Panties With Sayings And Quotes

You! You tricked me! I never want to see you or that bottle of liquid arsenic again!” I chucked the empty moonshine jug at him. Or tried to. It missed him by a dozen feet. He picked it up in astonishment. “You drank the whole bloody thing? You were only supposed to have a few sips!” “Did you say that? Did you?” He reached me just as I felt the ground tip. “Didn’t say anything. I’ve got those names, so that’s all that matters, but you men…you’re all alike. Alive, dead, undead—all perverts! I had a drunken pervert in my pants! Do you know how unsanitary that is?” Bones held me upright. I would have protested, but I couldn’t remember how to. “What are you saying?” “Winston poltergeisted my panties, that’s what!” I announced with a loud hiccup. “Why, you scurvy, lecherous spook!” Bones yelled in the direction of the cemetery. “If my pipes still worked, I’d go right back there and piss on your grave!

Anyway, George comes up to me the first day of filming and he takes one look at the dress and says, 'You can't wear a bra under that dress.' So, I say, 'Okay, I'll bite. Why?' And he says, 'Because... there's no underwear in space.' I promise you this is true, and he says it with such conviction too! Like he had been to space and looked around and he didn't see any bras or panties or briefs anywhere. Now, George came to my show when it was in Berkeley. He came backstage and explained why you can't wear your brassiere in other galaxies, and I have a sense you will be going to outer space very soon, so here's why you cannot wear your brassiere, per George. So, what happens is you go to space and you become weightless. So far so good, right? But then your body expands??? But your bra doesn't- so you get strangled by your own bra. Now I think that this would make a fantastic obit- so I tell my younger friends that no matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra.

Sometimes I didn't even feel like getting out of bed. I took to wearing my days-of-the-week panties out of order. It could be Monday and I'd have on underwear saying Thursday. I just didn't care.

Reyes. Alexander. Farrow," I said. Seconds after I spoke his name, Reyes walked into his bedroom, and I looked across the open space directly from my room into his. He waited for me to continue. "I feel like there's something missing from my bedroom." A dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth. "You don't say." "Any idea what that might be?" He glanced around my room as well, then shrugged. "I can't imagine." "Oh, wait," I said, stepping from my room into his, "wasn't there something here? Like, I don't know, a wall or something?" He looked up. "You could be right. I do seem to remember a barrier of some kind here." "Yep," I said, stepping closer, "I definitely remember a partition separating our apartments." When his only response was a mischievous tilt of his full mouth, I asked, "Where did you put my wall?" He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his doorframe. "What makes you think I took it?" "It was there this morning." "And that means I took it? Maybe you just misplaced it. Where exactly did you see it last?" I pressed my lips together. "You tore down my wall." The smile he wore could've charmed the panties off a nun. Completely unrepentant, he admitted, "I tore down your wall.

We’re all going a little craz—” He stopped; he couldn’t possibly say anything worse. “I mean …” “Just shut it,” Newt said. “I know something’s started in my head. I don’t feel right. But you don’t need to worry your buggin’ panties off.

But ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds-way less easy than it sounds, by the way-I've become obsessed with my size and in so doing I've inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She's a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.

You gonna put on your big-girl panties and fight with the boys, now?” He looked over his shoulder as if he expected me to blush or something. “Who says I wear panties?” I was certain that he flushed red this time. Laughing, I left him shaking his head and went on inside to find the Kid. We had work to do.

• This seems impossible to me. It seems biologically impossible to stay the same size, although I must. It seems one must always be either bigger or smaller than they were at some arbitrary point in time to which all things are compared. The panties that are possibly tighter than they were. When? You can't say when. But you are absolutely positive no question that it's true.

but you men... you're all alike. Alive, dead, undead- all perverts! I had a drunken pervert in my pants! Do you know how unsanitary that is?" "What are you saying?" "Winston poltergeisted my panties, that's what!" "Why, you scurvy, lecherous spook! If my pipes still worked, I'd go right back there and piss on your grave!

I swear you are my fucking dream come true.” It’s amazing how he can take the sweetest things, throw the word “fucking” in the middle of it, and I could melt into a puddle at his feet. If my panties weren’t already off, I’d be dropping them after hearing him say that.

I started getting Mal's texts just before lunch. Mal: Awake Anne: Morning Mal: Going for a run with Jim Anne: Have fun! Mal: Back from run having lunch ... Mal:Your taste in music sucks Anne: Thanks Mal: Seriously, we need to talk it's that bad. Everything apart from Stage Dive needs to go. Anne: Wait. What are you doing? Mal:Fixing it. Anne: Mal, WTH are you doing? Mal: Making you new playlist wih decent shit. Relay Anne: K Thanks Mal: Bored again Mal: Ben's coming over to play Halo Anne: Great! But you don't have to tell me everything you do, Mal Mal: Davie says communication's important Mal: When are you on the rag? Davie said to find out if you want cupcakes or ice cream Anne: I want to not talk about this ever Mal: Bored. Ben's late Mal: Let's get a dog Anne: Apartment has no pets rule Mal: Nice green lace bra Anne: Get out of my drawers, Mal. Mal: Matching panties? Anne: GET OUT NOW. Mal: :) Mal: sext me Mal: Some on it'll be funny Mal: Plz? Mal: High level of unhealthy codependency traits exhibited by both parties relationship possibly bordeing on toxic Anne: WTF? Mal: Did magazine quiz. We need help- Especially you Anne:... Mal: Booking us couples counseling. Tues 4:15 alright? Anne: We are not going to counseling. Mal: What's wrong? Don't you love me anymore? Anne: Turning phone off now.

Just a suggestion: When the Devil says, “Let the games begin,” see if you can run in the opposite direction. If not, put on your big girl panties. Someone might die.

Much though we like these panties," he says, tugging at the small material covering my pulsating sex, "they're only going to be in the way...

[Kevin and Molly's adorable banter] "I'm not carrying anything until I see what's on your panties." "It's Daphne, okay?" "I'm supposed to believe you're wearing the same underpants you had on yesterday?" "I have more than one pair" "I think you're lying. I want to see for myself." He dragged her deeper into the pines. While Roo circled them barking, he reached for the snap on her shorts. "Quiet, Godzilla! There's some serious business going on here." Roo obediently quieted. She grabbed his wrists and pushed. "Get away." "That's not what you were saying last night." "Somebody'll see." "I'll tell them a bee got you, and I'm taking out the stinger." "Don't touch my stinger!" She grabbed for her shorts, but they were already heading for her knees. "Stop that!" He peered down at her panties. "It's the badger. You lied to me." "I wasn't paying attention when I got dressed." "Hold still. I've just about found that stinger." She heard herself sigh. "Oh, yeah..." His body moved against hers. "There it is.

One of the main functions of a push-up bra is to lower the number of mothers who seem like mothers.

That is because he's a gentleman," I spat, through with this little game of his. He laughed but his grip had yet to loosen. "Yeah, that's right. Luke is candy hearts, love sonnets and roses. I'm edible body lotion and lost panties," he said, disgustedly. Somehow through all of this, I managed to feel sorry for him. "Flynn," I uttered. "God, Mercy, stop saying my name like that.

Don’t ever forget that I respect the hell out of you,” he said as he stuck his hand up my dress and grabbed onto my panties. “Why do you say that?” “Because I’m about to fuck you full of disrespect.

Travis slammed into my back, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You scared the shit outta me!” I complained. He ran his hands over my skin. I noticed they felt different; slow and deliberate. I closed my eyes when he pulled me against him and buried his face in my hair, nuzzling my neck. Feeling his bare skin against mine, it took me a moment to protest. “Travis…,” He pulled my hair to one side and grazed his lips along my back from one shoulder to the other, unsnapping the clasp of my bra. He kissed the bare skin at the base of my neck and I closed my eyes, the warm softness of his mouth felt oo good to make him stop. A quiet moan escaped from his throat when he pressed his pelvis against mine, and I could feel how much he wanted me through his boxers. I held my breath, knowing the only thing keeping us from that big step I was so opposed to a few moments before was two thin pieces of fabric. Travis turned me to face him, and then pressed against me, leaning my back against the wall. Our eyes met, and I could see the ache in his expression as he scanned the bare pieces of my skin. I had seen him peruse women before, but this was different. He didn’t want to conquer me; he wanted me to say yes. He leaned in to kiss me, stopping just an inch away. I could feel the heat from his skin radiating against my lips, and I had to stop myself from drawing him in the rest of the way. His fingers were digging into my skin as he deliberated, and then his hands slid from my back to the hem of my panties. His index fingers slid down my hips, in between my skin and the lacey fabric, and in the same moment that he was about to slip the delicate threads down my legs, he hesitated. Just when I opened my mouth to say yes, he clenched his eyes shut. “Not like this,” he whispered, brushing his lips across mine. “I want you, but not like this.

