Skin Care Tip Quotes

Beneath me, the bed tipped as Cole edged closer. I felt him lean over me. His breath, warm and measured, hit my cheek. Two breaths. Three. Four. I didn't know what I wanted. Then I heard him stop breathing, and a second later, I felt his lips on my mouth. It wasn't the sort of kiss I'd had with anyone before. This kiss was so soft it was like a memory of a kiss, so careful on my lips that it was like someone running his fingers along them. My mouth parted and stilled; it was so quiet, a whisper, not a shout. Cole's hand touched my neck, thumb pressed into the skin next to my jaw. It wasn't a touch that said I need more. It was a touch that said I want this. It was all completely soundless. I didn't think either of us was breathing. Cole sat back up, slowly, and I opened my eyes. His expression, as ever, was blank, the face he wore when something mattered. He said, "That's how I would kiss you, if I loved you.

While this is all very amusing, the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires,” she said. “Only that and nothing more.” Jace’s heart started to pound. He met the Queen’s eyes with his own. “Why are you doing this?” … “Desire is not always lessened by disgust…And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn’t desire your kiss, she won’t be free.” “You don’t have to do this, Clary, it’s a trick—” (Simon) ...Isabelle sounded exasperated. ‘Who cares, anyway? It’s just a kiss.” “That’s right,” Jace said. Clary looked up, then finally, and her wide green eyes rested on him. He moved toward her... and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him… He could feel the tension in his own body, the effort of holding back, of not pulling her against him and taking this one chance, however dangerous and stupid and unwise, and kissing her the way he had thought he would never, in his life, be able to kiss her again. “It’s just a kiss,” he said, and heard the roughness in his own voice, and wondered if she heard it, too. Not that it mattered—there was no way to hide it. It was too much. He had never wanted like this before... She understood him, laughed when he laughed, saw through the defenses he put up to what was underneath. There was no Jace Wayland more real than the one he saw in her eyes when she looked at him… All he knew was that whatever he had to owe to Hell or Heaven for this chance, he was going to make it count. He...whispered in her ear. “You can close your eyes and think of England, if you like,” he said. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes coppery lines against her pale, fragile skin. “I’ve never even been to England,” she said, and the softness, the anxiety in her voice almost undid him. He had never kissed a girl without knowing she wanted it too, usually more than he did, and this was Clary, and he didn’t know what she wanted. Her eyes were still closed, but she shivered, and leaned into him — barely, but it was permission enough. His mouth came down on hers. And that was it. All the self-control he’d exerted over the past weeks went, like water crashing through a broken dam. Her arms came up around his neck and he pulled her against him… His hands flattened against her back... and she was up on the tips of her toes, kissing him as fiercely as he was kissing her... He clung to her more tightly, knotting his hands in her hair, trying to tell her, with the press of his mouth on hers, all the things he could never say out loud... His hands slid down to her waist... he had no idea what he would have done or said next, if it would have been something he could never have pretended away or taken back, but he heard a soft hiss of laughter — the Faerie Queen — in his ears, and it jolted him back to reality. He pulled away from Clary before he it was too late, unlocking her hands from around his neck and stepping back... Clary was staring at him. Her lips were parted, her hands still open. Her eyes were wide. Behind her, Alec and Isabelle were gaping at them; Simon looked as if he was about to throw up. ...If there had ever been any hope that he could have come to think of Clary as just his sister, this — what had just happened between them — had exploded it into a thousand pieces... He tried to read Clary’s face — did she feel the same? … I know you felt it, he said to her with his eyes, and it was half bitter triumph and half pleading. I know you felt it, too…She glanced away from him... He whirled on the Queen. “Was that good enough?” he demanded. “Did that entertain you?” The Queen gave him a look: special and secretive and shared between the two of them. “We are quite entertained," she said. “But not, I think, so much as the both of you.

