Sexy Good Night Quotes

Alright, good night,” he said, his words a little slurred. “But before I pass out, I want you to know that you’re the hottest biscuit this side of the gravy boat.

It's 5:22pm you're in the grocery checkout line. Your three-year-old is writhing on the floor, screaming, because you have refused to buy her a Teletubby pinwheel. Your six-year-old is whining, repeatedly, in a voice that could saw through cement, "But mommy, puleeze, puleeze" because you have not bought him the latest "Lunchables," which features, as the four food groups, Cheetos, a Snickers, Cheez Whiz, and Twizzlers. Your teenager, who has not spoken a single word in the past foor days, except, "You've ruined my life," followed by "Everyone else has one," is out in the car, sulking, with the new rap-metal band Piss on the Parentals blasting through the headphones of a Discman. To distract yourself, and to avoid the glares of other shoppers who have already deemed you the worst mother in America, you leaf through People magazine. Inside, Uma thurman gushes "Motherhood is Sexy." Moving on to Good Housekeeping, Vanna White says of her child, "When I hear his cry at six-thirty in the morning, I have a smile on my face, and I'm not an early riser." Another unexpected source of earth-mother wisdom, the newly maternal Pamela Lee, also confides to People, "I just love getting up with him in the middle of the night to feed him or soothe him." Brought back to reality by stereophonic whining, you indeed feel as sexy as Rush Limbaugh in a thong.

I like the night beach. The full moon. The moonlit sand, the waves silvery in the brightness. Nature is sexy, and that makes me think God is alive and has very good taste.

It's late, I'm tired, and your cigarettes are giving me a headache," I growled. "I suppose that's fair." He drew in on the cigarette and let out the smoke. "Some women think they make me look sexy." "I think you smoke them so you have something to do while thinking up your next witty line." He choked on the smoke, caught between inhaling and laughing. "Rose Hathaway, I can't wait to see you again. If you're this charming while tired and annoyed and this gorgeous while bruised and in ski clothes, you must be devastating at your peak.” "If by 'devastating' you mean that you should fear for your life, then yeah. You're right." I jerked open the door. "Good night, Adrian." "I'll see you soon." "Not likely. I told you, I'm not into older guys." I walked into the lodge. As the door closed, I just barely heard him call behind me, "Sure, you aren't.

IT HAS TO DO WITH ALL OF US,” said Owen Meany, when I called him that night. “SHE WAS JUST LIKE OUR WHOLE COUNTRY—NOT QUITE YOUNG ANYMORE, NOT BUT OLD EITHER; A LITTLE BREATHLESS, VERY BEAUTIFUL, MAYBE A LITTLE STUPID, MAYBE A LOT SMARTER THAN SHE SEEMED. AND SHE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING—I THINK SHE WANTED TO BE GOOD. LOOK AT THE MEN IN HER LIFE—JOE DIMAGGIO, ARTHUR MILLER, MAYBE THE KENNEDYS. LOOK AT HOW GOOD THEY SEEM! LOOK AT HOW DESIRABLE SHE WAS! THAT’S WHAT SHE WAS: SHE WAS DESIRABLE. SHE WAS FUNNY AND SEXY—AND SHE WAS VULNERABLE, TOO. SHE WAS NEVER QUITE HAPPY, SHE WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE OVERWEIGHT. SHE WAS JUST LIKE OUR WHOLE COUNTRY,” he repeated; he was on a roll. I could hear Hester playing her guitar in the background, as if she were trying to improvise a folk song from everything she said. “AND THOSE MEN,” he said. “THOSE FAMOUS, POWERFUL MEN—DID THEY REALLY LOVE HER? AND DID THEY TAKE CARE OF HER? IF SHE WAS EVER WITH THE KENNEDYS, THEY COULDN’T HAVE LOVED HER—THEY WERE JUST USING HER, THEY WERE JUST BEING CARELESS AND TREATING THEMSELVES TO A THRILL. THAT’S WHAT POWERFUL MEN DO TO THIS COUNTRY—IT’S A BEAUITFUL, SEXY, BREATHLESS COUNTRY, AND POWERFUL MEN USE IT TO TREAT THEMSELVES TO A THRILL! THEY SAY THEY LOVE IT BUT THEY DON’T MEAN IT. THEY SAY THINGS TO MAKE THEMSELVES APPEAR GOOD—THEY MAKE THEMSELVES APPEAR MORAL. THAT”S WHAT I THOUGHT KENNEDY WAS: A MORALIST. BUT HE WAS JUST GIVING US A SNOW JOB, HE WAS JUST BEING A GOOD SEDUCER. I THOUGHT HE WAS A SAVIOR. I THOUGHT HE WANTED TO USE HIS POWER TO DO GOOD. BUT PEOPLE WILL SAY AND DO ANYTHING JUST TO GET THE POWER; THEN THEY’LL USE THE POWER JUST TO GET A THRILL. MARILYN MONROE WAS ALWAYS LOOKING FOR THE BEST MAN—MAYBE SHE WANTED THE MAN WITH THE MOST INTEGRITY, MAYBE SHE WANTED THE MAN WITH THE MOST ABILITY TO DO GOOD. AND SHE WAS SEDUCED, OVER AND OVER AGAIN—SHE GOT FOOLED, SHE WAS TRICKED, SHE GOT USED, SHE WAS USED UP. JUST LIKE THE COUNTRY. THE COUNTRY WANTS A SAVIOR. THE COUNTRY IS A SUCKER FOR POWERFUL MEN WHO LOOK GOOD. WE THINK THEY’RE MORALISTS AND THEN THEY JUST USE US. THAT'S WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU AND ME,” said Owen Meany. “WE’RE GOING TO BE USED.

erah Graesin had a silky, low voice. It was reputed to be sexy, but then, everything about Terah Graesin was supposed to be sexy. Kylar didn’t see it. Oh, she was pretty. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and the kind of figure that was unattainable for the majority of noblewomen who spent their days doing nothing more strenuous than issuing orders to the servants. Maybe it was that she was a little too self-consciously good-looking. She wore lots of makeup—expertly applied and subtle, but lots—and had tweezed her eyebrows down to tiny lines. The truth was, she held herself like he ought to admire her, and it pissed him off. What pissed him off more was that to look her in the eye with his disguise, he had to stare straight at her admittedly perky breasts. Dammit, why were breasts so intriguing?

I'm not sure if i believe in love at first sight or any of that shit. But i know that sitting there in a room with half-retarded motherfuckers drooling from their lithium and Trazodone, whatever I felt, it was close. Like I had this need to hold her, protect her bones from her parents or drugs or whatever wouldn't let her sleep and night, and i wanted her to think i was funny and sexy and smart and beautiful, just fucking beautiful. Sitting there while the tech introduced us to her, I wanted to be better than I was, not just to fuck this girl, but to be better for her. Guess that's a good enough definition of love.

No boyfriend," I said, perhaps a little too quickly. Have I mentioned my total lack of social life? Having a dream about Alex last night was the closest thing I'd had to a date in months and that was only a dream and it was about a guy who was undead. Admittedly very sexy, but still completely undead. Although I have heard that vampire sex is supposed to be pretty damn good.

Forget about that and kiss me," I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It's like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we're both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen's kisses may have been hot, but Brittany's are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We're still in the car, but it's cramped and the front seats don't give us enough room. Before I know it, we've moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I'm so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I'm not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. "It feels so good," she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it's open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. "You're . . . perfect," she pants. Right now I'm not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. !Caramelo! I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. "I want you, chula," I say, my voice hoarse.

In that moment, I wanted to tell this stranger, this Merle, this girl from the tiny island of Montserrat, that I had commensurate preferences too, but I couldn’t be a brave warrior like her. I wanted to tell her about Morris. I wanted to sing his name out into the night. His name is Morris. He is my Morris and he always been my Morris. He’s a good-hearted man, a special man, a sexy man, a history-loving man, a loyal man, a man who appreciates a good joke, a man of many moods, a drinking man, and a man with whom I can be myself completely. Yes, I was in the throes of a Malibu-and-Coke-soaked madness, a madness that could lead to the demise of my life as I’d hitherto known it. But I was on the verge.

Her hands warming on tea looked like chunks of knitting a child had felted in grubby palms. Enough decades, and a body slowly twists into one great cramp, but there was a time once, where she had been sexy, and if not sexy, at least odd-looking enough to compel. Through this clear window she could see how good it all had been. She had no regrets. That's not true, Mathilde. The whisper in the ear. Oh, Christ, yes, there was one. Solitary, gleaming, a regret. It was that all her life she had said no. From the beginning she had let so few people in. That first night, his young face glowing up a hers in the black light, bodies beating the air around them, and inside there was that unexpected sharp recognition, oh, this. A sudden peace arriving for her. She who hadn't been at peace since she was so little. Out of nowhere, out of this surprising night with its shatters of lightning and the stormy black campus outside, with the heat and song and sex and animal fear inside. He had seen her and made the leap and swung through the crowd and taken her hand, this bright boy who was giving her a place to rest. He offered not only his whole laughing self, the past that build him and the warm beating body that moved her with its beauty and the future she felt compressed and waiting, but also the torch he carried before him in the dark, his understanding, dazzling, instant, that there was goodness at her core. With the gift came the bitter seed of regret, the unbridgeable gap between the Mathilde she was and the Mathilde he had seen her to be. A question, in the end, of vision. She wished she'd been the kind Mathilde, the good one, his idea of her. She would have looked smiling down at him, she would've heard beyond marry me to the world that spun behind the words. There would have been no pause, no hesitation. She would've laughed, touched his face for the first time, felt his warmth in the palm of her hand. 'Yes,' she would've said. 'Sure.