Don’t think I don’t know what you did, love,” she grinned and didn’t say anything. “Feel free to manipulate me into bed any time. Cause after we sleep I’m waking you with my mouth in your panties.” As if to mark his place one of his hands slid down into the back of her underwear and stayed there while she tried to still the cyclone of need.

Had S E X? Sex, you can say it Charlie! Put your big girl panties on and be a grown up, you certainly can’t do it if you can’t even say it.” Bethany winked “And oh my God, what are you waiting for? It’s been over a month. After your five year dry spell, I’d think you’d be ready for some ‘wet weather’.

Persephone.” He says my name like it’s a song he’s recently memorized. “Who said anything about warning off everyone else?” He nips my earlobe lightly. “What if I want to share? What if I pull your panties to the side and let whoever is interested come over here and fuck you against my chest?

Raising kids is hard and raising toddlers feels IMPOSSIBLE most of the time. We all wonder if we’re fucking it up, so why not just be honest? The kind of people parents need in their lives are the ones they can call to come over for a drink and to bitch about their day while their kids play on the floor. You should be able to say, “Hey, toddlers are assholes,” without them getting their panties in a wad. You should be able to say, “I hate my fucking family sometimes” and “Cooking dinner sucks ass.” Fuck all this perfectionist, gratitude-out-the-ass bullshit. It’s okay to say it sucks when it sucks. Yes, there are people in the world who have it so much worse, but does that mean we can’t let off some steam? Of course not. You know what’s hard? Even harder than dealing with toddlers? Pretending it’s not hard.

A Faint Music by Robert Hass Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing

...Ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds—way less easy than it sounds, by the way—I’ve become obsessed with my size, and in so doing I’ve inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She’s a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.” “Your inner critic has terrible grammar.” “I know, it’s the only way I can take away some of her power over me...

It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as to my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cotton ball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified. A few quick cuts and cunt becomes can't, cock turns into back, clit transforms to a very unlikely cat, the l and i turned into a teetering capital A. The last words I ever carved into myself, sixteen years after I started: vanish. Sometimes I can hear the words squabbling at each other across my body. Up on my shoulder, panty calling down to cherry on the inside of my right ankle. On the underside of a big toe, sew uttering muffled threats to baby, just under my left breast. I can quiet them down by thinking of vanish, always hushed and regal, lording over the other words from the safety of the nape of my neck. Also: At the center of my back, which was too difficult to reach, is a circle of perfect skin the size of a fist. Over the years I've made my own private jokes. You can really read me. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I've certainly given myself a life sentence. Funny, right? I can't stand to look myself without being completely covered. Someday I may visit a surgeon, see what can be done to smooth me, but now I couldn't bear the reaction. Instead I drink so I don't think too much about what I've done to my body and so I don't do any more. Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving. For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that the cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes - bad, cry - like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in.

Preppy leans back on the siding and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders, stretching and releasing them several times before he speaks. “Sooo…I hate to be the bearer of interesting news, but you’re looking at her like you want to eat her. Stalk much?” “No, I’m fucking not,” I snap defensively. Too defensively. Preppy releases his suspenders and holds up his hands like he’s on the receiving end of a hold-up. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, little brother. I didn’t say stalking was a bad thing. In fact, if you need some pointers, I’d be happy to enrol you in Preppy’s How To Stalk Like a Mofo 101.

Your panties need to say, ‘Tear me off, for I contain wonders!’ Those say, ‘Look away while I complete your tax forms.’ I’ll be back in a jiff with the right ones.

Much to her dismay, he was even better looking up close. The kind of sexy that made panties fly on stage. The kind of sexy that made her want to say, “Screw you!” to her twenty-four more man-less days.

Asians love schoolgirls in uniforms. They say the Japanese can buy used schoolgirl panties from vending machines. And from shops hidden away in apartment buildings. Burusera shops, they call them. The smell is very important; it adds value to the commodity. I wonder how Marx would have dealt with that?

You talked about some stones you found a while ago,” he says. “Three years.” Mee-Hae quickly turns around to face him, holding her unwashed panties. From this close, they smell prominently feminine to the Monk’s highly evolved nose. Mee-Hae Ra throws them with her faultless aim to a basket twenty feet away; she’ll have to wash them in the river later. “Your a while ago is actually three years,” she says. “You didn’t pay attention then. I wonder what happened? You even brought the rarest tea on the planet!” She throws a piercing gaze at him. Her pouty lips make her look angry. Abandoning her cleaning, she approaches the balcony, holding the tea package. “It looks hand-procured,” she mutters. “By any chance, did you pluck it yourself?” She looks at the Monk and already gets the answer that a modest monk won’t provide.

Feeling the reverberations of my panic, Jack pulled me between his thighs and gathered me against his chest. He held me wordlessly, with infinite patience. “I guess . . . ,” I managed to say eventually, “I don’t feel all-the-way safe.” “Probably because you’re not.” Jack hooked his fingers at the side of my panties, drawing them down. “But in a few minutes, darlin’, you’re not going to give a damn.” -Ella & Jack

My lip quivered as he hooked a finger into my panties. “Say the word and I’ll give you every pleasure Aaron never came close to giving you. I’ll make your pussy wetter than it’s ever been in your life.” My pulse was hammering, my breaths shaky as a result. But I forced myself to speak. “Do it.

you men…you’re all alike. Alive, dead, undead—all perverts! I had a drunken pervert in my pants! Do you know how unsanitary that is?” Bones held me upright. I would have protested, but I couldn’t remember how to. “What are you saying?” “Winston poltergeisted my panties, that’s what!” I announced with a loud hiccup.

Cade: Baby, why are you blushing? Willa: Because I swear people are looking at me like I just got my brains fucked out. Cade: You did. Willa: I think these panties are ruined. Cade: I’ll wash them for you. And then shove them in your mouth again the next time you say something rude. Willa: Fuck off. Cade: Careful. They haven’t even been washed yet.

This is way out of bounds. I said you could rape me. I did not say you could ruin my panty-hose.

saying Daphne was a worrywart was like saying soccer players’ legs were a thing of jaw-dropping, panty-melting goodness. It was just a fact of life.

I'm always glad to help." His grin was as quick and easy as it was devastating to her panties. "What can I say? I'm a real dick that way.

Toss off my big-girl panties and just say screw it for once. I

You have day of the week panties,” Des says. “That means you’re too young for me to stay over.” “How do you know I have day of the week panties?” I ask suspiciously.

I choked on the air I'd just sucked in and swung around in disbelief. "What did you just say?" "Me and the whole PD heard about your wet bra, so I'm assuming your panties are wet too.

Anyway, George comes up to me the first day of filming and he takes one look at the dress and says, “You can’t wear a bra under that dress.” So, I say, “Okay, I’ll bite. Why?” And he says, “Because . . . there’s no underwear in space.” I promise you this is true, and he says it with such conviction too! Like he had been to space and looked around and he didn’t see any bras or panties or briefs anywhere.

Gentlewomen of the jury! Bear with me! Allow me to take just a tiny bit of your precious time. So this was le grand moment. I had left my Lolita still sitting on the edge of the abysmal bed, drowsily raising her foot, fumbling at the shoelaces and showing as she did so the nether side of her thigh up to the crotch of her panties she had always been singularly absent-minded, or shameless, or both, in matters of legshow. This, then, was the hermetic vision of her which I had locked inafter satisfying myself that the door carried no inside bolt. The key, with its numbered dangler of carved wood, became forthwith the weighty sesame to a rapturous and formidable future. It was mine, it was part of my hot hairy fist. In a few minutes say, twenty, say half-an-hour, sicher its sicher as my uncle Gustave used to say I would let myself into that “342” and find my nymphet, my beauty and bride, imprisoned in her crystal sleep. Jurors! If my happiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with a deafening roar. And my only regret today is that I did not quietly deposit key “342” at the office, and leave the town, the country, the continent, the hemisphere,indeed, the globe that very same night.

