Panty Man Quotes

My panties were still on but he didn’t let that stop him, nosing them out of the way and tonguing my sex, making low, growling noises in his throat like a big cat purring with pleasure while it devoured its prey.

Baby, in a couple of minutes I'm going to rip off your god damned panties and show you some turkey neck you'll remember all the way to the graveside. I have a vast and curved penis, like a sickle, and many a gutted pussy has gasped come upon my callous and roach-smeared rug. First let me finish this drink.

He was a drool-worthy, panty-drenching, yummy work of masculine art.

fuck she pulled her dress off over her head and I saw the panties indented somewhat into the crotch. it's only human. now we've got to do it. I've got to do it after all that bluff. it's like a party-- two trapped idiots. under the sheets after I have snapped off the light her panties are still on. she expects an opening performance. I can't blame her. but wonder why she's here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned? we didn't have to do it yet we had to do it. it was something like establishing new credibility with the income tax man. I get the panties off. I decide not to tongue her. even then I'm thinking about after it's over. we'll sleep together tonight trying to fit ourselves inside the wallpaper. I try, fail, notice the hair on her head mostly notice the hair on her head and a glimpse of nostrils piglike I try it again.

Any day now?” Viktor prodded. “Sì, sì. Do not get your…” Niccolo paused to recall the exact phrase. “Get your balls in a bunch.” Viktor shook his head. “Panties.” Niccolo frowned. “Why would you wear panties? Aren’t those for females?” Viktor growled. “Can we go now?” “Yes, but I insist you tell me more about your man-panties later.

An hour later, a nameless, cold-faced man returned with a tray of fresh pasta, warm bread, and a few bags of brand new comfort clothes: yoga pants, tees, a few sports bras, and...pink thong underwear? Well, of course. Wouldn't want to be held prisoner and have panty lines.

Man, my girl is one tough chick when she wants to be. I wonder if it has something to do with those big, comfy granny panties she’s got on.

It was not healthy for one man's smile to make my panties spontaneously combust

Even with all the crazy stuff happening recently, beneath the sorrow and the anger, I was still a red-blooded, twenty-three-year-old woman sitting in front of a man, who may not be a hundred precent human but had to have caused a panty-dropping crisis across the universe.

Merda! Her lace panties had snagged on his ring, the signet ring he'd inherited from his father, Giacomo Casanova. His father had seduced hundred of women without any problems whatsoever, and he was having trouble with just one. This was the real reason he never used the Casanova name. He could never live up to his father's reputation. The old man was probably laughing in his grave. Nine circles of hell," Jack muttered. Hell?" Lara asked. "I thought I was the Holy Land." You're paradise. Unfortunately, I am stuck there." Her eyes widened. "Stuck?" Normally, I would love being stuck to your lovely bum, but it would look odd if we go sightseeing with my hand under your skirt. Especially in the basilica." She glanced down. "How can you be stuck?" My ring. It's caught in the lace. See?" He moved his hand down her hip, dragging her undies down a few inches. Okay, stop." She bit her lip, frowning, then suddenly giggled. "I can't believe this has happened." I assure you, as much as I had hoped to get your clothes off, this was not part of my original plan." She snorted. "No problem. Just rip yourself loose." Are you sure?" It will destroy you undies." She narrowed her eyes with a seductuve look. "Rip it." Very well." He jerked his hand away, but the panties came with him. He yanked his hand back and forth, but the lacy, latex material simply stretched with him. "Santo cielo, they are indestructible." Lara laughed. He continued to wage battle, but to no avail. "They could use this material to build spaceships.

Maybe she should cut the guy a little slack, [...] Maybe Thorne had been a no-show because something bad happened to him on the job. What if he'd been injured in the line of duty and didn't come by as promised because he was incapacitated in some way? Maybe he hadn't called to apologize or to explain his absence because he physically couldn't. Right. And maybe she had checked her brain into her panties from the second she first laid eyes on the man.

Panty Melter: an exceedingly rare species of man blessed with so many desirable attributes he effortlessly gains access into a girl's panties.

I can’t cut back. I’ve turned into a sex addict. I get within a foot of Ranger or Morelli and I’m ready to go … and go, and go, and go, and go.” “That’s a lot of going. I’m a retired professional, and it’d be a lot of going even for me. What you need are granny panties. You put on a big ol’ pair of ugly granny panties and you won’t be dropping your drawers no more. And even if you forget in the heat of the moment, and you pull your skirt up over your head, you’re not gonna see no action on account granny panties have a deflating effect on a man. Your man’s gonna be going unh ah, no way am I getting busy with a woman wearing granny panties.

Now how about you man the fuck up, put your big girl panties on and go get your fucking ex- girlfriend back.

Whatever you guys call it. Man up. Get your panties out of a wad. Put on your big boy shorts. Grow a set.

I also feel fairly confident that the original Texaco Salvatore was a good family man, with perhaps a propensity for wearing his wife's panties and betting his kids' college money at the track, but otherwise a solid dude.

You begging me to do things no man has done before ?" His deep, sexy voice dipped to melt-her -panties-off levels.

Kaldar smiled at her. Now there was a work of art. If she were just a girl and he were just a man, and they met at a party, that smile would've guaranteed him a date. The man was hot. There was no doubt. But right now, all it would get him was a solid punch in those even teeth. Audrey laughed. "Aren't you sweet? Tell me, do girls usually throw their panties at you when you do that?" He grinned wider, and she glimpsed the funny evil spark in his eyes. "Do men throw money when you do your little Southern belle?

He brings me calm and I give him wild and in that mix we’re pretty fucking amazing together. Gray Ellison is a knock your panties off at fifty paces kind of stunning. I’m talking ‘make you a drooling mess’ level of attractive. Protect your ovaries, ladies. Gray Ellison is walking by. It’s ludicrous that a man like him actually exists in the human world to drive women out of their horny minds.

Yeah, about a guy who was jogging by you this morning. You said his penis was swaying like the wrecking ball in Miley Cyrus’s music video and he needed to wear man panties rather than free-ballin’ it.

Alexis grabbed his arm. "Tom Jones? Wow, I totally love Tom Jones. He's like quintessential Vegas—over the top and indecent fun. Let me just go grab a pair of underwear to throw at him and we'll be all set." Over his undead body. If anyone was getting her underwear tossed in his face, it was going to be him. "I don't think so, Ball Buster. You're not giving your panties to an old man." "Oh, and you're so young, Garlic?" "Garlic?" What the hell was that? "Yep. Now we have pet names for each other, isn't that adorable? You're Garlic and I'm Ball Buster. Now everyone will believe we're a real couple.

Logan. Fucking. Matthews. I hate him. I hate his stupid smug ass of a face and that perfectly messy brown hair. I hate those stupid green eyes and those perfect teeth, and that hot as fuck panty-dropping smile. I hate his stupid deep dimples that show whenever he smirks from being an asshole—which is all the fucking time. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him so fucking much, I want to push him up against the wall and punch him in the face. And then I want to lick it. Then rip his fucking shirt off and finger his abs while he does that annoyingly manly chuckle that I love. I hate him. Stupid Fucking Logan Fucking Matthews. Shit. I'm drunk. And I've turned into Lucy.