Cole,” I said, “do you think I’m lovable?” “As in ‘cuddly and’?” “As in ‘able to be loved,’” I said. Cole’s gaze was unwavering. Just for a moment, I had the strange idea that I could see exactly what he had looked like when he was younger, and exactly what he’d look like when he was older. It was piercing, a secret glimpse of his future. “Maybe,” he said. “But you won’t let anybody try.” I closed my eyes and swallowed. “I can’t tell the diference between not fighting,” I said,“and giving up.” Despite my eyelids being tightly shut, a single, hot tear ran out of my left eye. I was so angry that it had escaped. I was so angry. Beneath me, the bed tipped as Cole edged closer. I felt him lean over me. His breath, warm and measured, hit my cheek. Two breaths. Three. Four. I didn’t know what I wanted. Then I heard him stop breathing, and a second later, I felt his lips on my mouth. It wasn’t the sort of kiss I’d had with him before, hungry, wanting, desperate. It wasn’t the sort of kiss I’d had with anyone before. This kiss was so soft that it was like a memory of a kiss, so careful on my lips that it waslike a memory of a kiss, so careful on my lips that it was like someone running his fingers along them. My mouth parted and stilled; it was so quiet, a whisper, not a shout. Cole’s hand touched my neck, thumb pressed into the skin next to my jaw. It wasn’t a touch that said “I need more”. It was a touch that said “I want this.” It was all completely soundless. I didn’t think either of us was breathing. Cole sat back up, slowly, and I opened my eyes. His expression, as ever, was blank, the face he wore when something mattered. He said, “That’s how I would kiss you, if I loved you.

Scarlett pressed down on the tip of the blade. A single drop of ruby blood welled. Carefully Julian brought her finger to his mouth, and when his soft lips touched her skin the entire world shattered into a million shards of colored glass.

I might be falling in love with you," I whisper, finding it hard to focus on his face. "Kate," he says, almost sadly. "what? You might be falling in love with me too?" My voice is hopeful, pathetically hopeful. He shakes his head. "You aren't falling in love with me?" He doesn't respond. I touch his face carefully with the tips of my fingers. His skin is incredibly soft above the line of hard jawbone. I touch his silky black hair. His eyes close and i want to kiss his eyes, but I'm afraid. Afraid of all this. This could destroy me. He opens his eyes. "Kate, I'm already in love with you.

MY MOTHER GETS DRESSED It is impossible for my mother to do even the simplest things for herself anymore so we do it together, get her dressed. I choose the clothes without zippers or buckles or straps, clothes that are simple but elegant, and easy to get into. Otherwise, it's just like every other day. After bathing, getting dressed. The stockings go on first. This time, it's the new ones, the special ones with opaque black triangles that she's never worn before, bought just two weeks ago at her favorite department store. We start with the heavy, careful stuff of the right toes into the stocking tip then a smooth yank past the knob of her ankle and over her cool, smooth calf then the other toe cool ankle, smooth calf up the legs and the pantyhose is coaxed to her waist. You're doing great, Mom, I tell her as we ease her body against mine, rest her whole weight against me to slide her black dress with the black empire collar over her head struggle her fingers through the dark tunnel of the sleeve. I reach from the outside deep into the dark for her hand, grasp where I can't see for her touch. You've got to help me a little here, Mom I tell her then her fingertips touch mine and we work her fingers through the sleeve's mouth together, then we rest, her weight against me before threading the other fingers, wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep and now over the head. I gentle the black dress over her breasts, thighs, bring her makeup to her, put some color on her skin. Green for her eyes. Coral for her lips. I get her black hat. She's ready for her company. I tell the two women in simple, elegant suits waiting outside the bedroom, come in. They tell me, She's beautiful. Yes, she is, I tell them. I leave as they carefully zip her into the black body bag. Three days later, I dream a large, green suitcase arrives. When I unzip it, my mother is inside. Her dress matches her eyeshadow, which matches the suitcase perfectly. She's wearing coral lipstick. "I'm here," she says, smiling delightedly, waving and I wake up. Four days later, she comes home in a plastic black box that is heavier than it looks. In the middle of a meadow, I learn a naked more than naked. I learn a new way to hug as I tighten my fist around her body, my hand filled with her ashes and the small stones of bones. I squeeze her tight then open my hand and release her into the smallest, hottest sun, a dandelion screaming yellow at the sky.

Many years later when I began training as a plastic surgeon, I understood something that I had not that day in the kitchen arguing for Thalia to leave Tinos for the boarding school. I learned that the world didn't see the inside of you, that it didn't care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that. My patients knew this. They saw that much of what they were, would be, or could be hinged on the symmetry of their bone structure, the space between their eyes, their chin length, the tip projection of their nose, whether they had an ideal nasofrontal angle or not. Beauty is an enormous unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly.