Hooking both thumbs into my waistband, I rocked my hips from side to side, and slid the dress pants down my thighs. As gravity took over, pooling the fabric at my ankles, I heard her say, “Sexy.” Bullshit. “Just so you know, I feel like an idiot.” “Just so you know, you’re melting my panties.” With a sarcastic snort, I grabbed a knee to pull my leg free. “Are you even wearing panties?” Chances were slim.

Men DO NOT emotionally process love anything close to the way that women process love. When expressing your sincere devotion and love for a man---the best way to say it, is to put on G-string panties, and then SHOW HIM with a swallow.

What can I say? I’m a weak man. I doubt there’s a guy out there who would’ve stopped to question what was happening if their girl was wearing their jersey with no panties on. I’m basically putty in her very talented but very bossy hands.

All this to say of course Gallo wants to get into your Little Mermaid panties. And if you don't get that, you're dumber than I ever thought, which gives me such a headache to even contemplate. The massive amount of your dumbness. It hurts me,' he whined.

Fuck it,” he says and spins us around, sitting himself on the edge of the bed, me on his lap. He has himself out before I can take a breath and then he’s tearing my panties aside and shoving into me. “Bounce on my cock, Darling,” he orders and the triumph nearly escapes me in a high-pitched squeal.

And as your body begins to feel like a home, your courage grows. It grows bigger than you mother's chastisement in the parking lot after the service the first time you go to church unbound. She asks why you aren't wearing a girdle, why you aren't sucking in the way she taught you thirty years ago, and how dare you come into the house of the Lord that way. Your mother, who complains of women in the church nowadays committing the sin of visible panty lines, reminds you that she raised you better than this. And you say, 'I'm tired of holding my breath.' Then you promise you won't come to church that way again. And you'll keep your word because you won't go to church again at all.

Who knows anything beyond right now anyway? You want to speak the Kansai dialect, then you should. Go for it. You don’t want to study for the entrance exam? Then don’t. Don’t feel like sticking your hand inside Erika Kuritani’s panties? Who’s saying you have to? It’s your life. You should do what you want and forget about what other people think.

But I’m not fucking you right now,” he says, his features resolute. “And why not?” He lowers his face to mine. “Because when I fuck you, you’ll beg me for it, just like I’ve begged you for years.” Oh. My. Fucking. Hell. “You’re going to sit through dinner, surrounded by my family, with soaked panties while you think of my cock splitting you in two.

Hell, they’d say in the country club locker room, you know how Milt’s getting his. Everybody knew, bearing testimony to the fact that suburban vice, like a peeling nose, is almost impossible to conceal. It went all over town, this talk, like a swarm of bees, settling down lazily on polite afternoon sun porches to rise once more and settle down again with a busy murmur among cautious ladylike foursomes on the golf course, buzzing pleasurably there amid ladylike whacks of the golf ball and cautious pullings-down of panties which bound too tightly. Everybody knew about their affair and everybody talked about it, and because of some haunting inborn squeamishness it would not have relieved Loftis to know that nobody particularly cared.

Dell pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed a number, and put the phone on speaker. A woman answered with a professionally irritated tone: “What do you need now?” “Jade,” Dell said. “Nope, it’s the Easter Bunny. And your keys are on your desk.” Dell shook his head. “Now darlin’, I don’t always call you just because I’ve lost my keys.” “I’m sorry, you’re right. You wallet’s on your desk, too. As for your little black book, you’re on your own with that one, Dr. Flirt. I’m at lunch.” Dell sighed. “What did we say about you and the whole power-play thing?” “That it’s good for your ego to have at least one woman in your life that you can’t flash a smile at and have them drop their panties?” Dell grinned. “I really like it when you say ‘panties.’ And for the record, I knew where my keys and wallet were.” “No you didn’t.” “Okay, I didn’t, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you bring burgers and fries for me and Brady? Oh, and Adam, too, or he’ll bitch like a little girl.” “You mean ‘Jade, will you pretty please bring us burgers and fries?’” “Yes,” Dell said, nodding. “That. And Cokes.” He looked at Brady, who nodded. “And don’t forget the ketchup.” “You forgot the nice words.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dell said. “You look fantastic today, I especially love the attitude and sarcasm you’re wearing.” Jade’s voice went saccharine sweet. “So some low-fat chicken salads, no dressing, and ice water to go, then?” “Fine,” Dell said, and sighed. “Can we please have burgers and fries?" “You forgot the ‘Thank you, Goddess Jade,’ but we’ll work on that. Later, boss.

What else?”“I don’t know,” she said, frustration eating at the edge of her words. “Do you want me to say that I woke up a few mornings with my panties twisted and a funny feeling in my vagina? Maybe I did. I’m just not sure, but if I did, my panties get twisted up all the time when I sleep— I’m a tosser and turner. And as far as funny feelings in my private parts, well, that happens from time to time, too, and it’s never resulted in pregnancy before.

There are things I need to say first. Things you need to hear before we go any further." She tensed. "Oh, God, are you married?" He chuckled. "No, nothing like that." "Good," she replied, letting out a relieved breath. "I want you to know you've made this very difficult for me. I had a speech prepared. Then I see you like this." His finger continued to trail down her stomach, tracing the rim of her panties. "And I can't even remember my damn name.

So, you play Batman at night, and fix-it man during the day?" His nose wrinkled in a way that was entirely too adorable for his tough guy demeanor. She didn't say a word about it though, knowing he'd never do it again if she pointed it out. "Batman? Batman's a pathetic jelly donut. He's a little Richie Rich that prances 'round in fancy tights and dress up panties, too much of a wuss to do anythin' without a mask and a prepubescent scarecrow as a sidekick.

They say that when you have your own child, the first time you look into his or her eyes you will fall instantly in love and the rest of the world disappears. They say you’ll believe your child can do no wrong, and you will love them unconditionally right from the very first moment. Well, whoever “they” are should seriously limit the amount of crack they smoke and stop talking out of their ass while their Arby’s vaginas are flopping around in their grandma panties.

Zara turned in his arms. "What can I do to help?" He let out a shuddering breath. "You can go find yourself a guy who's not all messed up." "I kinda like this guy." She leaned up to kiss his cheek. "If you hadn't noticed, messed up is my specialty." His hand slid under her nightshirt and he stroked the curve of her hip. "I need you." "I was hoping you'd say that." She drew his hand down to her lace-covered rear. "I've been wearing special panties every night in case you did.

have one second to breathe before he’s spinning me around and bending me over the table. His left hand presses at the back of my head, driving my face to the wooden table. His other hand bunches my skirt around my waist and yanks down my panties. I gasp out, sending a fallen leaf skittering over the table. “If you want to fuck the Lost Boys,” Peter Pan says, “why not start at the top?” He kicks my legs apart, baring me and I hear the rasp of a zipper opening. “Maybe I will,” I say.

Revelation 12:11 "And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death ". I would like you to read this message with rapt attention, so that you can key in to what God intends to do through this miracle power. The verse above is a very interesting part of the Bible; it gives us weapons and it would be good, if you could memorise it and appropriate it to yourself. There is a weapon that has never lost its power, but people have not learnt to use it; whereas, it is highly effective. Even the enemy is afraid, when you start to talk about it. That old serpent, the dragon, that the Bible talks about, saying: "Woe unto the earth and the sea ... " There is a weapon that can overcome it. There is nothing that God created, that He cannot rearrange; there is no enemy that God cannot defeat. A two-year old girl learnt this song and was always singing it: "There is power, there is power, there is power in the Blood of Jesus." Her mother noticed that she never took ill. One day, the mother washed the girl's clothes and hung them outside. There was a high wind, which blew her small panty to the compound next to theirs and it landed in the sitting room of a neighbour, who was a herbalist. Immediately the panty landed, there was pandemonium in the room; everything turned upside down. Everything he knew how to do failed; nothing could avail for him. He did his consultation and he found out that there

I’ve had so much sex I can’t count the times, but I’ve never been in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing. Vane’s fingers rub at my clit and I think he might be punishing me more with pleasure than with pain. I pant out against the counter. He shifts his grip on me and my panties slide over my heat and the sensation makes me sag against the counter. More. More. But suddenly he’s gone. And this time I do hit the floor. “Darling,” Bash says as he darts around the counter to crouch beside me. “I’m okay.