The simmering lust, the raging interest exploded into love. Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man who took the time to feed a homeless kitty? She held that image against her heart like a secret jewel. Only she knew about it, she was sure. Those girls Liam might’ve slept with, girls who left their panties in his locker or wrote things about him on the bathroom walls…they didn’t know what Posey knew— Liam Declan Murphy was not just the hottest thing ever to grace Bellsford High…he was a softy, too.

Georgette was a hip queer. She (he) didn't try to disguise or conceal it with marriage and mans talk, satisfying her homosexuality with the keeping of a secret scrapbook of pictures of favorite male actors or athletes or by supervising activities of young boys or visiting turkish baths or mens locker rooms, leering sidely while seeking protection behind a carefully guarded guise of virility (fearing that moment at a cocktail party or in a bar when this front may start crumbling from alcohol and be completely disintegrated with an attempted kiss or groping of an attractive young man and being repelled with a punch and - rotten fairy - followed with hysteria and incoherent apologies and excuses and running from the room) but, took a pride in being a homosexual by feeling intellectually and esthetically superior to those (especially women) who weren't gay (look at all the great artists who were fairies!); and with the wearing of womens panties, lipstick, eye makeup (this including occasionally gold and silver - stardust - on the lids),long marcelled hair, manicured and polished fingernails, the wearing of womens clothes complete with a padded bra, high heels and wig (one of her biggest thrills was going to BOP CITY dressed as a tall stately blond ( she was 6'4 in heels) in the company of a negro (he was a big beautiful black bastard and when he floated in all the cats in the place jumped and the squares bugged. We were at crazy pad before going and were blasting like crazy, and were up so high that I just didnt give ashit for anyone honey, let me tell you!); and the occasional wearing of menstrual napkin.

Put your big girl panties on and be a man!

Lock your doors." Coming from a man she'd never met face to face, this ought to sound creepy instead of panty-dampening and protective in a John Wick meets Mr. Darcy kind of way.

The best,” Eli finishes on a groan and eats one of the treats in two bites. He licks his lips, and my ninety-dollar black lace panties are soaking wet. This man should come with a warning label.

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.

Oh my God, he thought suddenly. I’ve got a hard-on. “You want some or what?” Bailey asked softly. Reece took the water and drank down a sizeable amount. He grew paranoid that she could see his hard-on, but that would be impossible. The lights were dim. There was an armrest between them. Relax, bro. You’re cool. She can’t see your . . . oh, wait a minute. There it goes. It’s going down. Phew! Thank God. How embarrassing would that have been, right? For her to see how much she turns me on? How much I can’t stop thinking about the kind of panties she wears under those cigarette pants. The way her tits look in her button-up tops. Man, I love how she buttons them all the way up . . . wait a minute. Hold up. I mean down! Go down! Stupid dick!

Got something!" one of the men yelled. "Is it Mike?" another called, rushing from our sides. As everyone converged on the scene, Nick's voice rang out, choked with barely contained laughter. "Forget it. It's—uh—nothing important." "What the hell do you mean?" the first man said. "Maybe this is all a joke to you, son, but. . ." The rest of the sentence trailed off as we burst into the clearing to find one of the searchers bending over a ripped shirt. Torn clothing littered the ground, more hung from bushes. Nick held up half a pair of white panties and grinned at me. "Wild dogs? Or just Clayton?" "Oh God," I muttered under my breath. I walked over to snatch the underwear from him, but he held it over his head, grinning like a schoolboy. "I seeParis , I seeFrance , I see Elena's underpants," he chanted. "Everyone's already seen much more than that," Jeremy said. "I think we can safely resume the search." Peter plucked Clay's shirt from a low-hanging branch and held it up, peering through a hole in the middle. "You guys can really do some damage. Where's the hidden video when you need it?" "So this—uh—wasn't done by wild dogs?" one of the searchers said. Peter grinned and tossed the shirt to the ground. "Nope. Just wild hormones.

She licked her lips nervously, “I’ve never been naked in front of someone before,” she admitted. “Good,” I replied sitting up and reaching for her waist and pulling her to me. “You don’t have to get naked in front of me it you aren’t ready. But if you do then I will be a very, very happy man.” Pagan laughed softly, “Actually you’ll be a very, very happy Death.” I took a nip at her earlobe then whispered, “That’s right and right now Death is having very, very naughty thoughts about you. So please take off those sexy panties and crawl back in this bed with me.” Pagan shivered in my arms, “That sure is a good way to ask.

Terri had already gotten her panties into a bunch just from one little phone call, so he knew coming at her too much too fast would be more trouble than it was worth. He couldn’t exactly beat her into submission, not right away anyway. Although he did enjoy seeing her get all riled up. Nothing tugged at a man’s heartstrings like a pair of mascara smeared eyes. Randy from Spring Cleaning-- Coming Summer 2012

The TV goes to a commercial for air freshener. A woman is spraying air freshener so her family will be happy. Then to a commercial for very thin panty liners so a woman can wear a dress and dance and meet the man she will later spray air freshener for. Clean and bleed. Bleed and clean.

The TV goes to a commercial for air freshener. A woman is spraying air freshener so her family will be happy. Then to a commercial for very thin panty liners so a woman can wear a dress and dance and meet the man she will later spray air freshener for. Clean and bleed. Bleed and clean.

How many rooms are there in the chambers of your heart? How many rooms full of memories can you describe like the one I’m going to tell you about. You know how you left him don’t you? The man you were so in love with once. Bing Cherry Silk. Another man left those for you didn’t he? And you put them on, just like I did.

Jason. My best friend from childhood. The boy—er, man—who should be ten hours away in Kodiak, Alaska, rather than here in Anchorage. The man staring at my naked legs. And I’m standing here in my panties and baby-doll T, which clearly shows I’m not wearing a bra, especially as Alaska is cold in February and the door gapes wide open.

And then he winks. Lord, have mercy, this man. Send help. I may not survive this. Or at least my panties won’t. Not if he keeps winking.

I seem to recall ripping your panties off last night, so tell me, Soph, whatcha got on under this little red dress?

he's enough of a man to make a legion of panties disintegrate. Incinerate.

The man had a smart mouth, a hard body, and questionable motives. In short, he was exactly what made her panties melt.

He was a rapist, but…but the way he died…the smell of his burnt flesh is seared into me. The screams will haunt my nightmares, and the man responsible has my panties wet.

Dear God, did Logan wear reading glasses?! She did not stand a freaking chance with this man. She might as well just hand over her panties right now.

In Clint's arms, Josie discovered what the kiss of a man should feel like. Fire: unadulterated, skin-scorching, tummy twisting, panty wetting fire. He kissed her as if she were the most desirable woman in existence. He devoured her lips as if they were the most decadent treat imaginable. And when he pressed her against the hardness of his desire - for me - she mewled in want.

Me: You sit around in your house with only your panties on? Zach: I do not wear “panties”, thank you very much. I wear manly boxer briefs. Me: With weird characters on them, don’t you? Zach: How did you know that?