I linger too long in his embrace; the night is so warm, the rocking of the boat so lulling, I have to stop myself from swaying to the music. Daniel smells really good—a masculine cocktail of saltwater, citrus, and probably just full-on testosterone.

Can you sharpen this for me, please?” Logan leaned across the table and took the pencil from him. “You want me to play with your pencil, Tate?” “Hilarious. The sharpener is right by you. You just have to pick it up and slide it in.” As soon as the words left his mouth and Logan’s quirked into an arrogant line, Tate bit his tongue. “Really? Did you really just say that to me?” Feeling more comfortable than ever with Logan and this group, Tate shrugged and nodded. Time to give it to Logan as good as he gives. “Yeah. Is there a problem? You just line it up...and slide it in.” “You know, Tate—” “Don't do it.” Tate cut him off as he moved his foot, the one he’d had sitting between Logan’s feet all night, so his shin bumped Logan’s calf. “Do what?” “Say something dirty. I know you're dying to, but just sharpen the pencil.” Logan picked up the sharpener and made a big show of inserting the tip in the hole. “Jesus,” Shelly muttered from beside Logan. “I thought Rachel and Cole were bad.

I’d made “Fever” Mom’s ring tone because the song was about getting the flu from being too close to someone. I thought it was a good choice because she holds me tight and kisses me all the time and she’s always blowing her nose on me and it makes me sick and gives me fever—but now I wasn’t sure it was the right ring tone after all. I didn’t want to have a sexy ring tone for Mom on my cellphone!

We arranged to spend the next day, a Sunday, looking at apartments together, followed by a round of tennis, since we both played. Before Nancy left the Pilot that night, I said to her lasciviously— I don’t know what possessed me—“Have you ever tried a comedian before?” Which was either very sexy or very creepy, depending on your opinion of me. She just stared at me, betraying no emotion, and said, “I hope you have a racket. I’m pretty good.” Our

At night after I made love to this man I would lie beside him and cry because I knew that I loved him and that I couldn’t bear to stay with him because I wasn’t ready to love only one person yet and I knew that if I left him I would die of a broken heart and I would kill him of a broken heart too and it would be over for me when it came to love because there would never be another person who I’d love as much as I loved him or who loved me as much as he loved me or who was as sweet and sexy and cool and compassionate and good through and through. So I stayed.

The tattoos around his eyes burned as he scanned the surrounding area. No one but him probably noticed, but the plumes of darkness branching in every direction were writhing and groaning, desperate to avoid the light of the moon and street lamps. Come to me, he beseeched them. They didn’t hesitate. As if they’d merely been waiting for the invitation, they danced toward him, flattening against his car, shielding it—and thereby him—from prying eyes. “Freaks me out every damn time you do that,” Rowan said as he crawled into the front passenger seat. For the first time, Sean’s friend had accompanied him to “keep you from doing something you’ll regret.” Not that Gabby had known. Rowan had lain in the backseat the entire drive. “I can’t see a damn thing.” “I can.” Sean’s gaze could cut through shadows as easily as a knife through butter. Gabby was in the process of settling behind the wheel of her car. Though more than two weeks had passed since their kiss, they hadn’t touched again. Not even a brush of fingers. He was becoming desperate for more. That kiss . . . it was the hottest of his life. He’d forgotten where he was, what—and who—was around him. He’d never, never, risked discovery like that. But that night, having Gabby so close, those lush lips of hers parted and ready, those brown eyes watching him as if he were something delicious, he’d been unable to stop himself. He’d beckoned the shadows around them, meshed their lips together, touched her in places a man should only touch a woman in private, and tasted her. Oh, had he tasted her. Sugar and lemon. Which meant she’d been sipping lemonade during her breaks. Lemonade had never been sexy to him before. Now he was addicted to the stuff. Drank it every chance he got. Hell, he sported a hard-on if he even spotted the yellow fruit. At night he thought about pouring lemon juice over her lean body, sprinkling that liquid with sugar, and then feasting. She’d come, he’d come, and then they could do it all over again. Seriously. Lemonade was like his own personal brand of cocaine now—which he’d once been addicted to, had spent years in rehab combating, and had sworn never to let himself become so obsessed with a substance again. Good luck with that. “I’m getting nowhere with her,” Rowan said. “You, she watches. You, she kissed.” “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Gabby’s car passed his and he accelerated, staying close enough to her that anyone trying to merge into her lane wouldn’t clip his car because they couldn’t see him. Not that anyone was out and about at this time of night. “She’s mine. I don’t want you touching her.” “Finally. The truth. Which is a good thing, because I already called Bill and told him you were gonna be the one to seduce her.” “Thanks.” This was one of the reasons he and Rowan were such good friends. “But I thought you were here tonight to keep me from her.” “First, you’re welcome. Second, I lied.

It's like when I first saw you at the Diabetic. I went up to you, but really you made the first move." "Shut up!" She remains unconvinced. "How?" I don't answer. I sit still. Then I look at her slyly out of the corner of my eye, before looking away. I look at her again, for longer this time, then drop my eyes. For my final look I stare, and bat my eyelashes provocatively. I must do a good job because Nia laughs. It feels goo to know I can do that. "You look like such a dufus in those glasses! It's not sexy at all!" She puts her hand to her reddening face. "Oh. Did I really do that?" "It worked, didn't it?

A drop of water slides between his pecs and down his tight, flat stomach. Suddenly, the will to move springs into my limbs, if only to chase that droplet with my tongue. “It’s not fair that you can look that good after stepping out of the shower. I should have a CLOSED FOR BUSINESS sign over my vagina after last night, but now I want to climb you.” Logan’s grin doesn’t help smother my urge. “My dick should be broken from how many times we went at it last night, but one look at you all curled up in my bed will always get me hard again, Bruce. You’re fucking beautiful, no makeup, wild hair, and that sexy hunger in your eyes.” H

What are you going to do until tomorrow?" The plates and bowls were empty. I stood to bring them to the kitchen. Bennett followed me with his own. "Oh, I have some things in mind," I said over my shoulder as I set the plates in the sink. Bennett put his down, too, then stood behind me, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back into his chest. "Like what?" His voice hummed against me, and I could feel it vibrate all the way down into my bones. "I was thinking...dessert." It didn't come out as sexy as I wanted, so I grimaced. It was a good thing Bennett couldn't see me, though, because I felt his reaction poking me in the ass. I ground against it, making him groan deep in his throat. He flipped me around and bent to kiss me deeply. "I might be ruined for other desserts." I didn't give my decision a single thought for the rest of the night.

Never took you for someone so naughty." "Looks can be deceiving." "Ah, such a fucking smart mouth." "Face it, you love my smart mouth." "Hmm..." "What?" "Just thinking about all the things I want to do to that smart mouth." Her breath hitches in her throat. "You---" "Tell me what I'm thinking right now. If you guess right, maybe we'll make it happen." Eden's face fills with heat, her heart pounding in her chest. Her brain is about to melt. There are so many possibilities, so many scenarios. But one look from him, and she's a goner. Her tongue is a twisted knot. The fire pooling in the pit of her stomach has her unraveling at the seams. Alexander might have just broken her. Alexander can sense her struggle and chuckles, tenderly kissing her cheek. "What are you being so shy for? You started it, sweetheart. Come on, venture a guess." "What if I guess wrong?" "I doubt you will." He presses his forehead to hers, the tips of their noses bumping up against one another. "Say it," he whispers against her lips. "Say it." "I think..." Eden takes a deep but shaky breath. "I think you want to fuck me." "Among other things." She looks deep into his eyes and reads him like a book. "I think you want to fuck me hard. And then soft. All night, and then all morning. On my back. On my knees. You want to taste me. You want me to taste you." "I think you want me to make you beg," he says, still soft and only loud enough for her alone to hear. "You want to be taken against a wall. In my bed. On the fucking floor. You want me to make you tremble. You want to be fucked so good, your voice gives out. You want to feel sore in the morning. Isn't that right, Eden?" "Yes," she gasps, the word bubbling past her lips without a second thought.

It was the point in my life when I realized that dudes who talk about their “crazy ex-girlfriend” are full of shit. What they’re really talking about is someone they hurt and didn’t leave the way they found. These guys put their ex-girlfriends in a position that makes them do things so extreme and out of character that they seem crazy. The night Aiden called me, after months of “I love yous” and making plans for our future, and told me he had a girlfriend and couldn’t see me anymore, and then hung up? By dawn, I was parked outside his work, I hadn’t slept the entire night, and I waited for him to show up because I needed an explanation in person. I didn’t get an explanation. I just seemed crazy. And in that moment, I was a little crazy. Love is supposed to make you feel a little bonkers and batshit, but there’s bad crazy and good crazy, and you realize which is which when you love someone who doesn’t love you back.