Oh my god.” He didn’t turn or say anything even though the frustration in Honor’s voice made it difficult. “My pants are stuck. I don’t think I can get them off without some help. Jesus, wet jeans are heavy and uncooperative.” A grin stretched across his face. “You want my help?” She let out a deep breath. “Yes, but you have to close your eyes.” “You going commando tonight?” he teased. “No, but…” He shut his eyes and turned. She took his outstretched hand and tugged him down to the ground. Once there, she helped him latch on to the bunched up denim at her thighs, he guessed. Do not peek, Bishop. Do not peek. “But?” “My panties are white and now see-through and there’s not a lot to them.” “Gotcha.” There wasn’t a red-blooded man alive who wouldn’t peek. “Let’s get these off you.” He pulled, she pushed and wiggled, and he got the pants to her feet in no time. “Thank you,” she said, a little out of breath. “No problem.” “Bryce!” “What?” Christ, she had sexy legs, and the barely-there material at their juncture left little to the imagination, so his thoughts leaped to about a dozen dirty scenarios. “Your eyes are open!

I turned my back on Coyote without saying another word. He didn’t want to know what I was going to do with those granny panties. Surprisingly, Granuaile did. “Sensei, what were you going to do with those marshmallows and panties?” she whispered as we walked together. “I mean, I’m sure it had to be dire, but it just didn’t sound as threatening as the potential havoc a monkey could wreak on his sack.” “There was more to that recipe,” I admitted. “He cut me off before I could get to the Icy Hot and the gopher snake.” “Ew. What would you do with that?” “I will leave it to you as an exercise.” I

I groan and tear down her pants and rip off her panties in one go. She squeals, but I cover her mouth with mine and nudge her legs aside. She hungrily accepts me as I step closer, her fingers desperately grasping at my pants, trying to shove them down. I help her a little, tagging off the button and zipping myself down. She quickly manages to tug down my pants and boxer shorts at the same time until my cock pops free, bouncing up and down with need. She’s still enamored by the size, and I can honestly say I’ll never get used to how good it makes me feel. I grab a condom from my back pocket, rip it open, and quickly put it on.

Dave was examining the lingerie with interest. “Ooh, very nice. So I take it I’m not the only one with an announcement to make. Let me guess. You’re not gay, you’re bi, and you’ve got a girlfriend that you’ve somehow managed to keep a secret.” He inclined his head toward the open drawer. “There’s a hell of a lot of pretty underwear in here.” He cocked his head to one side. “How am I doing?” He… he thinks they belong to a woman? He thinks I’m bi? Except Shawn knew he had to say something. “You’re not even remotely close. No, I’m not bi, I’m still gay. No, there’s no secret girlfriend, and…. ” He took a deep breath. “Those panties are mine.”  

You want us, Darling, you have us, but you follow my rules. Do you understand?” I take in several slow, measured breaths. “Say it, Darling.” “Yes. Fine. I’ll follow your rules.” “If you’re hungry for cock, you have four to choose from. Four and no more.” He hooks his hands around my thighs and yanks my ass to the edge of the chair. “If I catch you touching anyone else, I will not be happy.” With my panties still askew, he nestles into my opening. “Tell me you understand.” “I understand.” He fills me up and I exhale quickly. His thrusting tempo shifts. Faster. Harder. He bends my legs up and pounds into me and I’m so wet and he’s so hard, we make a loud squelching sound as we fuck.

Bash’s hands come to the hem of my dress and yank it up. He clucks his tongue. “I don’t think you should be allowed to wear panties anymore.” “I would agree,” Kas says and relieves me of them in one quick yank. “Maybe she shouldn’t be allowed to wear any clothes at all.” Bash lets the skirt of my dress drop back down, then slides his hand up the curve of my waist to my breast. His touch is patient as he presses into my ass, letting me know he’s hard for me. “I can’t just walk around naked,” I say. “Why not?” he purrs against my ear. “Then we could admire you at all hours of the day and night. Have you dripping wet whenever we’d like, with nothing to stand between us.” He rubs at my nipple, coaxing it to bead.

Tell me you're bare underneath the dress." She gulped. "I'm bare underneath this dress." Gently dropping her arms back to her sides, he slid his finger down the center of her chest. Tingles shot out from the tips of her breasts and gathered at the base of her spine, between her legs. "Tell me you want me as much as I want you," he said, his voice husky. Never had she imagined doing something as reckless as sleeping with a guy for one night. But this wasn't any guy. And it wasn't just about her getting off--God, how she needed to do that. It was about closure. Saying goodbye on her terms. It might be a bad idea, but it was the best bad idea she'd ever had. She dropped the panties and put her hands on his chest. "I want you.

I'm more of a sprinter than a marathoner when it comes to many aspects of life. For example, when I'm running. Over short distances--up to two yards--I can run faster than cheap panty hose on an itchy porcupine. But over long distances, I'm not so impressive. I try to compensate for my lack of long-distance endurance by having good form. I'm told that my running style is quite majestic. That's probably because I learned to run by watching nature films in which leopards chased frightened zebras. Now when I run, I open my eyes real wide and let my tongue slap the side of my face. If you saw it, you'd be saying, "That's very majestic." And then you'd run like a frightened zebra. That's why my homeowners association voted to ask me to do my jogging with a pillowcase over my head.

You’ve given me an in, babe. I’m not getting out. So you can scream and protest as much as you want. Tongue-fucking you and you sucking me off ain’t enough anymore. I’ve given you plenty of time to get used to being back with me.” “What are you saying?”  Gabe backed her against the center island and spun her around, bending her over the edge. Beatrice felt her heart pound against her breastbone in . . . anticipation? There was a twitch between her legs and her panties were already damp. Gabe’s crotch hit her ass—he was already hard.  “Gabe,” she hissed weakly in protest. “Shut up!” He growled in her ear as he bent over her. His hands shoved her skirt up. She got wetter. “That attitude is sexy, and it makes me hard as hell. But it’s only because I can’t wait to fuck it out of you.

Lucian's thick, long finger slid into me, and I groaned----a pained sound. "That's it," he rasped, fingering me with agonizingly slow pushes. "Fuck, that's it." I gasped, my head light, my thighs clamping around his hand, as though I could hold in the sensation. "Spread your legs a little wider, honey. Let me in. Good girl." He cupped my neck with his free hand, his forehead pressed to mine. "One day soon, I'm going to work myself into this tight sweet honey box, fuck you for hours." My thighs trembled, heat swimming me as my lower belly clenched. "Lucian." I wiggled my hips. He added another finger, fucking them up into me at an angle that had me keening in pleasure. "Right here, Em. Right here is where I'm aching to be." I wanted him there so badly. My body moved with him, rocking against his hand. "Right here is where I'll worship." He kissed me gently, a simple meeting of mouths, as his thumb snaked out and found my clit. He pressed down, rougher now that I was worked up and at the edge. Just how I liked. White-hot head sparked and lit, and I came in a rushing wave that had me straining against him. "Say my name." He rubbed my slippery sex, fingers deep inside me. "Lucian." I sobbed. "Lucian." His grip on my nape was warm, reassuring as he kissed me. "That's my girl," he said as I came down from my high, my body trembling. "My girl." My focus came back as he slipped free from my panties. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, holding my eyes with his crystalline-green eyes, sucked his wet fingers clean. A wicked smile curved his lush mouth as his voice rolled over me like warm honey. "Delicious.

He slides his fingers up the seam of my panties, purposefully dragging the backside of his knuckles over my pussy, then my clit. I shake with the pleasure of it. “Yes, what?” I sink into the plush leather chair. “Yes…Pan?” He spits on my pussy, and slides two fingers up to meet my swollen nub. “Try again.” “Yes…” I inhale sharply when he slides back down and sticks his fingers deep inside of me. “Yes, my king.” “Good girl,” he says and finally gives me what I want and need—his mouth on my pussy. He licks and teases and fucks me with his tongue. I writhe in the chair, but he has me caged. I pant and moan at the ceiling. He is relentless with his mouth. The pleasure builds in my clit and when he adds a finger, fucking me with three, a high-pitched keening escapes my throat. I can feel them all watching me.