Dear . . . God,” she blurted as she recoiled. The hallway beyond was filled with the males of the house, the Brothers and other fighters and Manny sitting on the floor with their backs to the bare walls, their legs stretched out, propped up, crossed at the knees or crossed at the ankles. Apparently there had been quite a bit of drinking going on, empty bottles of vodka and whiskey littered around them, glasses in hands or on thighs. “This is not as pathetic as it looks,” her Butch pointed out. “Liar,” V muttered. “It so fucking is. I think I’m going to start knitting for reals.” As the females emerged with her, each one of them registered shock, disbelief, and then a wry amusement. “Is it me,” one of the males groused, “or did we just perform our own mass castration out here?” “I think that just about sums this shit up,” somebody agreed. “I’m wearing panties under my leathers from now on. Anyone joining me?” “Lassiter already does,” V said as he got to his feet and went to Jane. “Hey.” And then it was group-reunion time. While the other pairs found one another, Butch smiled as Marissa came over to him and put out her hand to help him off the floor. As they embraced, he kissed her on the side of the neck. “Are you out of love with me now?” he murmured. “’ Cuz I’m pussy-whipped?” She leaned back in his arms. “Why? Because you pined after me while I was watching a dirty movie with my girls that wasn’t all that dirty? I think it’s actually— and brace yourself— really pretty cute.” “I’m still all man.” As she rolled her body against him, she let out a mmmm as she felt his erection. “Yes, I can tell.

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.

The lucid, rational part of Billie wanted to laugh. Here she was, out in the woods of middle-class suburbia, with a man’s fingers inside her panties, inside her, a climax of unimaginable force trembling at the edge of her grasp. And the man who now plied her and played her…a prostitute. A gigolo. A beloved brother and son and uncle, and a suspect, with too many secrets and too much sexual prowess. A man she was falling in love with. The impossibility of it, the crazy, twisted potential swept over her, then ebbed, lost in the surge of unbelievable pleasure that built and built within her like strings drawn too tightly across a fine-tuned instrument. She would die from this, die and scatter into a million fragments and drift like dust on the wind.

Maggie was ready for him. And with one hand holding himself up, he gently pushed the crotch of her panties to the side, and as he eased inside her, he took both her hands and held them in his, above her head, resting on the sand. Andhe kissed her. There was no urgency on his part, no movement, and as he explored her lips Maggie felt her loins throb around him. He fitted her perfectly. A moan escaped her lips and as he lowered himself completely Maggie felt the entire length of him fill her up and she exploded. She was calling his name and as she clung to him, he moved his hips into her, until she was completely spent.

This is the heart of it, the scared woman who does not want to go alone to the man any longer, because when she does, when she takes of her baggy dress, displaying to him rancid breasts each almost as big as his own head, or no breasts, or mammectomized scar tissues taped over with old tennis balls to give her the right curves; when, vending her flesh, she stands or squats waiting, congealing the air firstly with her greasy cheesey stench of unwashed feet confined in week-old socks, secondly with her perfume of leotards and panties also a week old, crusted with semen and urine, brown-greased with the filth of alleys; thirdly with the odor of her dress also worn for a week, emblazoned with beer-spills and cigarette-ash and salted with the smelly sweat of sex, dread, fever, addiction—when she goes to the man, and is accepted by him, when all these stinking skins of hers have come off (either quickly, to get it over with, or slowly like a big truck pulling into a weigh station because she is tired), when she nakedly presents her soul’s ageing soul, exhaling from every pore physical and ectoplasmic her fourth and supreme smell which makes eyes water more than any queen of red onions—rotten waxy smell from between her breasts, I said, bloody pissy shitty smell from between her legs, sweat-smell and underarm-smell, all blended into her halo, generalized sweetish smell of unwashed flesh; when she hunkers painfully down with her customer on bed or a floor or in an alley, then she expects her own death. Her smell is enough to keep him from knowing the heart of her, and the heart of her is not the heart of it. The heart of it is that she is scared.

Do I look like the kind of girl who follows a complete stranger out of a bar? You might be on the prowl, but I’m here to celebrate with my friend. Give her my time, because she pretty much gives me all of hers. And honestly, I’m kind of tired of the idea that a man can just snap his fingers and a woman will start peeling off her panties.

He wore pantysuits. Women's pantysuits. He wore high heels too, or medium heels at least. Panty hose. And angora sweaters. I never saw him in a dress or a skirt, but he loved those pantysuits. He used to sit in his office with a cigarette, striking a very masculine pose. But he had on a pantsuit with pantyhose–heavy beard–he was a very typical ex-marine, to some degree. He had a very deep voice, physical mannerisms like a man and he was totally ludicrous. Yet he was completely at ease. He was a very self-confident man. He said that he was already into being a transvestite by the time he enlisted in the Marines. And when he was making a landing in the Pacific, he was wearing bra and panties under his uniform.

Come on, Ree, get a grip, I told myself. Something was going on…this was more than simply a reaction to the August humidity. I was having some kind of nervous psycho sweat attack--think Albert Brooks in Broadcast News--and I was being held captive by my perspiration in the upstairs bathroom of Marlboro Man’s grandmother’s house in the middle of his cousin’s wedding reception. I felt the waistband of my skirt stick to my skin. Oh, God…I was in trouble. Desperate, I stripped off my skirt and the stifling control-top panty hose I’d made the mistake of wearing; they peeled off my legs like a soggy banana skin. And there I stood, naked and clammy, my auburn bangs becoming more waterlogged by the minute. So this is it, I thought. This is hell.

But I was stuck--stuck in a delicious, glorious, beautiful, inescapable La Brea tar pit of romance with a rough, rugged, impossibly tender cowboy. As soon as I’d have any thoughts of escaping to Chicago to avoid my parents’ problems, within seconds I’d shoot myself down. Something major would have to happen to pry me out of his arms. Marlboro Man filled my daydreams, filled my thoughts, my time, my heart, my mind. When I was with him, I was able to forget about my parents’ marital problems. On our drives together, preparing our dinners, watching our VHS action movies, all of those unhappy things disappeared from view. This became a crutch for me, an addictive drug of escape. Ten seconds in Marlboro Man’s pickup, and I saw only goodness and light. And the occasional bra-and-panty-wearing grandma mowing her yard.

The uniformed man led him along a short corridor and turned right at an electronic display proclaiming “The new collection from Kelloggs” and portraying several variations of luminous crotchless panties. Grandfather frowned. “Can you eat those?” he asked the man, pointing at the display. The man grinned. “If you buy them, Sir, I am sure that you can do anything you want with them. Eat the panties, devour the contents …. This way, Sir.