You Are What You Eat Take food for example. We all assume that our craving or disgust is due to something about the food itself - as opposed to being an often arbitrary response preprogrammed by our culture. We understand that Australians prefer cricket to baseball, or that the French somehow find Gerard Depardieu sexy, but how hungry would you have to be before you would consider plucking a moth from the night air and popping it, frantic and dusty, into your mouth? Flap, crunch, ooze. You could wash it down with some saliva beer.How does a plate of sheep brain's sound? Broiled puppy with gravy? May we interest you in pig ears or shrimp heads? Perhaps a deep-fried songbird that you chew up, bones, beak, and all? A game of cricket on a field of grass is one thing, but pan-fried crickets over lemongrass? That's revolting. Or is it? If lamb chops are fine, what makes lamb brains horrible? A pig's shoulder, haunch, and belly are damn fine eatin', but the ears, snout, and feet are gross? How is lobster so different from grasshopper? Who distinguishes delectable from disgusting, and what's their rationale? And what about all the expectations? Grind up those leftover pig parts, stuff 'em in an intestine, and you've got yourself respectable sausage or hot dogs. You may think bacon and eggs just go together, like French fries and ketchup or salt and pepper. But the combination of bacon and eggs for breakfast was dreamed up about a hundred years aqo by an advertising hired to sell more bacon, and the Dutch eat their fries with mayonnaise, not ketchup. Think it's rational to be grossed out by eating bugs? Think again. A hundred grams of dehydrated cricket contains 1,550 milligrams of iron, 340 milligrams of calcium, and 25 milligrams of zinc - three minerals often missing in the diets of the chronic poor. Insects are richer in minerals and healthy fats than beef or pork. Freaked out by the exoskeleton, antennae, and the way too many legs? Then stick to the Turf and forget the Surf because shrimps, crabs, and lobsters are all anthropods, just like grasshoppers. And they eat the nastiest of what sinks to the bottom of the ocean, so don't talk about bugs' disgusting diets. Anyway, you may have bug parts stuck between your teeth right now. The Food and Drug Administration tells its inspectors to ignore insect parts in black pepper unless they find more than 475 of them per 50 grams, on average. A fact sheet from Ohio State University estimates that Americans unknowingly eat an average of between one and two pounds of insects per year. An Italian professor recently published Ecological Implications of Mini-livestock: Potential of Insects, Rodents, Frogs and Snails. (Minicowpokes sold separately.) Writing in Slate.com, William Saletan tells us about a company by the name of Sunrise Land Shrimp. The company's logo: "Mmm. That's good Land Shrimp!" Three guesses what Land Shrimp is. (20-21)

The Lawrence cottage's about three quarters of a mile up on the left. You can't miss the turnoff unless you're hiking through a storm in the middle of the night with only a flashlight." Gennie swallowed a chuckle. Don't let him have any redeeming qualities, she pleaded. Let me remember him as a rude, nasty man who just happens to be fatally sexy. "I'll keep that in mind." "And I wouldn't mention that you'd spent the night at Windy Point Station," he added easily as he slipped the toolbox back into place. "I have a reputation to protect." This time she bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Oh?" "Yeah." Grant turned back, leaning against the truck a moment as he looked at her again. "The villagers think I'm odd. I'd slip a couple notches if they found out I hadn't just shoved you back outside and locked the door." This time she did smile-but only a little. "You have my word,no one will hear from me what a Good Samaritan you are. If anyone should happen to ask, I'll tell them you're rude, disagreeable and generally nasty." "I'd appreciate it.

What’s the matter, Freckles?” he said, pressing a light kiss to the tip of my nose. “What changed?” I blurted out. He drew back. “Changed?” “You seemed like you were trying to keep distance between us before, but after last night…” “I should get a medal for managing to keep my hands off you that long.” “It was only a few days,” I reminded him dryly. “Felt like a lifetime.” “So those first kisses… you liked them?” His eyes widened. “You thought that I didn’t?” “Well, after that you didn’t touch me.” “Shit,” he swore beneath his breath and ran a hand over his head. “I liked it too much. The sparks between us are so hot, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop. I was afraid I would scare you off. Thank God I did because you’re so innocent.” Innocent? Ugh. I folded my arms across my chest. “So what changed your mind?” His smile was sexy and filled with innuendo. “I realized you could handle the heat.” I still wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t tell him that. “Well, you are definitely hot.” He grinned. He had such a big ego. “How hot?” I shook my head. “So hot your touch leaves torch marks on my skin.” He whistled between his teeth. “Damn. I’m good.

We did the dishes and talked--about the cattle business, about my job back in L.A., about his local small town, about family. Then we adjourned to the sofa to watch an action movie, pausing occasionally to remind each other once again of the reason God invented lips. Curiously, though, while sexy and smoldering, Marlboro Man kept his heavy breathing to a minimum. This surprised me. He was not only masculine and manly, he lived in the middle of nowhere--one might expect that because of the dearth of women within a twenty-mile range, he’d be more susceptible than most to getting lost in a heated moment. But he wasn’t. He was a gentleman through and through--a sizzling specimen of a gentleman who was singlehandedly introducing me to a whole new universe of animal attraction, but a gentleman, nonetheless. And though my mercury was rising rapidly, his didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He walked me to my car as the final credits rolled, offering to follow me all the way home if I wanted. “Oh, no,” I said. “I can get home, no problem.” I’d lived in L.A. for years; it’s not like driving alone at night bothered me. I started my car and watched him walk back toward his front door, admiring every last thing about him. He turned around and waved, and as he walked inside I felt, more than ever, that I was in big trouble. What was I doing? Why was I here? I was getting ready to move to Chicago--home of the Cubs and Michigan Avenue and the Elevated Train. Why had I allowed myself to stick my toe in this water? And why did the water have to feel so, so good?

what could Marilyn Monroe’s death ever have to do with me? “IT HAS TO DO WITH ALL OF US,” said Owen Meany, when I called him that night. “SHE WAS JUST LIKE OUR WHOLE COUNTRY—NOT QUITE YOUNG ANYMORE, BUT NOT OLD EITHER; A LITTLE BREATHLESS, VERY BEAUTIFUL, MAYBE A LITTLE STUPID, MAYBE A LOT SMARTER THAN SHE SEEMED. AND SHE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING—I THINK SHE WANTED TO BE GOOD. LOOK AT THE MEN IN HER LIFE—JOE DIMAGGIO, ARTHUR MILLER, MAYBE THE KENNEDYS. LOOK AT HOW GOOD THEY SEEM! LOOK AT HOW DESIRABLE SHE WAS! THAT’S WHAT SHE WAS: SHE WAS DESIRABLE. SHE WAS FUNNY AND SEXY—AND SHE WAS VULNERABLE, TOO. SHE WAS NEVER QUITE HAPPY, SHE WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE OVERWEIGHT. SHE WAS JUST LIKE OUR WHOLE COUNTRY,” he repeated; he was on a roll. I could hear Hester playing her guitar in the background, as if she were trying to improvise a folk song from everything he said. “AND THOSE MEN,” he said. “THOSE FAMOUS, POWERFUL MEN—DID THEY REALLY LOVE HER? DID THEY TAKE CARE OF HER? IF SHE WAS EVER WITH THE KENNEDYS, THEY COULDN’T HAVE LOVED HER—THEY WERE JUST USING HER, THEY WERE JUST BEING CARELESS AND TREATING THEMSELVES TO A THRILL. THAT’S WHAT POWERFUL MEN DO TO THIS COUNTRY—IT’S A BEAUTIFUL, SEXY, BREATHLESS COUNTRY, AND POWERFUL MEN USE IT TO TREAT THEMSELVES TO A THRILL! THEY SAY THEY LOVE IT BUT THEY DON’T MEAN IT. THEY SAY THINGS TO MAKE THEMSELVES APPEAR GOOD—THEY MAKE THEMSELVES APPEAR MORAL. THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT KENNEDY WAS: A MORALIST. BUT HE WAS JUST GIVING US A SNOW JOB, HE WAS JUST BEING A GOOD SEDUCER. I THOUGHT HE WAS A SAVIOR. I THOUGHT HE WANTED TO USE HIS POWER TO DO GOOD. BUT PEOPLE WILL SAY AND DO ANYTHING JUST TO GET THE POWER; THEN THEY’LL USE THE POWER JUST TO GET A THRILL. MARILYN MONROE WAS ALWAYS LOOKING FOR THE BEST MAN—MAYBE SHE WANTED THE MAN WITH THE MOST INTEGRITY, MAYBE SHE WANTED THE MAN WITH THE MOST ABILITY TO DO GOOD. AND SHE WAS SEDUCED, OVER AND OVER AGAIN—SHE GOT FOOLED, SHE WAS TRICKED, SHE GOT USED, SHE WAS USED UP. JUST LIKE THE COUNTRY. THE COUNTRY WANTS A SAVIOR. THE COUNTRY IS A SUCKER FOR POWERFUL MEN WHO LOOK GOOD. WE THINK THEY’RE MORALISTS AND THEN THEY JUST USE US. THAT’S WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU AND ME,” said Owen Meany. “WE’RE GOING TO BE USED.

His hands dropped down to her thighs. He kissed her belly, and then blew kisses in between her legs. She experienced nothing but pleasure as he made her body sing. He licked her like he had the other night, and she gasped. She clutched his hair. He touched her bud and stroked her. It felt amazing, and she wanted him to lick her forever, but she didn't know if she was being selfish. She hadn't done anything to pleasure him. She sat up and pulled him next to her. "You don't have to do that again. We can just have sex. Or I can try to do it to you, though I don't know how to." "Babe, sex isn't just about penetration. I want to please you. I love this. You taste so damn sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself and do anything that feels good. I want you to come in my mouth again." "Enrique!" she gasped, her cheeks turning red as she was laughing. She had never talked freely about sex. And she loved how open he was being with her. He smiled. "You're mine now. And I think you're sexy as hell. I'm going to tell you every chance I get--- how much I want you, how badly I wanted to touch you from the second I saw you. How you have the most incredible plump ass. How much I want to eat your pussy." She exhaled. "I've never seen myself as sexy or attractive. But you... you're a god." She rubbed her hand down his abs and stroked his cock. "I've fantasized about this since I met you." He grinned and kissed her neck. "I can pretty much guarantee not as much as I have. Now relax, babe." He kissed her back down to her belly, and in between her thighs. Sweet heat. He licked her pussy and her breath quickened. Her moans came rapidly. He rubbed her nipples with his free hand as she clutched the sheets, writhing against his tongue. She looked down at Enrique, who was settled between her legs, lapping at her as if she were his oasis in the middle of the fields. She took a deep breath and did exactly as he said. Relax. As she loosened up, pressure built between her legs and waves of pleasure washed over her. Her chest heaved. "Enrique. That feels really good." He grinned. "I'm going to make you feel even better." He rubbed her clit. She felt as if she was going to explode. "That's it, baby. Come for me." Carolina closed her eyes and let go. The intensity pulsed through her as her body shook and ecstasy took over. "Ah, Enrique!