Do I look stupid to you? That thing is just plain crazy.” “And when was the last time you did something crazy?” Joss cocked an eyebrow. Was he kidding? “You have to ask?” A slow lazy grin warmed his face. “That wasn’t crazy. That was hot.” She rolled her eyes. He would say that, wouldn’t he? “My skirt.” “Is long.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Too long to flash anything when you fall off.” “When huh?” He nodded. “When.” “I’m more worried it might end up above my head.” He laughed but stopped abruptly when she glared at him. “I promise I won’t look when you get tossed.” Joss glanced around her at the full restaurant. “And what about the other hundred people in here?” “Oh come on.” He affected an air of fake severity. “Good decent southern folk would surely avert their eyes from a lady in a state of undress.” She snorted. Half the men in here would trample over their wives for a glimpse of panties.

Two women friends are having a Girls’ Night Out, and have been decidedly overenthusiastic on the cocktails. Weaving their way home, they realize that they need to pee. They’re near a graveyard—so they decide to do their business behind a headstone. The first woman has nothing to wipe with so she takes off her panties, uses them, and throws them away. Her friend, however, is wearing a rather expensive pair and doesn’t want to ruin hers. She manages to salvage a large ribbon from a wreath on one of the graves and proceeds to wipe herself with that. Soon, they’re heading for home. The next day the first woman’s husband phones the other husband and says, “These damn girls’ nights out have got to stop. My wife came home last night without her panties.” “That’s nothing,” says the other husband. “Mine came back with a card stuck between the cheeks of her ass that said, “From All of Us at the Fire Station, We’ll Never Forget You.

I was walking home alone late one night, when out of nowhere, this rabid homosexual jumped me and bit me right on the ass. I tried to fight him off, but you know those homos have superhuman strength. Anyway, he bit me on my left cheek, then took off. The whole thing shook me up, but I thought I was gonna be okay. It took me a few weeks to notice the changes. At first the signs were subtle: the sudden urge to redecorate my room, the uncontrollable desire to do Megan's hair. Then, as the phases of the moon progressed, I noticed other things: the need to wear lace panties, the insane hope of one day owning my own flower shop. Before I knew it, I was jacking off six times a day to pictures of Brad Pitt and Russell Crowe. Of course, I won't be a full fledged gay boy until I bite someone else and pass on the 'dark gift. Hey, Rooster, you wanna be my first convert? If I turn just four people, I win like a toaster oven or something..

He kissed his way across my chest and down between my breasts, over my shirt. His fingers moved to the waistband of my panties and he slowly tried to peel them down my legs. Tried being the operative word because five pairs of underwear don’t really fit the same way as one . . . “What in the actual fuck—” he started to say, tugging at the fabric. “Just . . . Oh my God, Will—” I curled on my side, laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. He managed the first pair, holding them up victoriously before he went back for the second. “Jesus Christ,” he said, attempting to pull them down without stretching them or damaging the elastic. “Are these on with some kind of adhesive?” “No!” “Okay . . . It’s possible this wasn’t my best plan. And will you hold still! It’s like trying to peel a wiggly onion!” “I’m going to die of laughter and when the police finally get here I’ll still be wearing these hideous underwear. Why didn’t you just take them all off at once?” “You can’t expect me to think when all my blood is in my dick!

What if Mike pitches a fit at the reception? What if he causes a scene? Did I pack enough shoes for the honeymoon? What if I don’t like living in the country? Am I supposed to plant a garden? I don’t know how to saddle a horse. What if I feel out of place? I never learned how to square dance. Is it do-si-do or allemande left? Wait…is it square dancing? Or two-stepping? I don’t even know the dances. I don’t belong out there. What if I want to get a job? There IS no job. Does J know I’m getting married today? Does Collin? Does Kev? What if I pass out during the ceremony? I’ve seen it on America’s Funniest Home Videos dozens of times. Someone always passes out. What if the food’s cold when we get to the reception? Wait…it’s supposed to be cold. Wait…some of it is, some of it isn’t. What if I’m not what Marlboro Man’s looking for? What if my face flakes off as I’m saying “I do”? What if my dress gets caught inside my panty hose? I’m so shaky all of a sudden. My hands feel so wet and clammy… I’ve never had a panic attack before. But as I would soon find out, there’s a first time for everything. Oh, Ree…don’t do this now.

So, um...I don't really know what to say right now." I let out an embarrassed laugh. The expression on Max's face melts from flustered to amused. And then he stands up, steps closer to me, cups his hand over my cheek, and presses a feathery kiss to my lips. "I don't either, honestly," he says. "That was kind of..." "Unexpected." He nods once. "And fucking amazing." "And hot." "Definitely hot." I nuzzle into his hand slightly, which earns me a sexy smile. "Can I still come in for my coffee order tomorrow?" he asks. "Of course." "And maybe after you close down the bakery you can stop by and we can get up to more fucking amazing and hot stuff?" I'm full-on beaming. This definitely isn't what I had in mind when I was psyching myself out to ask Max out on a date, it's a million times better. And I'm down to see where it goes. "I'd really, really like that." I start to turn to leave, but then Max grabs me gently by the hand, pulls me back to him, then levels me with a kiss so hot, my panties are soaked all the way through. I stay standing in that spot, my head spinning, as I struggle to find my bearings. "See you tomorrow, Joelle.

Alice's Cutie Code TM Version 2.1 - Colour Expansion Pack (aka Because this stuff won’t stop being confusing and my friends are mean edition) From Red to Green, with all the colours in between (wait, okay, that rhymes, but green to red makes more sense. Dang.) From Green to Red, with all the colours in between Friend Sampling Group: Fennie, Casey, Logan, Aisha and Jocelyn Green  Friends’ Reaction: Induces a minimum amount of warm and fuzzies. If you don’t say “aw”, you’re “dead inside”  My Reaction: Sort of agree with friends minus the “dead inside” but because that’s a really awful thing to say. Puppies are a good example. So is Walter Bishop. Green-Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: A noticeable step up from Green warm and fuzzies. Transitioning from cute to slightly attractive. Acceptable crush material. “Kissing.”  My Reaction: A good dance song. Inspirational nature photos. Stuff that makes me laugh. Pairing: Madison and Allen from splash Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: Something that makes you super happy but you don’t know why. “Really pretty, but not too pretty.” Acceptable dating material. People you’d want to “bang on sight.”  My Reaction: Love songs for sure! Cookies for some reason or a really good meal. Makes me feel like it’s possible to hold sunshine, I think. Character: Maxon from the selection series. Music: Carly Rae Jepsen Yellow-Orange  Friends’ Reaction: (When asked for non-sexual examples, no one had an answer. From an objective perspective, *pushes up glasses* this is the breaking point. Answers definitely skew toward romantic or sexual after this.)  My Reaction: Something that really gets me in my feels. Also art – oil paintings of landscapes in particular. (What is with me and scenery? Maybe I should take an art class) Character: Dean Winchester. Model: Liu Wren. Orange  Friends’ Reaction: “So pretty it makes you jealous. Or gay.”  “Definitely agree about the gay part. No homo, though. There’s just some really hot dudes out there.”(Feenie’s side-eye was so intense while the others were answering this part LOLOLOLOLOL.) A really good first date with someone you’d want to see again.  My Reaction: People I would consider very beautiful. A near-perfect season finale. I’ve also cried at this level, which was interesting. o Possible tie-in to romantic feels? Not sure yet. Orange-Red  Friends’ Reaction: “When lust and love collide.” “That Japanese saying ‘koi no yokan.’ It’s kind of like love at first sight but not really. You meet someone and you know you two have a future, like someday you’ll fall in love. Just not right now.” (<-- I like this answer best, yes.) “If I really, really like a girl and I’m interested in her as a person, guess. I’d be cool if she liked the same games as me so we could play together.”  My Reaction: Something that gives me chills or has that time-stopping factor. Lots of staring. An extremely well-decorated room. Singers who have really good voices and can hit and hold superb high notes, like Whitney Houston. Model: Jasmine Tooke. Paring: Abbie and Ichabod from Sleepy Hollow o Romantic thoughts? Someday my prince (or princess, because who am I kidding?) will come? Red (aka the most controversial code)  Friends’ Reaction: “Panty-dropping levels” (<-- wtf Casey???).  “Naked girls.” ”Ryan. And ripped dudes who like to cook topless.”  “K-pop and anime girls.” (<-- Dear. God. The whole table went silent after he said that. Jocelyn was SO UNCOMFORTABLE but tried to hide it OMG it was bad. Fennie literally tried to slap some sense into him.)  My Reaction: Uncontrollable staring. Urge to touch is strong, which I must fight because not everyone is cool with that. There may even be slack-jawed drooling involved. I think that’s what would happen. I’ve never seen or experienced anything that I would give Red to.