He unfastened his pants and shrugged off his shirt, baring his beautiful chest, the ripple of his abs, and the soft trail of hair leading below. "I was saving the best for last." He ground his palm over his erection. "Tease." She couldn't tear her eyes away. "Take it all off." "You're not in a position to make demands." But he didn't make her wait. Instead he lowered his zipper and pulled out his cock. Thick and hard, he was more than ready for her. "Do you want this, sweetheart?" She wasn't complaining about the term of endearment now. "Very much." He gave a casual shrug that belied the evidence of his desire. "Maybe when I've finished my search." "What else..." Her voice trailed off when he lay between her legs, slid off her panties, and placed her feet on his shoulders. "The best things are found in the most secret places." He lowered his head. His tongue did the most wicked things that had her arching and twisting on the bed. "Jay..." It was a plea. It was a demand. "That's Mr. Dayal to you." Without warning, he slid two fingers deep inside her, his firm steady strokes making all her nerve endings fire at once. His tongue found her sensitive clit and her inner walls tightened around his fingers. She soared and peaked, her orgasm crashing through her body in a tidal wave of sensation. Dazed, languid on the bed, she watched him shrug off his trousers and roll on a condom. "Did you find what you were looking for?" "Not yet." He lifted her legs, spread them wide, opening her for him as he positioned himself between her thighs. "You're very good at your job." Now that her body was sated, she was generous with her praise. "And you are a beautiful, sexy temptress who is about to be fucked by a man who wants her so desperately he's willing to do anything to have her.

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.

Everybody stand back," Pat bellowed in a voice definitely more manly than girly. The Vamps flew around and squealed like girls. "It's gonna get stinky." "Oh my hell," Dima sputtered as she pulled me back toward the house. "Are they going to kill my father with anal acoustics?" "Very nice," I said as I pitched a throwing star at some incoming bad guys, removing a head and making the others duck for cover. "I'm impressed. I will accept that gross pun and raise you a booty belch, anal salute, cheek squeak and sphincter siren." "I'm going to be ill, but I will counter your offer with a butt bazooka, a crack splitter, Horton hears a poo, and a nice bout of rectal turbulence," she shot back as she beheaded something flying low over her head. Thankfully it wasn't a Vamp. "Can I play?" Hank asked. "Of course," I told him. "Panty burp, roar from the rear, air tulip, and ass ripper," he added proudly. "I will marry you," I said with a grin. "Your disgusting mind matches my own. And you deserve my friendship,

Hey…you okay?” Marlboro Man repeated. My heart fluttered in horror. I wanted to jump out of the bathroom window, scale down the trellis, and hightail it out of there, forgetting I’d ever met any of these people. Only there wasn’t a trellis. And outside the window, down below, were 150 wedding guests. And I was sweating enough for all of them combined. I was naked and alone, enduring the flop sweat attack of my life. It figured. It was usually the times I felt and looked my absolute best when I wound up being humbled in some colossally bizarre way. There was the time I traveled to my godmother’s son’s senior prom in a distant city and partied for an hour before realizing the back of my dress was stuck inside my panty hose. And the time I entered the after-party for my final Nutcracker performance and tripped on a rug, falling on one of the guest performers and knocking an older lady’s wineglass out of her frail arms. You’d think I would have come to expect this kind of humiliation on occasions when it seemed like everything should be going my way.

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.

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!

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.

After a torrent of rapid knocking, Lucy swept past her in the hallway, threw her purse on the table, and landed her ass on the couch before turning expectantly toward Riley and patting the couch next to her. Her dark eyes examined every nuance of Riley’s appearance. “Okay, dish,” she demanded. “Every last detail.” Riley rolled her eyes and shook her head as she scooted across the floor in her sock feet. She didn’t feel great, but at least she wasn’t in full torture mode. She thought Lucy might have waited until afternoon instead of showing up at ten-thirty a.m. but what the hell. Her old sweatshirt hugged against her stomach as she pulled her arms together. “Well,” she feigned ignorance, “what do you want to talk about?” Lucy slammed her hand on the couch. “Oh, don’t you even. Right now.” She threw herself back against the couch, her face fixed in a not-to-be-toyed-with expression. Riley noted with mild interest how her breasts jiggled inside her white t-shirt. Maybe she was turning into some kind of sex fiend. “Okay, yes, he sets me on fire. I can’t help it. Blame my gender lineage.” “I could see he set you fire. Your eyes could hardly look at anything else.” She picked at a tear in her faded jeans then flared back at Riley with an expression of awe. “Of course, my eyes had a few spasms of their own in his direction. Shit, the man is a god. I can’t remember seeing a body that well put together. At least,” she arched her back, “not a male body.” Riley threw back her head and laughed. Lucy was good tonic, at the very least. “Oh my god, can you stand it?!” “No—but tell me you didn’t give in, before I pass out.” “No, we didn’t have sex. But he did kiss me and my panties nearly fell straight to my ankles,” she chuckled. “He stopped himself, thank god, or I would have had him right there on the floor.” “You were drunk.” “Oh, yeah, ridiculous drunk. He ordered steaks delivered while he drove me home, and then sliced the steak for me and practically put it in my mouth.” She couldn’t sit still, the memory forcing her up from the couch to pace. She’d spent the entire morning and half the night trying to forget everything about him, and of course the other half had been consumed with remembering everything about him. “Shit. Fire.” Lucy’s glance followed her. “I want some. Can we have him?

Hey…you okay?” Marlboro Man repeated. My heart fluttered in horror. I wanted to jump out of the bathroom window, scale down the trellis, and hightail it out of there, forgetting I’d ever met any of these people. Only there wasn’t a trellis. And outside the window, down below, were 150 wedding guests. And I was sweating enough for all of them combined. I was naked and alone, enduring the flop sweat attack of my life. It figured. It was usually the times I felt and looked my absolute best when I wound up being humbled in some colossally bizarre way. There was the time I traveled to my godmother’s son’s senior prom in a distant city and partied for an hour before realizing the back of my dress was stuck inside my panty hose. And the time I entered the after-party for my final Nutcracker performance and tripped on a rug, falling on one of the guest performers and knocking an older lady’s wineglass out of her frail arms. You’d think I would have come to expect this kind of humiliation on occasions when it seemed like everything should be going my way. “You need anything?” Marlboro Man continued. A drop of sweat trickled down my upper lip. “Oh, no…I’m fine!” I answered. “I’ll be right out! You go on back to the party!” Go on, now. Run along. Please. I beg you. “I’ll be out here,” he replied. Dammit. I heard his boots travel a few steps down the hall and stop. I had to get dressed; this was getting ridiculous. Then, as I stuck my big toe into the drenched leg of my panty hose, I heard what I recognized as Marlboro Man’s brother Tim’s voice. “What’s she doing in there?” Tim whispered loudly, placing particularly uncomfortable emphasis on “doing.” I closed my eyes and prayed fervently. Lord, please take me now. I no longer want to be here. I want to be in Heaven with you, where there’s zero humidity and people aren’t punished for their poor fabric choices. “I’m not sure,” Marlboro Man answered. The geyser began spraying again. I had no choice but to surge on, to get dressed, to face the music in all my drippy, salty glory. It was better than staying in the upstairs bathroom of his grandmother’s house all night. God forbid Marlboro Man or Tim start to think I had some kind of feminine problem, or even worse, constipation or diarrhea! I’d sooner move to another country and never return than to have them think such thoughts about me.