My bedroom is separated from the main body of my house so that I have to go outside and cross some pseudo-Japanese stepping stones in order to go to sleep at night. Often I get rained on a little bit on my way to bed. It’s a benediction. A good night kiss. Romantic? Absolutely. And nothing to be ashamed of. If reality is a matter of perspective, then the romantic view of the world is as valid as any other - and a great deal more rewarding. It makes of life and unpredictable adventure rather that a problematic equation. Rain is the natural element for romanticism. A dripping fir is a hundred times more sexy than a sunburnt palm tree, and more primal and contemplative, too. A steady, wind-driven rain composed music for the psyche. It not only nurtures and renews, it consecrates and sanctifies. It whispers in secret languages about the primordial essence of things. Obviously, then, the Pacific Northwest's customary climate is perfect for a writer. It's cozy and intimate. Reducing temptation (how can you possibly play on the beach or work in the yard?), it turns a person inward, connecting them with what Jung called "the bottom below the bottom," those areas of the deep unconscious into which every serious writer must spelunk. Directly above my writing desk there is a skylight. This is the window, rain-drummed and bough-brushed, through which my Muse arrives, bringing with her the rhythms and cadences of cloud and water, not to mention the latest catalog from Victoria's Secret and the twenty-three auxiliary verbs. Oddly enough, not every local author shares my proclivity for precipitation. Unaware of the poetry they're missing, many malign the mist as malevolently as they non-literary heliotropes do. They wring their damp mitts and fret about rot, cursing the prolonged spillage, claiming they're too dejected to write, that their feet itch (athlete's foot), the roof leaks, they can't stop coughing, and they feel as if they're slowly being digested by an oyster. Yet the next sunny day, though it may be weeks away, will trot out such a mountainous array of pagodas, vanilla sundaes, hero chins and god fingers; such a sunset palette of Jell-O, carrot oil, Vegas strip, and Kool-Aid; such a sea-vista display of broad waters, firred islands, whale spouts, and boat sails thicker than triangles in a geometry book, that any and all memories of dankness will fizz and implode in a blaze of bedazzled amnesia. "Paradise!" you'll hear them proclaim as they call United Van Lines to cancel their move to Arizona.

He called the next morning at seven. I was sound asleep, still dreaming about the kiss that had rocked my existence the night before. Marlboro Man, on the other hand, had been up since five and, he would explain, had waited two hours before calling me, since he reckoned I probably wasn’t the get-up-early type. And I wasn’t. I’d never seen any practical reason for any normal person to get out of bed before 8:00 A.M., and besides that, the kiss had been pretty darn earth shattering. I needed to sleep that thing off. “Good morning,” he said. I gasped. That voice. There it was again. “Oh, hi!” I replied, shooting out of bed and trying to act like I’d been up for hours doing step aerobics and trimming my mom’s azalea bushes. And hiking. “You asleep?” he asked. “Nope, nope, not at all!” I replied. “Not one bit.” My voice was thick and scratchy. “You were asleep, weren’t you?” I guess he knew a late sleeper than he heard one. “No, I wasn’t--I get up really early,” I said. “I’m a real morning person.” I concealed a deep, total-body yawn. “That’s strange--your voice sounds like you were still asleep,” Marlboro Man persisted. He wasn’t letting me off the hook. “Oh…well…it’s just that I haven’t talked to anyone yet today, plus I’ve kind of been fighting a little sinus trouble,” I said. That was attractive. “But I’ve been up for quite a while.” “Yeah? What have you been doing?” he asked. He was enjoying this. “Oh, you know. Stuff.” Stuff. Good one, Ree. “Really? Like, what kind of stuff?” he asked. I heard him chuckle softly, the same way he’d chuckled when he’d caught me the night before. That chuckle could quiet stormy waters. Bring about world peace. “Oh, just stuff. Early morning stuff. Stuff I do when I get up really early in the morning…” I tried again to sound convincing. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to keep you from your ‘early morning stuff.’ I just wanted to tell you…I wanted to tell you I had a really good time last night.” “You did?” I replied, picking sleepy sand from the corner of my right eye. “I did,” he said. I smiled, closing my eyes. What was happening to me? This cowboy--this sexy cowboy who’d suddenly galloped into my life, who’d instantly plunged me into some kind of vintage romance novel--had called me within hours of kissing me on my doorstep, just to tell me he’d had a good time. “Me, too,” was all I could say. Boy, was I on a roll. You know, stuff, and Me, too, all in the same conversation. This guy was sure to be floored by my eloquence. I was so smitten, I couldn’t even formulate coherent words. I was in trouble.

What did he say his name was? Caleb? The image of his naked body flashes in my mind and I pinch the bridge of my nose. My thoughts are like the cheese on a New York pizza—stretching and folding away from me, finding corners I wish they wouldn't. Sure, he was good-looking and appeared wealthy, but I only met him once!

Clarke? Are you all right?” It’s Damian’s voice. I’d recognize it anywhere even though it’s currently muffled by the door. I try to answer but can’t get my voice to work. “Baby? I’m coming in.” The door swings open. He’s looking as good as he did last night but wearing a different suit today. He’s so handsome and sexy and suave that I suddenly have no idea what I’m even doing with the man. I don’t belong with him.

I’m not helpless. Even if my magic is wonky.” “I know. I never thought you were.” Okay. That was good. I yawned and snuggled closer. “We should go to the bedroom.” “Oh?” I perked up. “To sleep,” he clarified. “I suspect we’re going to have a long night.” “Fine.” I dragged him to the bed, determined to change his mind. Yes, I was tired, but hello? There was a sexy hellhound in my bed. Who wanted sleep? I yawned again. Damn it. Me, apparently. I wanted sleep. Within minutes of curling up against Dillon’s side, I couldn’t quit yawning, nor could I keep my eyes open. Okay. Fine. I’d sleep. But when we woke up, nothing was going to stop me from getting to know my hellhound better. Every inch of him.

Not that,” said June. “I’m not making another movie where I play a sexy Asian lady on a beach—fuck no. She meant Altogether Too Many Murders.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Good title. Has a ring of truth to it.

Olof Palme was the Prime Minister of Sweden from 1969 to 1976 and 1982 to 1986. He was assassinated in 1986, shot twice in a street ambush in central Stockholm. His murder remains unsolved. I believe that everyone has it in them to kill another person. In desperation or hatred, or at least to defend themselves. Its not a sex shop. Its a fashion boutique for people who like sexy underwear. She cured her gender. Nobody would have attack her if she has been a man. I can feel tat she is close...Wait a minute, I'll check my telepathic power. Good God, she's a fucking crazy killer. "You have one chance to survive the night," she said. "One chance-not two. I'm going to ask you a number of questions. If you answer them, I'll let you live. Nod if you understand.

Naturally, we even made snow angels in the backyard as we stumbled around, and passed out. No one cared what we did really, thus far that was the fun of it all. Oh, and Kenneth was just the boy that only wanted one thing from Jenny. He had no personality to speak of… he would hit on me all the time, and sometimes he would get it from me too, or I would be out of the group by her if he said I was the one that wanted it from him. We could break widows out of old buildings and homes, and who would stop us. Sure, we got chased by the cops, yet that was the fun of it too. There is nothing else for us to do. I remember Maddie leaving her handprints in the wet mud, Jenny her butt, and some of her lady-ness, when the town thought it was time for new sidewalks. Yet we all did, something that would last forever, we thought. Maddie drew a few other things too. You can get the picture! All inappropriate… all there for life. She was just crazy like that, like squatting down pissing, and doing number two in the old man Jackups yard. She has more balls than most guys… I knew. Old man Jackups called us, ‘Mindless slutty hooligans’ So that was payback. At the time- I thought like what is wrong with that, we're just having some fun here… your old windbag, like go and sit on your cane! You know what I mean… I think? I remember being so smashed at my sweet sixteen too, that I don’t even remember it. Yet that is what having a good time was all about, so they say. Bumping and grinding on all the boys with loud music. And as the twinkling lights shine on your skin, that lights the way up to your bedroom. You know that your puffy dress is going to be pushed up a couple of times on that night. I just don’t remember how many times it was, and I didn’t remember who it was with, I am not even sure if I know them at all… all of them or not. All I know is I did it all and was happy to do whatever they asked me to do. But- but I thought I was having the time of my life. I was the birthday girl that had the rosiest pink lipstick on most boys at the party. I thought it was such a horror. In my mind at the time, I thought that I high-jacked the rainbow, and crashed into a pot of gold! All the girls my age did it, yet I was the best at it! I recall the time Liv and I went trick or treating. I was dressed as Hermione from the Harry Potter movies. Liv was a sexy witch! With the pointed hat. So, original…! That is what I told her. That was the night we scared the pants off of Ray in the not-so-scary haunted house. And before you ask, he was dressed as Harry. So, I wanted to play with his wand, that's why I dressed the way I did at the time. Liv was one of those good friends… I thought, which would tell everyone what you all did the day after, to all the girls at the lunch table. She can text faster than anyone I know. Anyways… we jumped out at him, and he nearly craps his nicely pressed pants. I am sure there was a skid mark on his tighty- whities or something. Yet he did yack on Liv’s chest, and that was hilarious to me. She was dancing around, and flapping her hands doing the funky chicken while yelling, ‘Ou- ou- ou- wah!’ As I dibble over in lather, I guess it was funnier when it doesn’t happen to you too many times.

