingers into his pecs as a second orgasm rips through me, pulling me under and holding me captive while Corbin never lets up. Suddenly, I’m wrenched from his lap as he throws me onto my back. After pulling my legs over his shoulders, he plants one hand in the valley between my breasts, guiding himself back inside with his other. The pressure on my chest, combined with the never-ending sensations overtaking my sensitive pussy, sends warmth through me. I’m floating, and I never want to come back down.

In the club, the world is somehow still, and this moment is suspended. All the feeling inside Gwen is curious, sniffing the air and trembling now that it is allowed to wander. So, she takes Tammy’s face into her hands and pulls her close. They collide angrily. She drags her teeth along her jaw, she nips at her earlobes. She’s furious because she wants this night to stretch out endlessly, and she knows it will have to end.