He gently tugged her panties to the side and, watching her watch him, delivered a kiss that was almost as hot as the big ball of fire raging between them. "God, don't stop," she moaned, and, man of big words, he did not. Using his tongue, his teeth, teasing and tempting, he set a delicious pace that had her pressing against him. Harder and faster, he launched an all-out attack until breathing became nonexistent. He got her body so primed it was humming and, in an embarrassing amount of time, he had her careening toward the finish line. The finish line was good. The finish line was great. She hadn't crossed that line in a really, really, really long time. It almost pained her to stop, but Mila was a team player and determined that, when those champagne bottles exploded, they'd fly high together. "Come here." She fisted her hand in his shirt, yanking him forward and his shirt up and over his head. She made quick work of his belt and jeans, then slid her hands down the front to his--- my word, indeed. "Mi," he breathed, so she did it again, only this time beneath his BVDs. Pushing his jeans around his ankles with one hand, she kept up a steady pace with the other. "Slow down," he groaned, but she noticed he didn't make a move to stop her, instead pushing harder into her palm. "One more stroke, and it's game over, Buttercup. I've waited too long to have it end in three seconds." She gave a little squeeze. "Big words go both ways." Okay, more than a little squeeze, but he didn't seem to mind. His eyes darkened. His expression dazed.

When we arrived at the wedding at Marlboro Man’s grandparents’ house, I gasped. People were absolutely everywhere: scurrying and mingling and sipping champagne and laughing on the lawn. Marlboro Man’s mother was the first person I saw. She was an elegant, statuesque vision in her brown linen dress, and she immediately greeted and welcomed me. “What a pretty suit,” she said as she gave me a warm hug. Score. Success. I felt better about life. After the ceremony, I’d meet Cousin T., Cousin H., Cousin K., Cousin D., and more aunts, uncles, and acquaintances than I ever could have counted. Each family member was more gracious and welcoming than the one before, and it didn’t take long before I felt right at home. This was going well. This was going really, really well. It was hot, though, and humid, and suddenly my lightweight wool suit didn’t feel so lightweight anymore. I was deep in conversation with a group of ladies--smiling and laughing and making small talk--when a trickle of perspiration made its way slowly down my back. I tried to ignore it, tried to will the tiny stream of perspiration away, but one trickle soon turned into two, and two turned into four. Concerned, I casually excused myself from the conversation and disappeared into the air-conditioned house. I needed to cool off. I found an upstairs bathroom away from the party, and under normal circumstances I would have taken time to admire its charming vintage pedestal sinks and pink hexagonal tile. But the sweat profusely dripping from all pores of my body was too distracting. Soon, I feared, my jacket would be drenched. Seeing no other option, I unbuttoned my jacket and removed it, hanging it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door as I frantically looked around the bathroom for an absorbent towel. None existed. I found the air vent on the ceiling, and stood on the toilet to allow the air-conditioning to blast cool air on my face. Come on, Ree, get a grip, I told myself. Something was going on…this was more than simply a reaction to the August humidity. I was having some kind of nervous psycho sweat attack--think Albert Brooks in Broadcast News--and I was being held captive by my perspiration in the upstairs bathroom of Marlboro Man’s grandmother’s house in the middle of his cousin’s wedding reception. I felt the waistband of my skirt stick to my skin. Oh, God…I was in trouble. Desperate, I stripped off my skirt and the stifling control-top panty hose I’d made the mistake of wearing; they peeled off my legs like a soggy banana skin. And there I stood, naked and clammy, my auburn bangs becoming more waterlogged by the minute. So this is it, I thought. This is hell. I was in the throes of a case of diaphoresis the likes of which I’d never known. And it had to be on the night of my grand entrance into Marlboro Man’s family. Of course, it just had to be. I looked in the mirror, shaking my head as anxiety continued to seep from my pores, taking my makeup and perfumed body cream along with it. Suddenly, I heard the knock at the bathroom door. “Yes? Just a minute…yes?” I scrambled and grabbed my wet control tops. “Hey, you…are you all right in there?” God help me. It was Marlboro Man.

I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach. "Not yet..." "Argh," he said, but he said it with a smile. "Yes, mademoiselle." I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced. I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me. Yet his gaze only grew in intensity. But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled me around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of a sudden, he had the control. "Hey," I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what to do. Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me. "Leave them on," he said. "You look so fucking sexy in those heels." I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine. We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt with Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand.

Condom,” she gasped. A movement stopped. “What?” Phoebe felt the earth open up in preparation of swallowing her. How could she have not mentioned this before? “I’m not on anything right now,” she whispered. “Birth control. I’m not on the Pill.” She gestured helplessly. “Shit, fuck, damn.” Disappointment tied her in knots. “I was really only interested in that middle part,” she joked. There was a second of silence, followed by a low chuckle. “You’re never predictable, Phoebe. I’ll give you that. Cross your fingers.” “What?” “Cross your fingers. I might have a condom in my shaving kit.” There was movement and rustling, then the sound of a zipper being opened. “I’m going to have to put on the light.” She briefly debated being polite and closing her eyes, but who was she kidding? She wanted to see Zane naked. In preparation, she raised up on one elbow and stared in his general direction. When the light came on, she saw all she wanted and more. He was kneeling at the end of the sleeping bag. Naked, aroused and more physically perfect than any man had a right to be. She saw the definition in his arms, the broad strength of his chest and his flat stomach before lowering her attention to his large, hard penis. The physical proof of his desire for her made her so happy, she nearly cried. Her other instinct was to part her legs, tell him never mind with birth control and protection and demand he take her right there. As that last bit was only ever going to happen in her fantasies, she contended herself with stretching out her arm and lightly grazing the tip of him with her fingers. He stiffened instantly, then turned to look at her. If she’d had any doubts about his willingness to participate, they were put to rest by the fire in his eyes and the tightness of his expression. He was a man on the sexual edge, and she couldn’t wait to push him over. He shook his head and forced his attention back to the shaving kit. At first he set the various items on the foot of the sleeping bag, but after a couple of seconds, he simply turned the container over and dumped out the contents. “Be here, be here, be here,” he muttered as he pawed through everything. Then he grabbed a square packet in triumph. “Got one.” She couldn’t help smiling. “Only one?” He grinned. “We’ll have to be creative after that.” He handed her the condom, then clicked off the light. “Where was I?” he asked. “You can pretty much be anywhere you want to be,” she told him. “Good. Then I want to be here.” He pulled off her panties in one smooth move. Then there was nothing.