He still says he loves me, but he has killed any love I had for him over the years. And I did love him once. I loved him with all my heart. I can’t believe I was ever so stupid. When everyone is jealous of me, I want to scream at them not to be. That it’s not what it seems. I wonder, sometimes, how they can’t see it. The way he controls everything. The way he grips my arm a little too tightly. The way he is always there. Always. He’ll pick me up from nights out – or worse still, invite himself along and everyone loves him. Of course they do. The charming, bestselling author. And he’s good looking. Although it’s true that the more you know a person the more it affects how you see them. I don’t see him as handsome any more. I don’t see him as sexy. I hate him.

Ay! Ay!” Tre says loudly, interrupting us. It’s a good thing he did because I was two seconds away from backing Kree’s sexy ass up on that wall. We reluctantly stop kissing but I’m still holding her. I still can’t believe she’s here; I don’t want to let her go. “I guess she’s hired,” Ang smirks. “Oh, she’s been hired,” Tre adds then laughs.

All thought flew from my mind when he pulled the shirt from over his head, revealing the elegant sweep of his back, the hard-packed muscles rippling under smooth skin. Arms, chiseled like a god's, reached down and... "Oh, sweet baby Jesus," I murmured fervently. He pushed his jeans off and bared an ass that was, frankly, spectacular. Those tight globes flexed as he kicked the jeans away with one long leg. Turn away. Get out of here. I shouldn't look. I coveted my privacy, and I was blatantly watching Lucian strip naked. He deserved his privacy too. But I couldn't blink. I couldn't move. He was...glorious. My fingers gripped the railing, holding on tight. The light of the pool gave his skin an unworldly greenish cast. He rolled his shoulders...unf...and then dove in. The water rippled outward in his wake. I actually shivered with lust as I tracked him along the bottom of the pool, a pale arrow of flesh darting through the turquoise glow. Silently, he surfaced on the far side of the pool, then neatly turned to do laps. Perfect form. Long strong arms. Clean, steady strokes. Édith Piaf kept singing as Lucian set a steady but brutal pace. He went at it lap after lap. I grew fairly dizzy with rude thoughts about his stamina. The night was cool, but my flesh was hot. God, that water looked so good. I could practically feel it running over my fevered skin.

Okay, then . . . good night.” “Good night . . . Jordan Preston.” I grip the doorway and look over my shoulder. “It’s Jonah Peter.” A slow, sexy smile passes over her lips before she says, “Good night . . . Jonah.” “Good night, Kelse.

I took a black and white photograph, which I also posted on Instagram. Her New Balance shoes and her feet crossed, hanging as she sat atop the pile of aluminum chairs, against the backdrop of the many legs of the chairs shining in the street lights in contrast to her dark shoes and leggings, were so captivating. There was a lightness in the way she sat there with her crossed legs dangling, as if she was perched on a cloud and it was the most natural thing as she was my angel. I was still unsure if she really existed or if I had only made her up with Pinto cat one night. It was all like a lucid dream. I was so glad for us and for us becoming rich soon too. I was so glad I could provide her with a future in Europe. I was so glad we would be rich and happy and we would be able to make all our dreams come true and travel the world freely together. I can show her Italy and Hungary and Europe. We can pick where do we want to live or make family. I knew all my life, all my work had led to this girl, this moment, and this future. Ours. She started to rap in Spanish in the Rioplatense dialect as I started to record her. „Loco, loco…” - she was so cute, it sounded like she had learned it on the streets of Buenos Aires, skipping school. She was amazing - so young, so true, so natural and pure and cute. I couldn't get enough of her. I wanted to make kids with her. With only her. Nobody else. By the wall of the church and the bar tables, there were a bunch of metal mobile railings with the Ajuntamiento de Barcelona logo in the middle of each of them. I told Martina to squat down to the level of the Ajuntamiento sign, and before I could finish my sentence, she was already doing it. She posed with the mobile railings, making a funny, cool and happy face while squeezing the Ajuntamiento logo between two of her fingers and pointing at it with her other hand, as if we were mocking the authorities of the Ajuntamiento. She was reading my mind. Like she knew magic. She was such a good girl. She was so pretty, smart and sexy. She was smiling, biting her lower lip, excited, turned on, and in love, I thought, looking like a bunny, or like Whitney Houston on the Brazilian live concert video, so I began to call her “Bunny”. I showed her how Whitney was smiling the same way. I was so blind to see the connection. (“The Cocaine Queen”) I was so much in love with her, so under her spell, I just really wanted her to be the One, I guess. I explained to her that the Camorra was one of my costumers and they had a club close by too and they were taking away other people's coffeeshops, menacing their lives and their families'. I explained to her that we were going to do all demolition and remodeling without any permit, without telling a word to anyone. I told her that we would lie to the residents of the building above us about what we were going to do there for months and months. I told her that she must keep it as our secret. She was nodding happily and she seemed happy that I trusted her. I explained everything to her, I told her about Rachel and Tom and I signing the founding document at Amina's office at the beginning of the same year, 2013. She seemed to understand the weight of all I told her and the reasons why I told her about it all, so she would know, so she wouldn't make a mistake saying the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. I asked her to pay attention to her surroundings in Barcelona from then on, as there were a lot of criminals, and she was a very pretty girl - not only my girlfriend. She seemed to take it as a privilege to be my girlfriend, and she seemed eternally happy, as was I. I told her that she was the only person I fully trusted. I wanted to send the video of Martina rapping on WhatsApp to Adam, but Martina told me I shouldn't because it was late and, at the end, Adam was my boss. “Yeah but he is not really my boss, in Spain, I am the boss.

He was tall and leanly muscled with broad shoulders and a solid chest that was built for cuddling. Naked cuddling. After a full, long night of no-promises sex. He opened her door. "Let me help. It's a big step down." "Is that a jab at my size?" she said with no heat. "No, it's an excuse to get my hands on you." As promised, his big, manly hands spanned her waist and he lifted her from the seat and let her slide, oh so slowly, down his body until she was safely on the ground. Only he didn't let go right away, holding her snug against him, so all their good parts lined up. "And I think your size is pretty fucking perfect." Man, was she ever in trouble. Tingles sizzled, starting in her belly and moving to all the essential parts so quickly she could scarcely breathe. Stupid tingles, they were at the center of this mess. This problematic, complicated, and incredibly sexy mess that, as far as she could conclude, would only be solved one way. "Buttercup," he whispered. "You keep looking at me like that and we're both going to be in trouble." "I've never gotten in trouble," she said, sliding her hands up up his chest. "I'm beginning to think I've been missing out." Hudson groaned and rested his forehead on hers. "If we go there now, I won't be able to show you the best part."' "Funny, I was thinking by going there, we'd get to the best part faster." "When we go there, it will be slow, and long, and will take all night and into the next day.

Judge drove down I75, careful not to keep glancing over at his passenger, who he was seeing in a whole new light. This sexy motherfucker is gay. According to that email he’d rudely snagged and read Michaels must be the fuck of the millennium, the way that spineless man was begging for his dick. Was he a fuck buddy gone bad or a one-night stand? Didn’t sound like it. The guy said, “They’d had a good thing once.” Maybe he was an ex. Why do I care? Judge was driving himself crazy with the useless questions. That was not what he did. He got ass when he felt like it, then he moved on. But since he’d found out Michaels’ orientation for sure, he wanted to fuck the cocky sonofabitch next to him so bad that his stomach cramped. How had Judge found himself in this situation? If he could reverse time, he’d go back and tell God “hell no” to this partnership. When he’d finished getting dressed at the hotel, he’d heard the commotion downstairs with the hooker. But Judge didn’t draw attention to himself. He moved through life with a purpose, and anything that wasn’t directly related to that purpose, didn’t receive his time or energy. Imagine his surprise when Michaels appeared out of nowhere and started kicking ass like it was a hobby. All Judge could think about was reprimanding Michaels for being such a bad boy. Judge groaned, trying not to squirm in his seat at the thought of holding the feisty man down and fucking the fight right out of him. Shit. “You

Come here,” I say softly when I park in the auto body’s back lot. She leans over the middle console, closing the distance between us. “I had an amazing time,” she whispers. “Well, besides when I hid in the bathroom…and you threatened that guy.” “Forget about that and kiss me,” I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It’s like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we’re both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen’s kisses may have been hot, but Brittany’s are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We’re still in the car, but it’s cramped and the front seats don’t give us enough room. Before I know it, we’ve moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I’m so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I’m not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. “It feels so good,” she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it’s open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. “You’re…perfect,” she pants. Right now I’m not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. ¡Carameloǃ I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. “I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse.