We all changed into our pajamas, and Taylor and Anika presented me with a wedding gift--a lacy white babydoll nightie with matching panties. “For the wedding night,” Taylor said meaningfully. “Uh, yeah, I got that,” I said, holding up the underwear. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too red. “Thanks, guys.” “Do you have any questions for us?” Taylor asked, perching on my bed. “Taylor! I, like, live in the world. I’m not an idiot.” “I’m just saying…” She paused. “You probably won’t like it that much the first couple of times. I mean, I’m super tiny, which means I’m really little down there, so it hurt a lot. It might not hurt as bad for you. Tell her, Anika.” Anika rolled her eyes. “It didn’t hurt me at all, Iz.” “Well, you probably have a large vagina,” Taylor said. Anika thumped Taylor on the head with a pillow, and we all started giggling and couldn’t stop. Then I said, “Wait, exactly how bad did it hurt, Tay? Did it hurt the way a punch in the stomach hurts?” “Who’s ever punched you in the stomach?” Anika asked me. “I have an older brother,” I reminded her. “It’s a different kind of pain,” Taylor said. “Did it hurt worse than period cramps?” “Yes. But I would say it’s more comparable to getting a shot of Novocain in your gums.” “Great, now she’s comparing losing your virginity to getting a cavity filled,” Anika said, getting up. “Iz, quit listening to her. I promise you it’s more fun than going to the dentist. It would be one thing if you were both virgins, but Jeremiah knows what’s up. He’ll take care of you.” Taylor collapsed into another fit of giggles. “He’ll take care of her!

Blues Elizabeth Alexander, 1962 I am lazy, the laziest girl in the world. I sleep during the day when I want to, ‘til my face is creased and swollen, ‘til my lips are dry and hot. I eat as I please: cookies and milk after lunch, butter and sour cream on my baked potato, foods that slothful people eat, that turn yellow and opaque beneath the skin. Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday I am still in my nightgown, the one with the lace trim listing because I have not mended it. Many days I do not exercise, only consider it, then rub my curdy belly and lie down. Even my poems are lazy. I use syllabics instead of iambs, prefer slant to the gong of full rhyme, write briefly while others go for pages. And yesterday, for example, I did not work at all! I got in my car and I drove to factory outlet stores, purchased stockings and panties and socks with my father’s money. To think, in childhood I missed only one day of school per year. I went to ballet class four days a week at four-forty-five and on Saturdays, beginning always with plie, ending with curtsy. To think, I knew only industry, the industry of my race and of immigrants, the radio tuned always to the station that said, Line up your summer job months in advance. Work hard and do not shame your family, who worked hard to give you what you have. There is no sin but sloth. Burn to a wick and keep moving. I avoided sleep for years, up at night replaying evening news stories about nearby jailbreaks, fat people who ate fried chicken and woke up dead. In sleep I am looking for poems in the shape of open V’s of birds flying in formation, or open arms saying, I forgive you, all.

QUESTION: Are you suggesting that history is irrelevant, then, and the temporal span of humankind merely the recycling of tropes? ANSWER: Well, I think it’s two things. It’s always two things, unless it’s three. The first thing is moms and martyrs are the way we will think, just as when we dance we tend to tango. Jung suspected as much, you know, and every story could, I suppose, be seen as such a spyglass. Second, either there is or there isn’t, point-blank, and if there is not, and something besides lead backs our philosophies, then previously Truth flashed its temper like a fictitious schoolgirl showing her panties, then went all cowboy cool in the neonew, barely speaking, keeping mum, despite the fact we’s done forgot dear mammy, savoring the slow satisfying burn of a cigarette before the bonfire of a billion bodies, and still millions more wait their turn, we’re better at keeping our appointments, at any rate, skinny corpses stripped of teeth and hair and skin, difference plucked like daisies, for there is no difference; in ether words, to hear the Great Apes tell it, every plague is one for the pointless and every poppy’s got jack to do with Us. Hoohah! A particularly ballsy bit of business given the most recent nearing too close, we’re singing our rondel with a bellyful of gravy and sourmash, we’re at the highpocked end, and there’s no more to come, come the dawn. Though bear in mind we’ve no pret-a-porter poodle sniffing around here, nossir, we’re not afraid to say stay, still, we’ll stay right here, eating off the apple of your eye, carving the plump of your cheek caught in the family photo, the flash in the pan goes off and so does your head, or so Buttercup says, we’re stuck, that is to say, in the over-brought dawn of this new clearer Age, in which we play patsy to witness just this: everything is beauty-full, in its own way. . . .

Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again. “Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom. “Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?” Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door. “It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release. “Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.” “Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?” “Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm. Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .? Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ. The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor. What was it with him and missing underwear? Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.” “You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart. Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her. “I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . . Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet. “Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .” “And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.” “No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.” But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.” “Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips.

Good luck. For most of my generation, it would just go to student debt and cocktails. If anything came to me (an impossibility), I would dump it into a poorly managed career in edgy luxury items. You can’t make opera money on perfume that smells like cunts and gasoline. At any rate, I didn’t usually make an appearance beyond the gala. Or, I hadn’t until recently. But Joseph Eisner had promised me a fortune, and now he wouldn’t take my calls. He did, however, like his chamber music. It had been an acquired taste for me. In my distant undergraduate past, when circumstance sat me in front of an ensemble, I spent the first five minutes of each concert deciding which musician I would fuck if I had the chance, and the rest shifting minutely in my seat. I still couldn’t stand Chanel. And while I had learned to appreciate—indeed, enjoy—chamber ensembles, orchestras, and on occasion even the opera, I retained my former habit as a dirty amusement to add some private savor to the proceedings. Tonight, it was the violist, weaving and bobbing his way through Dvořák’s Terzetto in C Major like a sinuous dancer. I prefer the romantics—fewer hair-raising harmonies than modern fare, and certainly more engaging than funereal baroque. The intriguing arrangement of the terzetto kept me engaged, in that slightly detached and floating manner engendered by instrumental performance. Moreover, the woman to my left, one row ahead, was wearing Salome by Papillon. The simple fact of anyone wearing such a scent in public pleased me. So few people dared wear anything at all these days, and when they did, it was inevitably staid: an inoffensive classic or antiseptic citrus-and-powder. But this perfume was one I might have worn myself. Jasmine, yes, but more indolic than your average floral. People sometimes say it smells like dirty panties. As the trio wrapped up for intermission, I took a steadying breath of musk and straightened my lapels. The music was only a means to an end, after all.

So Dad was a tedious, well-connected workaholic. But the other thing you need to understand is that Mom was a living wet dream. A former Guess model and Miller Lite girl, she was tall, curvy and gorgeous. At thirty-eight, she had somehow managed to remain ageless and maintained her killer body. She’s five-foot-nine with never-ending legs, generous breasts and full hips that scoop dramatically into her slim waist. People who say Barbie’s proportions are unrealistic obviously never met my stepmother. Her face is pretty too, with long eyelashes, sculpted cheekbones and big, blue eyes that tease and smile at the same time. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulders in thick, tousled layers like in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials. One memory seared in to my brain from my early teenage years is of Mom parading around the house one evening in nothing but her heels and underwear. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV when a flurry of long limbs and blow-dried hair burst in front of the screen. “Teddy-bear. Do you know where Silvia left the dry cleaning? I’m running late for dinner with the Blackwells and I can’t find my red cocktail dress.” Mom stood before me in matching off-white, La Perla bra and panties and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Some subtle gold hoop earrings hung from her ears and a tiny bit of mascara on her eye lashes highlighted her sparkling, blue eyes. Aside from the missing dress, she was otherwise ready to go. “I think she left them hanging on the chair next to the other sofa,” I said, trying my best not to gape at Mom’s perfect body. Mom trotted across the room, her heels tocking on the hard wood floor. I watched her slim, sexy back as she lifted the dry cleaning onto the sofa and then bent over to sort through the garments. My eyes followed her long mane of brown hair down to her heart-shaped ass. Her panties stretched tightly across each cheek as she bent further down. “Found it!” She cried, springing back upright, causing her 35Cs to bounce up and down from the sudden motion. They were thrusting proudly off her ribcage and bulging out over the fabric of the balconette bra like two titanic eggs. Her supple skin pushed out over the silk edges. And then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, her long legs striding back down the hallway.

Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked. “She wasn’t like that.” “She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.” Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked. He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.” Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished. “I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.” Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong. “Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.” “In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused. “You ruin all my best lectures.” There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good. “Gia?” Noah called. “What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly. “Are you pooping in your new princess panties?” “No. Poopin’ in box.” “What box?” His voice rose in horror. “Kitty box.” Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed. Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box. “No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet. “Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh. “I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat!

My little undomesticated pornstar pushed me so hard between her legs, my oxygen levels plummeted. She clenched around my fingers through her panties as an orgasm rolled through her in waves. The gush of warmth soaked the cotton. I kissed her through the fabric, again and again, knowing tomorrow everything would return to its proper position—my boundaries, my limits, my hang-ups, my demons. “Can I return the favor?” Dallas sat half up. “But not through your briefs. Men’s briefs always smell like old cheese that’s been sitting in a crockpot for days. I know because whenever my housekeeper went on vacation, we all took turns doing the laundry. And, well, I really shouldn’t say, but Dadd—” Not wanting the moment to be ruined with a conversation about her father’s underwear, I pulled forward, shutting her smart mouth with a kiss that tasted like her sweet pussy. At first, she pinched her lips and made a face, unsure what she thought about her own taste. But when I dragged the tip of my hard cock along her slit through our clothes, she went wild and kissed me back, shoving her tongue so deep down my throat I thought she would fish out my dinner. “Yes.” She wiggled against me. “Please, sir, may I have some more?” She’d quoted Oliver Twist while getting fucked. Truly, the woman was one of a kind. Knowing it was idiotic, and dangerous, and deranged, I pushed my tip through her slit. She was tight—tighter, still, through the tattered, stretched cotton of her ruined panties—but wet and sleek, ready for what was coming. The sensation, how warm and taut she felt, completely undid me. I thrust harder and deeper, entering her through our underwear, fucking her slowly with only flimsy fabric between us. I tore my mouth from hers, eyes glued to my cock each time it sank into her. I could barely fit inside, she was so tight. This was, by far, the best fuck I’d ever had. She panted. “Is this what people call dry-humping?” No. Nothing about this was dry. I was basically fucking her through our underwear. Only, explaining to her that this was full-blown sex with a side order of my issues was not in my plans for tonight. Or ever. “Sure.” Each push brought me closer to a climax. From slow, controlled, teasing thrusts designed to drive her mad with desire, I quickly derailed to jerky, manic, need-to-be-inside-this-woman plunges. Of a man so hungry for human connection, for affection, for carnal needs to be met and satisfied. My head grew dizzy. I’d taken into consideration the possibility that Dallas couldn’t come through penetration. It merely placed her in the same majority as most females on Planet Earth. But she shook, clawed, and reached for me, looking ready to climax. Her tits bounced and jiggled each time I slammed into her. Her mouth opened in awe, probably because this orgasm felt different from the first two. Deeper and more violent. She clutched the lapels of my shirt, shoving her face in mine. “Lose the underwear.” She met my thrust, groaning when my crown peeked past the slot in my boxer briefs. “I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you.” I was about two seconds from fulfilling her demand. Luckily, my logic grabbed the steering wheel, which my cock had seized sometime this evening, and derailed the situation from full-blown calamity. I managed to wait until she came, just barely, before pulling out, flipping her onto her stomach, and jerking off. I aimed for her bare ass but somehow came on her hair. No matter. She had plenty of time to wash it. Her agenda wasn’t exactly full. Dallas fell back onto the pillows, a lopsided grin on her face. (Chapter 31)

They say a sneeze is 1/10th of an orgasm. And you can’t fake a sneeze. Maybe that’s why I like sneezing into my wife’s panties so much.

I am on the verge of tears because of this declaration and my insides twist knowing how I have truly deceived him. Put on your big-girl panties and get the fuck over it, She says.

My mom always said to wear clean underwear in case of an accident. What she didn’t say was make sure your underwear drawer is neat and tidy and only filled with clean, sexy underwear in case of panty raids by cute boys.

But it's safe to say that if your period panties not being on display is the best that can be said about a situation, the situation pretty much sucks.

Cage gestured to my running leg. “Testing a new leg?” I shook my head. “Underwear.” His brow wrinkled and the guys behind him inched a bit closer, ears perked. “What?” Cage asked. “My favorite underwear has been discontinued. I’m trying a new brand and the best way to test them out is to go for a jog. I want to know before I buy ten pairs if they’re going to ride up on me. I’m not a thong girl. I don’t like anything shoved up my ass.” His cheeks turned red while taking a hard swallow. The fishing crew tried and failed to hide their chuckling. One of the guys slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you out front.” He cleared his throat. “Our condolences on the ass news.” That sparked a new round of laughter as the guys piled onto the elevator. When the doors shut, Cage pursed his lips and sighed. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “What?” “What …” It’s possible his intention was to be serious or maybe upset, but he couldn’t finish his thought without rubbing his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. “You don’t like ‘anything shoved up your ass.’ Really, Lake?” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he shook his head. “So you’re big into fishing, huh?” “Don’t change the subject.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Too bad he still couldn’t keep a straight face. It would have given his case a lot more merit. Those were favorite moments of mine, when he was ninety percent sure my actions were an embarrassing side effect of my Sahara Desert humor, yet still ten percent holy-shit-she’s-serious. I loved that ten percent. I worked my ass off for that ten percent. “I’m sorry, what was the subject? Oh yeah, things I don’t like in my crack. Sounds like a Jeopardy category or a Family Feud survey. ‘Name something Lake Jones does not like up her crack. Underwear. Survey says? Ding ding ding … ninety-four people surveyed said underwear, the other six said cock. And I do believe those six lascivious idiots are downstairs waiting for you.” Cage observed me; it was never just a stare or a lingering look. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but never lost their sparkle. The wetting of his lips was always followed by biting them together like he refused to speak until he’d figured me out. And just before he spoke, his dimples surrendered to his impending grin. “I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there in three hours.” “What if I haven’t sorted through this underwear situation by then?” My head tilted to the side as my poker face slipped a bit, revealing my own impending grin. “Hmm …” He pulled me to him, his hands easing into the back of my running shorts. “Don’t fret over it,” he whispered before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. My lips parted, and eyes closed, as I held onto his biceps to keep my knees from buckling. “Panties are optional.” Three words and my knees buckled. Thankfully—not really thankful at all—he fisted the back of my new panties and yanked up. My hero? No. The wedgie was underway a few seconds before my knees gave out. I gasped. He smirked. “I think you should consider getting used to the idea—the feeling—of something in that sexy ass of yours.” Not much left me speechless, but my first non-brother-male-induced wedgie left me with cow eyes and a numb tongue. He winked just before the elevator doors shut.