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)

One of his hands tangled in my hair, tugging it to tip my chin back and eliciting another moan of pleasure from my lips. He swallowed it up, his tongue sinking into my mouth and making my heart find a rhythm it had never beat to before. He kissed me like he wasn't allowed to kiss me, but if he didn't he'd die. I tangled myself around him with equal desire, the well of magic in my body spilling over and flooding my veins. A profound and unknown energy hummed within me, drawing to the edges of my skin. Orion seemed to sense it too as the hairs raised along my arms and static energy crackled everywhere our flesh met. I was entirely lost to the deepest and most carnal desire I'd ever felt. His hand found the slit in my dress and his fingers trailed onto my bare leg, making me gasp in response. Fire surged down my spine only to bounce back up again as he gripped my thigh and squeezed. With so little clothes parting us, I felt every inch of his arousal pressing between my legs and I started to wonder how far this kiss was going to go. My fingers slid into the verge of his hair as I ground against him and my thoughts scattered again. He released a rumbling growl filled with nothing but need and his hand shifted between us, roaming deeper beneath my dress until he found the top of my panties. I nearly lost my mind as his fingers brushed the sensitive flesh there and skimmed the line of my underwear. My back arched as I tried to bring his hand closer to fulfil the promise of ecstasy I knew he could bring me. Instead, he pulled his hand free and placed it on my hip with a heavy breath. It took everything I had, but with his fingers firmly away from the area of my body which was trying to run the show, I could think a little clearer. He pulled back almost the same moment I did and I swallowed hard as I felt the lasting sensations of that kiss everywhere. My mouth tingled and my cheeks stung from the scrape of his stubble. My thigh muscles throbbed where they were still locked tightly around his waist and my heart seemed to bleed from the loss of contact with his mouth. We remained breathless and silent, staring at each other like the reality waiting above us wasn't about to rip us apart. But I knew as well as he did, this was a one time only thing. Now I just had to convince my body of that. I unwound my legs from him, bracing my hands on his shoulders as I dropped down. He steadied me for a moment then the air between us changed. His eyes darkened and he didn't need to speak to let me know what he was thinking. A vow hung solidly around us. This won't happen ever again. He opened his mouth to speak but I spoke before he could, not wanting to be commanded into eternal silence. I already knew what would happen the second we left this magical place behind, I didn't need to be told. “Let's go.” “We can stay a little longer...if you want.” His expression was that of a wounded man but I knew whatever pain lay in his body, would never be mine to heal. I shook my head, lifting my chin to gaze up at the surface of the pool. “No, I think we should go back to reality now.” The longer I stay, the harder it will be to leave. “Are you angry with me for bringing you here?” he asked and I was compelled to look down, falling into the intensity of his eyes as a strained line formed on his brow. “No.” He reached out to skate his fingers across the line of my jaw, feather light. “You know how it has to be.” I nodded, leaning away from his touch which felt like forcing two magnets apart. “I know.” What happens at the bottom of the pool, stays at the bottom of the pool. “Come on then, Blue.” He held out his hand. I took a shuddering breath, placing my hand in his. “I think it might be best if you don't call me that anymore.” I tugged at a lock of wet hair. “It's not blue anyway.” (DARCY)

Reality stands on its head when a man climbs higher by reaching lower.

So this dream seemed oddly familiar and yet completely alien to me at the same time. Once again I was tucked in a bed, being held and protected against anything and everything the world might have to throw at me. But instead of the soft embrace of parents I’d never known, my head lay on the chest of a man whose strong arms were wrapped around me like he never wanted to let me go. His heartbeat thumped beneath my ear. My arm and leg were coiled over him while he held me against him, his hand resting on the curve of my thigh. He was warm unlike anyone I’d ever known, his skin almost seeming to hold a fire within it which filled my soul with strength and peace. My eyes were closed so I couldn’t see him but I just felt oddly at home. Like this was where I was meant to be. My hand lay on the hard muscles of his abs and I slowly started tracing the lines the muscles created with my fingertips, not wanting to shatter the peace of the dream by opening my eyes. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising beneath me while the arm holding me pulled me a little closer still. I continued my sleepy exploration of his stomach, my fingers tracing the lines lower and lower until they suddenly skimmed against the edge of a rough waistband. I frowned to myself at the sensation of denim against my fingertips. Who would sleep in a pair of jeans? What kind of weird dream man had I conjured up? I ran my fingers along the top of the jeans, the rough material tickling at the edges of my memory but my head was too foggy to place it. “If you keep doing that I’m going to stop being a gentleman about this situation.” My hand fell still and I froze at the sound of that voice. There was no way even dream Tory would be deluded enough to feel safe in his arms. My heart pounded a panicked rhythm against my ribcage and I peeled my eyes open, blinking a few times against the darkness I found waiting for me. Pain thundered through my skull and my tongue was thick in my mouth. I cringed against the headache, trying to focus on something around me as I slowly realised that this wasn’t a dream at all. I spotted the fire burning low in the grate across the room first. There was a black fire guard standing before it and a plush cream chair beside it. I knew this room. I’d burned it down once. And somehow I’d ended up right in the centre of Darius Acrux’s goddamn golden bed. I was too horrified at myself to move, my brain hunting for answers in a foggy sea of alcohol infused memories. I’d been drinking in The Orb with Sofia and Diego while she shielded our presence with a spell to deflect attention so that no one would spot us and play any Hell Week pranks on us. Or notice the fact that we’d stayed out after curfew. I remembered playing a strange Fae version of truth or dare with them while we worked our way through too many shots and Diego came up with ideas to retrieve his hat from Orion. Then...nothing. Certainly nothing that could explain to me how I’d ended up in Darius Acrux’s arms. My gaze slid across the wide armchair where I spotted my academy skirt hanging over one arm. I swallowed a thick lump in my throat, turning my attention to what I was wearing...or wasn’t wearing. I plucked at the huge t-shirt which clearly wasn’t mine, pulling the neck wide so that I could look down inside it. A moment of relief found me as I spotted my bra still in place but he hadn’t released his hold on me so I couldn’t be sure my panties were still there too. (Darius POV)

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)

Thankfully I wasn’t the only one staring, his hazel eyes swirling with emotion taking in my small form. Using his own distraction to my advantage my eyes travel down his masculine nose that gives way to plump lips. I continue taking in his face with a strong jaw, and harsh angles but overall, his face was one that could make anyone's panties catch on fire. I continue to peruse this fine male specimen gazing down to his large chest and onto his tree trunks for legs, his gray sweatpants skin-tight leaving nothing to the imagination. Everything screamed ginormous about the man, his height hitting close to seven feet.

She pointed to a sundress with bright yellow lemons on it. "That's cute. I love lemons." Ay, Dios mio! Carolina cringed. She sounded like a fool. It was like Baby's "I carried a watermelon" line in Dirty Dancing. Why was she so awkward? "You'd look stunning in that." Enrique signaled to a woman who worked there. A saleswoman walked over to them from the back of the shop. She quickly and professionally assessed Carolina's body and then picked one of the bright dresses off the rack. "This should fit you. Shall I put it in a room for you, miss?" "Sure." Carolina followed her right to the dressing room. The dark hair on her arms stood at full attention and her heart raced. Nerves and anticipation swirled through her--- this whole day seemed like a fantasy, but it was tough for her to just live in the moment. She undressed and slipped the dress over her head. The soft fabric caressed her body, accentuating her curves. She stared at her figure in the mirror. She looked... sexy. Carolina had never seen herself as sensual, but in this dress, in the soft, warm glow of the dressing room lights, she was a knockout. The saleswoman had also placed some bright red pumps in the room. Carolina loved high heels and never had a problem walking in them, because she had spent so many years dancing with the Ballet Folklórico. Carolina's eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw their bottoms, and she stroked the red soles--- they were Louboutins, an identifying detail she knew about from Blanca's endless fashion magazines. Blanca dreamed of owning a pair one day. She would be so jealous. Luckily, they were the same size, so Carolina would let Blanca borrow them. There was only one problem with Carolina's outfit--- her underwear didn't work with the dress. Her broad, wide bra elastics showed under the thin spaghetti straps, and her panties were too dark. She leaned out of the curtain. "Ma'am." The saleslady walked back over to her. "Can I get you something else?" "Yes. A bra and some panties." Carolina told the lady her sizes, and the lady went around the corner, returning later with an adorable matching yellow lace bra and thong. A thong. Her face crinkled. "Do you have anything with, uh, fuller coverage?" "Of course, dear. But not in the yellow. Do you want to match the bra?" Carolina did want to match the bra. It was such a cute set. She exhaled, stepping out of her comfort zone and into the lingerie. She again looked at herself in the mirror. She practically couldn't recognize herself--- a gorgeous young woman on a romantic day trip with a man whom she really liked.