I can’t breathe. I’m 97% sure that my nerve endings are literally on fire, and true to his promise, walking today, or the days in the near future, will be a challenge. God bless him. “God, Sarah.” If I could move right now, I’d open my eyes and look down at him, but I can’t. He’s still inside me, his body also still quivering. I didn’t think it was possible, but this round might be better than any of the previous six. Six. Rounds. Of sex. In one twelve-hour period. I collapse on his chest, bury my face in his neck, try to regain use of my extremities, and purr when he wraps his arms around my back and hugs me close. His arms make me want to bite him. In the best sexual way possible. I don’t know what he does to keep them so…awesome, but dear sweet Moses, am I thankful. “I’ll make you breakfast,” he murmurs against my neck, sending a fresh round of goose bumps over my skin. “Okay. I’ll get off of you in about a month.” He chuckles and slaps my ass, and then before I know it, I’m flat on my back and he’s leaning over me, smiling down at me with those amazing green eyes of his. “How can you move?” “Quick recovery,” he says and kisses my nose. “You stay here and collect yourself and I’ll go cook.” “Cook what?” I ask. “There’s nothing in your fridge.” “The bagel place delivers.” He winks, places a smacking kiss on my lips, then jumps up and saunters out of the bedroom. Naked. Holy shit. I cover my face with my hands and can’t help but smile. What a night! Adam didn’t wait until this morning to have his way with me again. No, that happened sometime around 2:00 a.m. It seems that man can’t keep his hands off of me, and that doesn’t hurt my feelings in the least. I was so right. One night with Adam Spencer was unforgettable and a giant boost to my ego. I giggle and sit up, sighing when my muscles complain. Good lord, muscles I didn’t even know existed are protesting after the night of exhausting sex I just had. I had sex. A lot. With the hottest man ever. I giggle once more and stand, groaning now at the uncomfortable pull of my inner thigh muscles, and walk into his bathroom to clean up. The shower is quick, and before I know it, I’m in his kitchen, wearing last night’s clothes, kind of excited about the walk of shame I’ll do when he drops me off. “I like that smile,” Adam says as he walks into the kitchen holding a brown bag that was just delivered. “You put it there,” I reply with a wink. “You put on shorts.” He raises a brow. “I can take them back off.” “No.” I shake my head and laugh as Adam opens the bag of food. He smirks and passes me a bagel, already toasted with cream cheese. “How do you feel?” “Sore.” I lick cream cheese off my thumb and grin at the sexy man taking a bite of his breakfast. “Well sexed.” “Mission accomplished then.” He reaches over the island and drags his thumb down my cheek. He kisses my forehead, then pulls away. “Thank you.” “For?” “Dinner. Breakfast.” The most amazing sex of my entire life. “You’re welcome.

That’s when my savior called. He called as he always did after we’d spent a day or evening together. He called to say good night…I had a good time today…what are you doing tomorrow…I love you. His calls were a panacea; they instantly lifted me, reassured me, healed me, made everything whole again. This call was no different. “Hey, you,” he said, his voice reaching new heights of sexiness. “Hey,” I said, quietly sighing. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Sitting here,” I answered, hearing the muffled voices of my parents through my upstairs bedroom floor. “And thinking…” “What about?” he said. “Oh, I was thinking…,” I began, hesitating for a moment. “That I think I want to elope.” Marlboro Man laughed at first. But when he realized I wasn’t laughing, too, he stopped, and we both sat in silence.

Brittany, wait!” a voice calls from behind me. I turn around and am face-to-face with the guy who’s haunting my dreams…daydreams and night dreams. Alex. The guy who I hate. The guy who I can’t get out of my mind, no matter how drunk I am. “Ignore Javier,” Alex says. “Sometimes he gets carried away tryin’ to be a badass.” I’m stunned when he steps closer and wipes away a tear from my cheek. “Don’t cry. I wouldn’t let him hurt you.” Should I tell him I’m not afraid of being hurt? I’m afraid of not being in control. Though I haven’t run far, it’s far enough from Alex’s friends. They can’t see me or hear me. “Why do you like Carmen?” I ask as the world tilts and I stumble in the sand. “She’s mean.” He holds out his hands to help me but I flinch, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “What the fuck do you care, anyway? You stood me up.” “I had stuff going on.” “Like washin’ your hair or getting’ a manicure?” Or having my hair ripped out by my sister and getting reamed out by my mom? I jab my finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole.” “And you’re a bitch,” he says. “A bitch with a kick-ass smile and eyes that can seriously screw with a guy’s head.” He winces, as if the words slipped out and he wants to take them back. I was expecting him to say a lot of things, but not that. Especially not that. I notice his bloodshot eyes. “You’re high, Alex.” “Yeah, well you don’t look too sober yourself. Maybe now’s a good time to give me that kiss you owe me.” “No way.” “¿Por qué no? Afraid you’ll like it so much you’ll forget your boyfriend?” Kiss Alex? Never. Although I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. More than I should. His lips are full and inviting. Oh, boy, he’s right. I am drunk. And I’m definitely not feeling right. I’m past numbness and going on delirium, because I’m thinking things I have no business thinking. Like how I want to know what his lips feel like against mine. “Fine. Kiss me, Alex,” I say, stepping forward and leaning into him. “Then we’ll be even.” His hands are braced on my arms. This is it. I’m going to kiss Alex and find out what it’s like. He’s dangerous and he mocks me. But he’s sexy and dark ad beautiful. Being this close to him makes my body shiver with excitement and my head spin. I loop my finger through his belt loop to steady myself. It’s like we’re standing on a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the carnival.

You both already look sexy and delicious enough to eat," the photographer flirted. Andy, in his quick witted fashion, replied, "We'll leave the delicious eating until tomorrow evening. For now it's time to say good night." With that, we bid our suitor good evening and returned to Albergo Danieli Venezia for our beauty sleep.

Instantly, I noticed that our conversation was easy, flirtatious and exciting. It didn’t take very long for us to get to know each other. To start with, I was a little taken aback with both of them being so friendly and talkative. As we talked, I really didn’t know what to call Rita and I stammered some as I attempted to navigate around the social aspects of my dilemma. I didn’t know her last name and “Mrs. Whatjamacallit” didn’t seem appropriate, so I continued using her first name. What seemed awkward to me at first, soon became and sounded acceptable. I also noticed that Connie alternated between calling her mother “Mom” and “Rita.” At first this was strange, but soon I kind of understood the unique relationship between them. For me it seemed different, however I tend to adapt easily and now I was becoming acquainted with a girl who called her mother by her first name. The house was without central heating, but it did have a big cast iron Franklin stove in the living room. Rita looked over to me and asked if I would light the fire. “Guess so,” I replied. I soon found out that lighting the fire encompassed getting and splitting the firewood, and then tending to it. Connie showed me to the front porch where there was a big pile of cordwood, just dumped in one heap. I also noticed that the wind was picking up and was blowing the white stuff onto the porch and covering the woodpile. “Might be a good idea to bring in enough wood to last the night,” I thought aloud. This was going to become a full time job! With Connie’s able help I got a roaring fire going. Rita made sandwiches and poured us all some Coca-Cola, which she topped off with some Canadian Whiskey. Turning the damper down on the fire, I thought to myself that the Franklin stove would never heat this size house, besides the wind was coming in through the cracks around the windows and doors. I knew that the house didn’t have much insulation by how cold the walls were. The windows were single pane, which also didn’t help much, but at least it was shelter. When I mentioned this, Rita said, “Never mind, we’ll all be able to stay warm in bed.” By this time, Connie and I were clowning around and Rita reminded us that she was also there. “I may be momma but I’m not about to freeze, while you kids have all the fun! Besides we only have one bed.” Suddenly the whole scene came into focus. The sandwiches on the kitchen table wouldn’t be our only food. The sandwiches we would have that night would just be the beginning of a feast.

Then swear you'll make this so damn good I won't regret it in the morning." His mouth molded into that sexy, dimpled grin. "Darlin', the only thing you're going to regret is putting me off for so long.

Hannah tells me that you helped protect her from the Hispanics during the riot.” “The Hispanics? Oh, the protest, right.” “Call it what you like, son. This place was crawling with spics, and I am grateful that you took care of my only child.” “Well,” I shrugged. “I guess that’s what boyfriends do.” Spics?? “Only good boyfriends,” Hannah said, still tightly holding my left hand. I could never predict when she’d pour on the affection and when she’d act distant. Were all girlfriends this complicated? “I helped pass that law, you understand,” Mr. Walker said. “I’m an advisor to the senator, and it’s about time someone notable, someone of prestige, took a stand on the influx of hispanics into our once great city. The Hispanics were rioting because of that law, because they’re afraid of justice.” “Oh yeah?” I said. I knew nothing about politics or laws. But I had a feeling I disagreed with him. “But I’ll discontinue this tangent before I begin to preach,” he smiled. “Hannah is giving me the warning look.” “Thank you, Daddy,” Hannah said. “The spics destroyed your car,” he said. “Hannah informed me, and then I read the report in the newspaper.” “That was a good car,” I nodded. “I will miss it.” “Well, let me see what I can do to help,” he said. “I’m a financial consultant to many of our nation’s finest automobile manufacturers, including Mission Motorcycles. You have heard of them?” “I don’t know much about any cars. Or motorcycles,” I admitted. “Well, it just so happens, they owed me a favor and agreed to give me a short-term loan on one of their new electric bikes,” he said. And it was then that I realized we were standing beside a gleaming black, silver, and orange motorcycle. I hadn’t noticed before because our school parking lot always looks like a luxury car showcase, and I’d grown numb to the opulence. A sleek black helmet hung from each handle. Mr. Walker placed his palm on the seat and said, “This bike is yours. Until you get a new car.” “Wow,” I breathed. A motorcycle!! “Isn’t it sexy?” Hannah smiled. “It looks like it’s from the future.” “It does,” I agreed. “I’m almost afraid to touch it, like it’ll fly off. But sir, there’s no way…” “Please don’t be so ungrateful as to refuse, son. That’s low class, and that’s not the Walkers. You are in elite company. Dating my daughter has advantages, as I’m sure she’s told you. You just keep performing on the football field.” “Oh…right,” I said. “I’m gratified I can help,” Mr. Walker said and shook my hand again. “I’m expecting big things from you. Don’t let me down. It’s electric, so you’ll need to charge it at night. Fill out the paperwork in the storage compartment and return them signed to Hannah tomorrow. If you wreck it, I’ll have you drowned off Long Beach. I wish I could stay, but I’m late for a meeting with the Board of Supervisors. Hannah, tell your mother I’ll be out late,” he said and got into the back seat of a black sedan that whisked him away.

