Silky Slim Quotes

He screams sarcastic, freaky, reserved, and somehow soft. He looks like a Greek sculpture, carved into perfection. Well-built curves show through his clothing. He’s brawny-looking but boyish at the same time. His jawline is razor-sharp, lips so rosy and plump, making me slightly jealous. Let’s not forget the small tattoos that linger on his long fingers. A few strands of silky brown hair pop out from under a black beanie that lies over his head. If I take off that hat, I’ll be met with gorgeous, smooth hair. Black jeans fit his toned legs well. A gray sweatshirt with colorful graphics covers his torso. Under that hoodie, I know there’ll be a six-pack. And what makes him even more droolworthy—which I don’t know how that’s remotely possible—are the rings on his slim fingers. Someone, catch me. I’m going to faint. He wears rings!

Home would wait a few more days for him. It would not have changed. That was the last thought he could remember before Parkhurst turned to greet them, allowing Sebastian a peek at the young lady that was the center of all this male attention. He saw her all at once, but in that moment, it was as though his mind could comprehend her only in small pieces. Dark, silky hair, done up in intricate falling curls that touched against creamy soft shoulders. Her dress clung to the curves on her slim frame, making a man acutely aware of what was seen and what was unseen. Hooded eyes sparkling in the candlelight, a knowing smile painted on a full-lipped mouth that offered a hint of promise… hope for whispered conversation full of double meanings. And her voice… it was as familiar to him as a song, but somehow, he’d never heard it this way before. “Hello, Sebastian,” Susannah Westforth purred. Little no more. “Happy Christmas.

Bill rents an apartment in Chicago and goes immediately to the lobby to put his name on the group mailbox. While he’s standing there, an attractive young lady comes out of the apartment next to the mailboxes, wearing a robe. Bill smiles at her and they begin to chat. As they talk her robe slips open, and it’s quite obvious that she has nothing on underneath it. Poor Bill breaks into a sweat trying to maintain eye contact. After a few minutes, she places her hand on his arm and says, “Let’s go into my apartment. I hear someone coming.” Bill follows her inside, and once the door is closed she leans against the wall, allowing her robe to fall off completely. As she reveals her beautiful nude body she purrs, “What would you say is my best feature?” Flustered, Bill manages to squeak out, “Oh, your best feature has to be your ears!” She’s astounded! “Why my ears? Looks at these breasts! They’re full, they don’t sag, and they’re one hundred percent natural! My ass is taut and round and completely without cellulite! My waist is slim and inviting. My skin is silky and begs to be touched. Why in the world would you say my EARS are my best feature?” “Be-be-because,” he stammers, “when we were in the hallway you said you heard someone coming... That was me!

Despite his fatigue — and the concerns he'd shared with Juliet last night — he was in a good mood. And why not? Those three words she had spoken to him when he got home were still floating through his head like fairweather clouds across a summer sky. I love you. He smiled and gazed at her lying there under the blanket, her dark hair spread across the pillow like a Spanish fan. God, he loved her, too. He loved her lustrous hair and silky skin, her dark green eyes and pert little nose, even that soft, twangy accent that left everyone who heard it scratching their heads, wondering where she was from. He loved her slim, strong body, the fullness of her breasts, and the way her waist flared into curving, womanly hips ... hips that would, he hoped, bear many more children. She was a calming, practical influence on his reckless nature, the voice of reason where he was the soul of impulse. Oh, yes, he loved her. He loved her courage, her level-headedness, and her devotion. Most of all, he loved the fact that she now trusted him without question, supporting his decisions and standing by him when another woman might have demanded he bring her and her baby straight back to Blackheath and the all-powerful protection of its mighty duke. But

the bathroom down the hall, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not knowing whom she’d run into and when. Indoor plumbing seemed unnecessary anyway. Getting water from the well and using the outdoor toilet was easy enough. But that shower, now that was a thing of beauty! She took the brush from the cabinet and let loose her single braid, as thick and long as the grasses that stood by the river back home. She shook her head so that her black hair fell loose, then brushed it, slowly and carefully, treating it as if every inch held a story. One stroke and then another, until it was smooth and silky, like the pajamas she slept in. They were different from the ones she wore at home, which she had made for herself. The stitching was too regular, too perfect to have been made by a young woman’s hand. Obviously, they were made by machine, like everything in Kabul. When Sunny had presented the room to her, she had been particularly proud of the full-length mirror that was framed in a shiny dark wood and sat on its own four legs. But Yazmina thought of it as vanity and had turned it away once Sunny had departed. Today, though, she turned it to face her. She put her hands on her stomach, where the life inside was growing with each new day, and looked at herself. She pulled the sleeping gown over her head, removed her undergarments, and there was her body, which she was seeing naked, in full, for the first time in her life. She was slim, her legs long and lean, her right leg still red and scraped from knee to thigh where she had fallen on the pebbled road when she was pushed out of the car. Her arms were slender but muscled from daily chores, still bruised by the rough grip of strong hands. She looked at her breasts, which were larger than usual because of her condition, but nothing like the long, low ones of Halajan, the old busybody who lived next door to the café and had an opinion about everything. Yazmina thought that woman had been sent by God himself to test her patience. No, Yazmina’s breasts were still “as glowing and round as the midnight moon,” as Najam used to tell her. She saddened at the memory of her husband’s face, his kisses and his touch. She would never feel such sweetness again. But she was with his baby. She turned to the side to look at her belly and stroked it with her two hands. She took a deep breath as if the air would give her all she and her baby needed to thrive. This will be my baby, she thought, my Najam, or if a girl, Inshallah, God willing, Najama (for Yazmina was convinced it was a girl, perhaps because it was Najam’s wish to have many children—a son or two, of course, but also a daughter who had the same light in her eyes as Yazmina). Not only would the baby be named after her father, but she would be a star lighting up the night sky, as the name meant. Najam’s seed was part of her, and she would cherish it and die trying to protect it.