Great, but maybe you should mind your own damn business,” I snap. He’s standing there in his normal, causal stance with his hands in his pockets, his stupid sexy glasses hanging off his stupid sexy nose. “Wow, someone’s uptight this morning. Monday blues? You know, I know of something that can ease that tension.” God the nerve. How does he get away with it? I take a few menacing steps towards him, but he never drops that smile. “You know. You may have everyone fooled here. But not me. Ohhhh no! I see right through you. The ‘I’m just this nice innocent science teacher, who compliments old ladies’ cardigans and plays with baking soda and test tubes’. But nope. I know the real you. The condescending type. Thinks all highly of himself. With his big bad muscles and fake—” Peter grabs for me, pulling me into his classroom. The door shuts behind him and my back is thrown against the wall and his mouth is on mine. I spend a half-second thinking of fighting him off before I fight him in a different way, kissing him just as aggressively. God this is so hot. What is wrong with me!? His movement is quick and brutal. He doesn’t bother asking, but takes, as he spreads my legs with his knees, his hands hiking up my skirt. His mouth breaks from mine, his breath caressing my earlobe as he speaks. “We have exactly three minutes before that bell rings. Now you can waste it, or you can enjoy what I’m most definitely going to.” I don’t say a word, because his hand on my thigh is burning a hole through my skin. My silence is his green light, and he raises his hand, pushing my panties aside. The smirk on his face has a lot to do with the realization that I’m already soaking wet. He uses my juices to spread me open then pushing a thick finger inside. His mouth back on mine abusing my lips with his touch while his finger fucks me, in and out, the pleasure, heavenly. “Two minutes,” he says between nips and licks, his finger pulling out and two entering me. God, this is messed up, but so hot. I’m so turned on; my hands are pulling at his hair. “One minute,” he moans into my mouth and I find myself riding his hand thrust for thrust. It’s like I can hear the seconds ticking by, knowing that if I don’t come before that minute ends I will die. “Thirty seconds,” he murmurs across my lips and his pressure increases, his pumps wild, my back riding up and down the wall. He starts counting down from ten, the numbers getting louder and louder in my brain as he slams a third finger inside me and hooks, putting pressure on just the right spot. I explode. I squeeze his fingers so tight and come all over his hand, just as he grunts out the number one. We both hear the bell sound and he pulls out, adjusting my skirt. Taking his fingers into his mouth, he sucks off my juices, never taking his eyes off me. Before I can say anything, the doorknob begins to jiggle. Light appears from the outside and the door opens as a sea of children scatter in. “Thank you Ms. Gretchen, I will most definitely try out three finger servings of baking soda in today’s explosion experiment.” Smiling heftily at me, “But, you should really be getting to class now. The precious youth is waiting for you.” With that he holds his door open, and in a daze, I walk past him. What the fuck…

and my heart stutters because there he is, the Guy Who Owns My Hormones. While Callan and Tahoe look good, Saint could be wearing a sign that says BRING EXTRA PANTIES.

She was pulling her cargo pants on, her shirt, fuck her bra and panties. “Where are you going?” Laurence was still naked. “I have to go.” She put her shoes on. “Find Ernesto. Find the others. We can fix this. We can make them pay. We can save them.” “I’ll go with you.” Laurence leapt for his pants. “You can’t,” Patricia said. “I’m sorry, you can’t.” And then she was gone, without saying goodbye or anything. Laurence heard the front door slamming and Isobel trying to say

When I hear banging around in the bathroom, I make my way over and slide open the door. I see Jeanette throwing everything around, making a complete mess. The woman creates chaos wherever she goes. As she catches sight of me in the mirror, her face lights up before a scowl forms. It makes a cute little line between her eyebrows and I brush my thumb across it. My cock is already goddamn hard because she stands there in nothing but a pair of very tiny panties. “You jackdog. I know what you did,” she snaps and turns to point a finger at me. I look down at myself thinking maybe I missed some of the blood but I changed and took a shower before I came up here so it can’t be that. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” she says accusingly and she takes three steps towards me. She presses her breast against me, getting me in face. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Mama, but I’ll do it again if it gets you all worked up and rubbing your tits all over me.” She levels me with a look that could kill a lesser man, but I lean down and kiss her nose and I know I’m winning when I see her fight a smile. “The pills, Saint. Where are they?” Ah now I know why she’s all worked up. I’m surprised it took her this long to notice. I threw out those little fuckers almost a week ago, and I sure wasn’t trying to hide the fact I did it. “Down the drain, Mama.” Before she can respond, I grab her by the hips and lift her onto the bathroom counter. “You’re going to get it, Saint.” “Fuck, I hope so.” I lean in, kissing her neck and dragging my tongue up to her ear.

He tightens his grip again, and his lips brush my earlobes as he says, “‘Cause every time I got you to look at me, after I got home from practice, I’d lock my door and stroke my cock, picturing your face.” My pussy spasms. Bad pussy.

You can say your prayers, work your rites Burn your little candles day and night You can shimmy 'til dawn to the pounding drums But you best be ready when the Horned One comes, yeah If you wake to the sound of a hunting horn Dance a ring in the gathering storm If the Solstice time gets your panties in a wad It's just the coming of the Horned God He will call you out, make you sweat Give you a blessing that you'll never forget So revel in the chase and let your heartbeat run: Blessed are the children of the Horned One!” From Hymn to Herne by S.J. Tucker

We’re talking twenty, thirty pairs of panties here,” I say after the silence goes on for so long, he actually looks up. “They aren’t pens; they don’t get misplaced.

He shuts the door, but I can still hear what he says to Amber and Glenn as soon as he walks into the living room. 'They're red! Her panties are red!

Why’re you still here?” She yawned. “Go away. Jared will be here any moment, and I’ll be nothing but an unfortunate memory.” I should go. Pivot and leave. To my relief, I started doing just that. The echo of my footsteps bounced on the bare walls. I did not look back. Knew that if I caught a glimpse of her again, I’d make a mistake. This was for the best. It was time to cut my losses, admit my one mistake in my thirty-one years of life, and move on. My life would return to normal. Peaceful. Tidy. Noiseless. Unexpensive. My hand curled around the doorknob, about to push it open. “Hey, asshole.” I stopped but didn’t turn around. I refused to answer to the word. “What do you say—one last time for the road?” I glanced behind my shoulder, knowing I shouldn’t, and found my soon-to-be ex-wife propped on the hood of my Maybach, her dress hiked up her waist, revealing she’d worn no panties. Her bare pussy glistened, ready for me. A dare. I never shied away from those. Throwing caution to the wind (and the remaining few brain cells she hadn’t fried with her mindless conversation), I marched to her. When I reached the car, she lifted her hand to stop me, slapping her palm against my chest. “Not so fast.” It is going to be fast and a half, seeing as I’m about to come just from watching you like this. I arched an eyebrow. “Cold feet?” “Nah, low temperature is your thing. Don’t wanna steal your thunder. Either we go all the way, or we go nowhere at all. It’s all or nothing.” It infuriated me that each time I gave her a choice, she fabricated another. If I gave her an option, she swapped it with one of her creation. And now, on the heels of my ultimatum, she’d dished out her own. And like a doomed fool, I chose everything. I chose my downfall. We exploded together in a filthy, frustrated kiss full of tongue and teeth. She latched on to my neck, half-choking me, half-hugging me. I fumbled with the zipper of my suit pants, freeing my cock, which by this point gleamed with precum, so heavy and so hard it was uncomfortable to stand. My teeth grazed down her chin, trailing her throat before I did what I hadn’t done in five fucking years and pushed into her, all at once. Bare. My cock disappeared inside her, hitting a hot spot, squeezed to death by her muscles. Oh, fuck. My forehead fell against hers. A thin coat of sweat glued us together. Never in my life had anything felt quite so good. I wanted to evaporate into mist, seep into her, and never come back. I wanted to live, breathe, and exist inside my beautiful, maddening, conniving, infuriating curse of a wife. She was the one thing I never wanted and the only thing I craved. Worst, still, was the fact that I knew I couldn’t deny her a single thing she desired, be it a frock or piece of jewelry. Or, unfortunately, my heart on a platter, speared straight through with a skewer for her to devour. Still beating and as vibrant red as candied apples. I retreated, then slammed into her harder. Pulled and rushed back in. My fingers gripped her by the waist, pinning her down, wild with lust and desire. I drove into her in jerky, frenzied movements of a man starved for sex, fucking the ever-living shit out of her. Now that I’d officially filed a restraining order against my logic, I grabbed the front of her throat, sinking my teeth onto her lower lip. My spearmint breath skated over her face. The hood of the car warmed her thighs, still hot from the engine, jacking up the temperature between us even further. Small, desperate yelps fled her mouth. The only sounds in the cavernous space came from my grunts, our skin slapping together, and her tiny gasps of pleasure. The car rocked back and forth to the rhythm of my thrusts... (chapter 44)