He was just another on the assembly line of bad choices. Hot? Check.  Foul-mouthed? Check. Sexy as all get out? Check.  Dangerous? Check.  Sure to fuck up my life even more than it already was? Yeah, I was going to go ahead and put a big fat check right there too. Thank God I didn’t tell him where I lived. If he just showed up at my door one night, I was pretty sure there would be no denying him. “See?” I said, swallowing a little hard. “There’s another strike against you.” “How so?” “I’m in a  good guy phase.” To that, his lips tipped up in a somewhat condescending smirk. “Baby, I give that a week.” I lowered my eyes at him. “Why?” “‘Cause you ain’t exactly a good girl.

This is really good,” I murmur around my cake. Pete smacks Sam on the shoulder. “See, told you she would love it,” he says. Sam blushes and says, “It’s just a cake.” I point to the cake. “You did not make this.” More pink creeps up Sam’s neck. “Sometimes I bake.” He puts his hands on his hips and balks at me. “Real men bake cakes. And pies. And cookies. And other shit.” He waves a hand through the air as he scolds me. I had no idea Sam could bake. It’s really some of the best cake I have ever eaten. “Real men with really small dicks,” Pete says, holding his fingers about an inch apart. Sam punches his shoulder. “Ask your girlfriend about my dick,” Sam tosses back. “She seemed to like it a lot last night.” “Knock it off,” Paul scolds as he takes Hayley off the counter and sets her on the floor. “There are girls in the house.” “They don’t count as girls,” Sam says around a mouthful of pizza. “Well, thanks,” I complain. “You know what I mean.” Sam is still talking with his mouth full. Logan wraps his arms around my waist and places his chin on my shoulder. “Feels like a girl to me,” he says. He growls and nibbles on the side of my neck.

Why are you doing this, Trip?” He reaches for my elbow and I jerk out of his reach. “Em,” he says. “Don’t touch me again, Trip,” I warn. Trip’s voice gets soft. “We were good together, Em, once upon a time.” “No, we weren’t. We were terrible.” His face falls. “Not until the end. We were fine until that night.” I remember that night like it was yesterday, and it still hurts just as much now as it did then. “Do I get a pass for being drunk when I said it? Can’t you forgive me?” He twists a strand of my hair around his finger and tugs it playfully. I brush my hair back over my shoulder.

Pilgrims WHEN MY OLD MAN said he’d hired her, I said, “A girl?” A girl, when it wasn’t that long ago women couldn’t work on this ranch even as cooks, because the wranglers got shot over them too much. They got shot even over the ugly cooks. Even over the old ones. I said, “A girl?” “She’s from Pennsylvania,” my old man said. “She’ll be good at this.” “She’s from what?” When my brother Crosby found out, he said, “Time for me to find new work when a girl starts doing mine.” My old man looked at him. “I heard you haven’t come over Dutch Oven Pass once this season you haven’t been asleep on your horse or reading a goddamn book. Maybe it’s time for you to find new work anyhow.” He told us that she showed up somehow from Pennsylvania in the sorriest piece of shit car he’d ever seen in his life. She asked him for five minutes to ask for a job, but it didn’t take that long. She flexed her arm for him to feel, but he didn’t feel it. He liked her, he said, right away. He trusted his eye for that, he said, after all these years. “You’ll like her, too,” he said. “She’s sexy like a horse is sexy. Nice and big. Strong.” “Eighty-five of your own horses to feed, and you still think horse is sexy,” I said, and my brother Crosby said, “I think we got enough of that kind of sexy around here already.” She was Martha Knox, nineteen years old and tall as me, thick-legged but not fat, with cowboy boots that anyone could see were new that week, the cheapest in the store and the first pair she’d ever owned. She had a big chin that worked only because her forehead and nose worked, too, and she had the kind of teeth that take over a face even when the mouth is closed. She had, most of all, a dark brown braid that hung down the center of her back, thick as a girl’s arm. I danced with Martha Knox one night early in the season. It was a day off to go down the mountain, get drunk, make phone calls, do laundry, fight. Martha Knox was no dancer. She didn’t want to dance with me. She let me know this by saying a few times that she wasn’t going to dance with me, and then, when she finally agreed, she wouldn’t let go of her cigarette. She held it in one hand and let that hand fall and not be available. So I kept my beer bottle in one hand, to balance her out, and we held each other with one arm each. She was no dancer and she didn’t want to dance with me, but we found a good slow sway anyway, each of us with an arm hanging down, like a rodeo cowboy’s right arm, like the right arm of a bull rider, not reaching for anything. She wouldn’t look anywhere but over my left shoulder, like that part of her that was a good dancer with me was some part she had not ever met and didn’t feel

I met Houston back in Florida when he came to KOD one night. He was super sexy and seemed to be a boss ass nigga.

I really had a weird dream last night and it seemed to involve Witches, Atheist and Vampires, but somehow it felt so real, like a vampire is sucking on me right now, dare I open my beady little eyes? "Why are you sucking on my neck?" I asked my sexy, scary, vampire witch, as I slowly opened my eyes. "Awe, no girly screams today my little muse?" she laughed and gently stroked my hair as I was waking up. "Well from my professional opinion, I figured that if you wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead by now, so good morning, but aren't you supposed to melt if the sun hits you?" "I'm not a vampire my love, I'm an Evil witch, that's come to torment you!" She said with an evil laugh ;)

for the rest of the night. Other than to refuel with holiday leftovers. “Would you still love me if I told you I didn’t know what tasted better, Christmas leftovers or you?” Jana cocked her eyebrow with a sexy smile on her face. Damn, she was beautiful. “No but I will be mad unless you do some very thorough research and come up with a satisfying answer…” I grinned. This Christmas was unlike any of the others Jana and I had spent together. This time we had two little boys, a bigger family and we’d faced our biggest threat yet and come out on top. “If it’s for the sake of research, consider me in babe.” And I spent the rest of the night doing science. Between the gorgeous legs of my beautiful wife. I was pretty sure in that moment, life for the Reckless Bastard’s couldn’t get any better. Merry friggin’ Christmas to us! * * * * If you think the Reckless Bastards are spicy bad boys, they’re nothing compared to the steam in my next series Reckless MC Opey, TX Chapter where Gunnar and Maisie move to Texas! There’s also a sneak peek on the next page.   Don’t wait — grab your copy today!  Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Chapter One Gunnar “We’re gonna be cowboys!” Maisie had been singing that song since we got on the interstate and left Nevada and the only family we’d had in the world behind. For good. Cross was my oldest friend, and I’d miss him the most, even though I knew we’d never lose touch. I’d miss Jag too, even Golden Boy and Max. The prospects were cool, but I had no attachment to them. Though I gave him a lot of shit, I knew I’d even miss Stitch. A little. It didn’t matter that the last year had been filled with more shit than gold, or that I was leaving Vegas in the dust, we were all closer for the hell we’d been through. But still, I was leaving. Maisie and I’d been on the road for a couple of days. Traveling with a small child took a long damn time. Between bathroom breaks and snack times we’d be lucky to make it to Opey by the end of the month. Lucky for me, Maisie had her mind set on us becoming cowboys, complete with ten gallon hats, spurs and chaps, so she hadn’t shed one tear, yet. It wasn’t something I’d been hoping for but I was waiting patiently for reality to sink in and the uncontrollable sobs that had a way of breaking a grown man’s heart. “You’re not a boy,” I told her and smiled through the rear view mirror. “Hard to be a cowboy if you’re not even a boy.” Maisie grinned, a full row of bright white baby teeth shining back at me right along with sapphire blue eyes and hair so black it looked to be painted on with ink. “I’m gonna be a cowgirl then! A cowgirl!” She went on and on for what felt like forever, in only the way that a four year old could, about all the cool cowgirl stuff she’d have. “Boots and a pony too!” “A pony? You can’t even tie your shoes or clean up your toys and you want a pony?” She nodded in that exaggerated way little kids did. “I’ll learn,” she said with the certainty of a know it all teenager, a thought that terrified the hell out of me. “You’ll help me, Gunny!” Her words brought a smile to my face even though I hated that fucking nickname she’d picked up from a woman I refused to think about ever again. I’d help Maisie because that’s what family did. Hell, she was the reason I’d uprooted my entire fucking life and headed to the great unknown wilds of Texas. To give Maisie a normal life or as close to normal as I was capable of giving her. “I’ll always help you, Squirt.” “I know. Love you Gunny!” “Love you too, Cowgirl.” I winked in the mirror and her face lit up with happiness. It was the pure joy on her face, putting a bloom in her cheeks that convinced me this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to move to Texas, and I didn’t want to live on a goddamn ranch, but that was my future. The property was already bought and paid for with my name

Hell, I think there were studies that said fucking was good for your heart.” “Laughing is good for your heart too and there are no downsides to it. I think I’d rather watch a comedy.” “Fair enough, but you’re missing out.” “Uh-huh. If you think you can get more attention from another girl, feel free to take off. Night’s still young.” “No, I like where I’m at.” Certain he was checking out my butt, I spun around and glared at him. Cooper only smiled. “Like I could see anything with those pants on,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not kidding either. Your ass could have fallen off on the ride over and I wouldn’t be able to tell.” Staring up at Cooper, I soothed out the grumpy from my face and gave him my best Thumper eyes. “You’re so charming, Coop the Poop,” I said in my sexy voice. “I like when you do that with your eyes,” he said, ignoring the rest. “The voice is hot too.” Turning around, I continued towards the apartment. “You’re welcome for the compliments, Farah. Please, stop thanking me. You’re embarrassing yourself.