In the strict, psychoanalytic sense of the term, fetishism is a disorder in which a person, usually a man, can only be turned on by an object associated with the opposite sex, generally either an intimate article of clothing—shoes, bras, panties, nylon stockings, etc.—or a specific body part, most commonly the feet. The fetishist is so fixated on the object itself that the actual sex partner becomes secondary. That is to say, a male shoe fetishist will be more aroused by his girlfriend’s spike-heeled footwear than by the woman herself. According to the American Psychiatric Association, “The person with fetishism frequently masturbates while holding, rubbing, or smelling the fetish object, or may ask his sexual partner to wear the object during their sexual encounters.

Also, every girl knows that when a well-proportioned, powerfully built, humanlike creature—who could possibly be mistaken as a man—asks for her panties, she should just hand them over. Resistance is futile.

I think two weeks is traditionally peek-a-boo underwear. A month is edible panties. Then, at two months, the thoughtful husband gives black leather". Garrett McCabe-"A Happily Unmarried Man

You’re telling me you’ve never wondered what it would feel like to have silk panties slide over bare skin, teasing your clit with every step you take?” I swallowed, but she continued, “The soft graze of a man’s fingers bringing goosebumps right there?

Willa, if you ever stop making fun of me, I’ll know you’re not okay. So check in now and then. Tell me something mean so I know you’re still well. But since we’re not texting right now and I don’t see you that often, I’ll take this opportunity to tell you I love you and I am wildly proud of the woman you’ve become. It takes a special man to keep up with a formidable person like you, and I’m so glad you dropped your panties in front of one who can.

The man has confidence in spades, a smile that could melt the panties off a nun, and eyes that convey everything without him speaking a word.

Back in my room, I put Izzy down, pulled my dress over my head, and tossed it on the floor, lost in thought. "Marygene Brown," Mama scolded the second I closed the door. I screamed. Izzy was growling and running around Mama, barking. Alex bolted through the door, gun in hand, scanning the room for an intruder. "What is it?" I held my hand over my heart, a familiar response for me now, and scooped Izzy up. Mama was giving me a chastising glare, her arms folded across her chest. She didn't seem to like the idea of Alex sleeping in the house. She was such a hypocrite. That was when I recalled I was standing in nothing but my bra and panties. Alex devoured me with the intensity of his gape. I snatched the dress off the floor, using it to cover myself. "Um... I thought I saw a mouse. Sorry I alarmed you," I stammered. "Mouse, my derriere," Mama said. "That boy doesn't need to be in this house. You have a blind spot when it comes to him." She had never been fond of Alex. He was subpar in her eyes. He didn't own his own business, like Zach did, nor did he come from an aristocratic family. He was a common boy who grew into a common man, who earned a deputy's salary. Like Eddie. Alex had a lopsided grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were using that as an excuse to get me up here. A little jealous tonight, were we?" "You watch yourself, young man!" Mama scolded, her finger in his face. Not that he saw her. "Shh," I said to Mama. "What are you shushing me for? Any man would think the same," Alex said. "I thought I heard it," I held my hand to my ear, "the mouse, listen." He put his gun back into his holster. "Right. If you want me to stay," he waggled his eyebrows at me, "all you have to do is ask." "I mean it. You're about to get it, young man," Mama was waving her arms around like a lunatic, and I wasn't certain she could do no harm. She had slammed me to the floor the other night. "No. I swear it was a mouse." I shoved him out the door. "I'll be fine. Good night, Alex." "Good night, Marygene." He grinned again as I closed the door. "If you need me, just holler." He put extra emphasis on the word need.

two men made me fall for them. Hard. They both walked away at the same time. And look, I could handle the hit to my pride. I can pull up my big girl panties to deal with the humiliation of that. It’s the blows they dealt to my heart that left me broken. Shattered. I’m like a cartoon statue that’s been hammered. There’s a crack at the impact. The crack spreads into a thousand fractures, until I’m made of a million pieces. There’s a moment in the show when I’m frozen in air that way, and that’s how I’ve been living these past six months—the pieces suspended, waiting to fall. There’s no way to avoid it; the killing blow already happened.

The women who captivate men like us aren’t the pieces of ass you generally convince to drop their panties. They’re the pains in the ass—independent, doing-fine-without-you, crawl-under-your-skin women who fuck with your head.” “Yeah,” Ty interjects with a chuckle. “You’re so fucked, man.

How does this man get through everyday life looking like he does? Do women just drop their panties when he walks past them in the street?

I suspect our time on the road showed you a little more of my possessive side, Angel. And know that I meant it when I said I would burn down the world for you. I would cut off the hands of any man who touches you, or any body part that he touches you with,” Conor says in my ear. “You belong to me. This,” he slides his hand beneath my panties and grabs hold of my pussy, “belongs to me.

It was apparent Jake had taken a hot shower. The air was scented with amber and musk. Enticingly male. She spotted him when he turned away from the sink and cut her a look, sharp with surprise. He was a heart-stopper. He stood nearly nude. A knotted towel hung low on his hip bones. The gap near his groin was shadowed. Neither managed a word. Silence held between them. Engulfing and immodest. She dared to stare. His masculinity merged with the mist. Her gaze flicked over his damp hair, hard face, and thick-muscled chest. Alpha and carnal. All slickened sexiness and raw strength. His legs were long and strong. His feet big and bare. A sigh escaped, low and throaty. She sagged against the doorframe. A dead giveaway that she liked what she saw--- a little too much. She was so into him that she twitched when he said, "Are you flashing me, Hannah? Bra and pretty pink panties.

Cade is the panty guy?” “I’m not the panty guy,” he interjects, but Summer and I ignore him. “Yeah. And you said that any sane man would have thrown them out. So you know what that means.

The screams will haunt my nightmares, and the man responsible has my panties wet.

Ummhmmm. That man just melted the panties right off me with his eyes.