He pulled out a couple of mugs while she warmed up the cocoa. He chuckled and she turned to see what was funny and nearly had a heart attack. He was holding one hot pink and white mug while reading it, the other sitting on the counter: Men should be like my curtains, easy to pull and well hung. Her lips parted, she had to have turned cherry red, and she turned away quickly before she burned the cocoa. Now what? Explain that a friend had given them to her when her last boyfriend and she had parted company? Or just ignore the fact that they were drinking out of those cups while she was having hot cocoa with him and pretend she wasn’t embarrassed to the tip of her toes? He brought the mugs over. “Anything else?” “There’s a can of whipped cream in the fridge, if you want some.” “Real cream,” he said, eyeing the can. “Looks good.” He gave it to her, and he lifted the mugs. She shook up the can and pointed it at the right mug, pushed the nozzle, and the cream dripped and fizzled. Not to be thwarted, she shook it again, hoping that it wasn’t defective. And then the whipped cream swirled around with perfect ridges in a twirl on top with a cute little pointy peak. Perfect. Then she turned to the other mug, shook the can again, and pushed the nozzle. It was working great until halfway through her little mountain of whipped cream twirling to perfection, when the nozzle malfunctioned again and spewed whipped cream everywhere. In horror, she stopped what she was doing and stared at the white cream splattered all over Allan’s chest and a few that had dotted his boxer briefs. Her mouth agape, she glanced up at him. His eyes sparkled with mirth and he laughed. “Oh, oh, let me get something to wipe it up,” she said, belatedly, and set the can of whipped cream on the counter. She grabbed some paper towels and wetted them, then rushed back to wipe the mess up. He was still holding onto both hot pink mugs of cocoa. She had every intention of taking one of the mugs and letting him clean himself, but he just moved his arms apart as if to say she made the mess, she could wash it up. She thought she was going to die. Yes, he was totally hot. And yes, she’d fantasized about making love to him—since they were both unattached, and she truly liked him. But in her wildest dreams she would never have imagined making him cocoa in the middle of the night in her duplex while he stood in sexy silk briefs, not baggy, but nice and form fitting, and then she proceeded to splatter him with whipped cream. All over his tanned chest and those black briefs.

After seeing Dylan with the redhead, I sunk deeper into a depression. Even working at Lark’s house did nothing to distract me. I simply went through the motions. Fortunately, Lark was especially tired and slept most of the day, so she never noticed my bad mood. Harlow wasn’t as oblivious as we washed dishes after dinner. “What’s up, stinky pup?” I rolled my eyes at her nickname for me. “Nothing.” “She doesn’t want to deal with the leaves,” Jace said from behind us. Our ten year old brother crossed his arms like Dad often did when suspicious. “See, she got spooked last night and bailed on raking the leaves. They ended up blowing around the yard and now she’s trying to get out of raking them again.” “That’s not it.” “Sure, it is,” he said, his dark hair covering his narrowed eyes. “What else could it be?” Grumpy, I decided to punish him. “It’s about a sexy guy.” Jace’s face twisted into horror. “Eww!” he cried, running out of the room. Harlow and I laughed at the sound of him telling on me to Mom. “In a few years, girls will be all he thinks about,” I said, returning to the dishes. Harlow leaned her head against my shoulder. “Sexy guy, huh?” “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your fight?” Harlow glanced at the clock. “Yeah. When I get back, I want to hear about the sexy guy making you sigh so much.” As my sister dressed to go, I finished the dishes and struggled to stop sighing. I was still grumpy when Dad got home. In this living room, he told Harlow to be careful. She said something and laughed. When Harlow started fighting at the Thunderdome, she called herself Joy and hid it from our parents. She didn’t think they’d approve and she was right. Harlow and I were naïve to assume they wouldn’t find out long before she told them the truth though. Dad might be a pastor, but he learned about the Lord in prison. As a member of the Reapers, Dad had eyes and ears all over Ellsberg. He likely knew Harlow was fighting before she threw her first punch. Entering the kitchen, Dad smiled at me. “Stop talking about cute boys around your brother. He has a sensitive gag reflex.” I laughed as he got himself a beer and joined me at the sink. “Mom said we have leftovers. Mind warming them up for me?” Shaking my head, I filled a plate and set it in the microwave. “Are you okay?” Dad asked, frowning at me. “You look worn down.” “I had a long day.” “You sure that’s it?” We watched each other and I remembered the first time he asked if I was okay. Five years earlier when I was brought to this house and met my new family. I didn’t remember a lot from that day besides thinking these people were too good to be true. I figured they’d wait until Kirk was gone then hurt me. I couldn’t remember when I knew Dad was a good man who loved me. Not like my real dad loved me. Tad felt the kind of love a person died to protect. I saw the love in his eyes as he waited for his food to finish warming. “I wish I was stronger.” “So do I,” he said softly. “Everyone does. They just don’t admit it. That’s what makes you so brave. You can admit your fears.” Even thinking he was full of shit, I smiled. “Thanks, Dad.” Taking his plate out of the microwave, he inhaled. “Mom makes the best meatloaf.” “I made it.” Grinning, Dad nudged me with his hip. “If you make this meatloaf for the boy you’re hung up on, you’ll own him.” “I’ll remember that.

When looking for a life partner, my advice to women is date all of them: the bad boys, the cool boys, the commitment-phobic boys, the crazy boys. But do not marry them. The things that make the bad boys sexy do not make them good husbands. When it comes time to settle down, find someone who wants an equal partner. Someone who thinks women should be smart, opinionated, and ambitious. Someone who values fairness and expects or, even better, wants to do his share in the home. These men exist and, trust me, over time, nothing is sexier. (If you don’t believe me, check out a fabulous little book called Porn for Women. One page shows a man cleaning a kitchen while insisting, “I like to get to these things before I have to be asked.” Another man gets out of bed in the middle of the night, wondering, “Is that the baby? I’ll get her.”)26

I blinked the stars out of my eyes. “Fancy seeing you here, Ex.” He gave me his smile of sexy confidence, dropped his backpack, and sank to the floor beside me. “What do you think of Davis and Liz?” My heart had absolutely no reason to skip a beat. He was not asking me out. He was asking me my opinion of my friend Liz and his friend Davis as a couple. That did not necessarily mean he was heeding public opinion that he and I were next to get together. Liz and Davis were a legitimate topic of gossip. I managed to say breezily, “Oh, they’ll get along great until they discuss where to go on a date. Then he’ll insist they go where she wants to go. She’ll insist they go where he wants to go. They’ll end up sitting in their driveway all night, fighting to the death over who can be more thoughtful and polite.” Nick chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. Because he’d sat down so close to me and our arms were touching, sort of, under layers and layers of clothing, I felt the vibration of his voice. But again, my heart had no reason—repeat, no reason—to skip two beats, or possibly three, just because I’d made Nick laugh. He made everybody feel this good about their stupid jokes.

Don’t smile at me.” She gave me a warning glare. She’d been feisty from the moment she woke up. It was adorable. Her hair tumbled wild around her face, still curled a little from the party, and she wore nothing but an oversize sweatshirt that bared one shoulder and the light-blue lace G-string I’d gotten to take off her last night. She was beautiful. So fucking sexy. “I can’t even smile now?” I grinned at her. My heart was so damn happy. Waking up with her was like Christmas when you see you got everything you wanted. I woke up with a grin on my face, and then she’d gotten up and jumped me again. It had been a good morning.

It was the first time I’d seen him in over a week. We both froze. His presence was a physical caress, like a gust of warm air. My eyes pored over him. He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he wore the shirt he’d won at trivia night—he wore the shit out of it too. It was amazing how anything he had on looked sexy on him. The man could wear a burlap sack and look incredible. I knew just looking at it what it would smell like, and I wished I could put my nose to the blue cotton. He’d lost weight. His muscles were more defined. His dimples didn’t show, because he didn’t smile. He looked good—but he looked sad. He’d get over it soon enough. A few babies from now and he wouldn’t even remember me. He didn’t make any move to get out of my path. I looked away and walked past him, and he stood like a statue, eyes on me. Then suddenly a hand shot out and touched my arm. It trailed lightly down my forearm as I walked on, across the top of my hand, over my fingers, and then it was gone. I didn’t jerk away because that would have been acknowledging that he was even there. But the few seconds of contact moved through my whole body. I felt it the rest of the day.

I'm beautiful, yeah, but that's not what's going to shake your world. My refusal to live in an echo chamber all my life is what's going to shake your world. I don't need to surround myself with people who will echo back to me everything I already think and I already believe. I need to grow and I will become. I am not stagnant and sheltered. I'm sexy, yeah, but that's not what's going to shake your world. My foreceful desire to exact change in this world, in the hearts of humankind, is what's going to rock your world. I will not pretend that all is well with the world just because the truth causes discomfort. I look dragons in their eyes. I'm charming, for sure. But that is not what's going to rearrange your mind. My refusal to put my goodness at the forefront of my life, is what will remould your mind. I don't need to be good; what I need to do is look darkness in the face and illuminate it with my own undying light. I don't need an 'image of myself' out there for people to gawk over. I need to grow, I need to change this world, I need to illuminate the night. I'm beautiful and all that; but you have no idea, how much that's not just it.