A real man stands in the bathroom doorway watching his woman putting on her makeup, and he’s overcome with desire. His eyes roam up and down the woman’s figure, and suddenly there is a spark of lust in his eyes. The woman sees it in the reflection. She knows that look, and she feels a tiny tremor of anticipation. The man steps up behind the woman and there is a growl in the back of his throat as he slides his hands up across her hips and around her waist. He pulls the woman back against him and she can feel the hardness of his erection. The man’s hands are suddenly all over her – caressing her breasts and sliding down the flat of her abdomen towards her panties. He bites her neck and the woman’s breathing quickens. She has turned him on, and now the man wants her – and she needs to feel wanted. That’s the way it should be.

well into the series .. I had written a show in which Margaret Houlihan comes into my tent and she says: 'how dare you grate that thing before me?' .. where there is an athletic supporter, jockstrap .. the network said you cannot name it, you cannot show it, you cannot even see a piece of white cloth underwear that a man wears .. but every week for several years we have never been censored seeing ladies bras, panties, silk stockings .. I get hit in the face with these things .. I walk through cloth lines .. get tangled up with underwear but because it came in contact with women's erogenous zones it was ok, but not men's! .. really interesting! that was somehow filthy and degrading to do that! And that was after, when we didn't have much censorship over us!

(Panty Melter: an exceedingly rare species of man blessed with so many desirable attributes he effortlessly gains access into a girl’s panties.)

He drew the zipper of her jeans down and peeled the denim over her ass. Jesus H. Christ. Her flesh was a meal waiting to be eaten, all but glowing in the dim, reddish light, curving in a manner that demanded a man take her from behind. Often. Even her basic, no-frills panties made him hot.

She was well into her course of self-recrimination when he returned. The flap parted, and a very wet Zane crawled in beside her. “You okay?” he asked, as he set down the flashlight and touched her cheek. “Getting warm?” She nodded, then sniffed. “I’m sorry.” His dark eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled. “It was worth it.” “What?” “I get to say I told you so.” She sniffed again. “You’re not mad?” “Because I had to go out in the rain, in the middle of the night, pull up the stakes on your tent, resecure it somewhere else so it would dry out, then cart your saddlebags over to Cookie’s wagon, wake him up and then listen to him complain?” She winced. “Those would be the reasons.” “I’m not mad.” She couldn’t believe it. “But I was stupid.” “You’re a greenhorn. You didn’t know any better.” “You tried to tell me. I should have listened.” He smiled. “That’ll teach you. The man always knows best.” “That’s so not true.” “It is in this case. So are you naked?” The switch in topic caught her unaware. She shimmied a little deeper into the sleeping bag. “I, ah, left on my panties.” Zane swore softly. “I guess I deserved that for asking.” “Deserved what?” “You don’t want to know.” Suddenly she did. Very much. But she didn’t know how to ask. So she tried a different subject. “Are we going to share the sleeping bag?” “I thought I’d go stay with Cookie.” “Oh.” Disappointment flooded her way more than the river had. It was just as cold, but not as wet. “Phoebe, we talked about this,” he reminded her. “You deserve better than a quickie out in the open.” “We’re in a tent,” she said before she could stop herself. “And it doesn’t have to be quick.

At first he set the various items on the foot of the sleeping bag, but after a couple of seconds, he simply turned the container over and dumped out the contents. “Be here, be here, be here,” he muttered as he pawed through everything. Then he grabbed a square packet in triumph. “Got one.” She couldn’t help smiling. “Only one?” He grinned. “We’ll have to be creative after that.” He handed her the condom, then clicked off the light. “Where was I?” he asked. “You can pretty much be anywhere you want to be,” she told him. “Good. Then I want to be here.” He pulled off her panties in one smooth move. Then there was nothing. She tensed in anticipation. A whisper of breath was her only warning. One second he was beside her, the next, he kissed the inside of her ankle. She jumped in surprise. “What are you doing?” she asked, even as she parted her thighs. “You’re a smart woman. You figure it out.” He kissed his way up to her knee, then moved between her legs and nibbled higher. Up and up and up until he pressed an openmouthed kiss just at that hollow by her hip. “That’s not right,” he teased, even as he licked her tummy. “I was looking for something else.” Anticipation had reached such a fevered pitch that Phoebe wasn’t sure she could talk--even to give directions. She could only send loud telepathic messages instructing Zane on the right place to press that tongue of his. Fortunately, the man was pretty darned good at mind reading. He slipped from her tummy to the promised land in three seconds flat. This time, she didn’t have warning, but that was okay. She didn’t mind the surprise of his gentle caress pleasuring the most intimate parts of her. She parted her legs even more and raised her hips in a silent invitation. He moved slowly, discovering, tasting, whispering how good this all was for him. She wanted to tell him he should try it from her perspective, but she couldn’t form words. She couldn’t even think. All she could do was feel the liquid heat spiraling through her.

People have often asked me how we girls managed any privacy in a house with so many boys and no private rooms. It was difficult. We used to bathe with a washcloth from a pan of water. We would first start with our necks and faces and wash down as far as possible. Then we would wash the road dust from our feet and wash up as far as possible. Later, when the boys were out of the room, we would wash “possible.” It was these circumstances that led to a very embarrassing mishap that I have told very few people and would not relate here if it were not so funny. We had an outdoor bathroom, and there were times in the middle of the night when it was very inconvenient to dress and go out into the cold just to take a leak. For these times there was a little room, actually a closet, that had in it what was called a “slop jar” or “slop bucket.” It was actually an enameled pot with flared sides that was made to accommodate a woman squatting over it to do her business. The closet had no door as such, just a sort of curtain hung on a tight piece of wire. After dark when the fire had died down, it could afford some kind of privacy at least. One night when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I had been out on a date and got home fairly late. Everybody was already in bed, and I didn’t want to wake them and alert Mama and Daddy to the hour of my homecoming. I was absolutely bustin’ to pee, so I fumbled my way through the dark until I found the curtain to the closet and stepped inside. I dropped my panties and hiked up my skirt and assumed the position over the slop jar. I was feeling relieved in a physical sense and quite grown-up and somewhat smug that I “pulled it off,” so to speak. But suddenly, here in the middle of my little triumph, or more accurately here in the middle of my rump, came the cold nose of an unexpected intruder. A raccoon had gotten into the house, and unbeknownst to me, we were sharing the closet as well as a very intimate moment. When I felt that cold nose on my butt, I screamed bloody murder and literally peed all over myself. Of course I woke the whole house with my unscheduled concert. Daddy grabbed the poker to fend off an intruder. Mama started praying. The little kids cried, and the big kids just ran around confused. When everybody found out what had happened, they all had a good laugh at my expense. Except, of course, the raccoon. Once the lights were turned on, he acted like any man caught in a compromising position with a lady and bolted for the door. I often think of that moment at times when I’m feeling “too big for my britches,” and it tends to have a humbling effect.

Linc had always been a leg man. Thankfully hers made up for her caustic tongue and armour plated panties

Can I kill him?” Calvin said it so seriously. It just about melted her panties right off. No man should ever look or sound so sexy. A pity he didn’t mean it. A dead Brock would solve many problems. Except for one. “I can’t kill Zoe’s dad.” “You wouldn’t have to.” His lips stretched, and his teeth pearled between them. If a shark smiled, it would have looked like Calvin—with a beard. She

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.