So many people considered Rami a traitor, a lackey, a turncoat, but in the end he didn't care: he knew what he was doing, he knew he was getting under their skin, he was peeling it back, exposing the rawness. He was outnumbered, yes, but they would find a tipping point sometime, somewhere, along the way. It was inevitable. He had to keep telling the story. Repeating it again and again and again.

Having shaved, washed, and dexterously arranged several artificial teeth, standing in front of the mirror, he moistened his silver-mounted brushes and plastered the remains of his thick pearly hair on his swarthy yellow skull. He drew on to his strong old body, with its abdomen protuberant from excessive good living, his cream-colored silk underwear, put black silk socks and patent-leather slippers on his flat-footed feet. He put sleeve-links in the shining cuffs of his snow-white shirt, and bending forward so that his shirt front bulged out, he arranged his trousers that were pulled up high by his silk braces, and began to torture himself, putting his collar-stud through the stiff collar. The floor was still rocking beneath him, the tips of his fingers hurt, the stud at moments pinched the flabby skin in the recess under his Adam's apple, but he persisted, and at last, with eyes all strained and face dove-blue from the over-tight collar that enclosed his throat, he finished the business and sat down exhausted in front of the pier glass, which reflected the whole of him, and repeated him in all the other mirrors. " It is awful ! " he muttered, dropping his strong, bald head, but without trying to understand or to know what was awful. Then, with habitual careful attention examining his gouty-jointed short fingers and large, convex, almond-shaped finger-nails, he repeated : " It is awful. . . .

I learned that the world didn’t see the inside of you, that it didn’t care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that. My patients knew this. They saw that much of what they were, would be, or could be hinged on the symmetry of their bone structure, the space between their eyes, their chin length, the tip projection of their nose, whether they had an ideal nasofrontal angle or not. Beauty is an enormous, unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly.

I’m a snake. My skin is cold. I have no heart. I slither…looking for prey with the tip of my tongue. I swallow the people I care about whole. That’s the kind of creature I am. Don’t you remember?

Now they really talking crazy. “How can there be more than one tomorrow?” Auntie Margaret sighs. “Girl, every choice we make is a new tomorrow. Whole worlds waiting to be born.” “In some, you accept the enemy’s offer, and all is darkness,” Auntie Ondine says. “Always at this point—the tip of the sword on which your world balances.” I look at Auntie Jadine. What could those things living under Butcher Clyde’s skin offer me to make me betray all I care about? Power over life and death. “And if I don’t accept this offer, then we win? No more Ku Kluxes?” “If you don’t accept,” Auntie Ondine answers, “there is the chance to continue the struggle. The hope at one day seeing victory. No more.” That don’t seem fair.

Helen took an uneasy breath. "I didn't think you would remember. You were so very ill." "I'll remember it to my last hour of life." His palm coasted gently over the curve of her breast, lingering until the tip tightened. The hat dropped from Helen's nerveless fingers. Shocked, she stayed emotionless while he whispered, "I've never fought sleep as fiercely as I did at that moment, trying to stay awake in your arms. No dream could have given me more pleasure." His head bent, and he kissed the side of her neck. "Why did no one stop you?" She quivered at the feel of his mouth on her skin, the erotic gaze of warmth. "From taking care of you?" she asked dazedly. "Aye, a rough-mannered stranger, common-born, and half-clothed in the bargain. I could have harmed you before anyone realized what was happening." "You weren't a stranger, you were a family friend. And you were in no condition to harm anyone." "You should have kept your distance from me," he insisted. "Someone had to help you," Helen said pragmatically. "And you had already frightened the rest of the household." "So you dared to walk into the lion's den.

I didn’t answer, occupied in dissolving the penicillin tablets in the vial of sterile water. I selected a glass barrel, fitted a needle, and pressed the tip through the rubber covering the mouth of the bottle. Holding it up to the light, I pulled back slowly on the plunger, watching the thick white liquid fill the barrel, checking for bubbles. Then pulling the needle free, I depressed the plunger slightly until a drop of liquid pearled from the point and rolled slowly down the length of the spike. “Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your shirt.” He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval. “Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked, admiring the muscular curves. “Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?” “Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a cloth soaked in brandy. “That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.” “It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.” I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in. “Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully. “It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup. “Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.” He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.” “It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.” “I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?” I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about germs?” He looked quite blank. “Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do, they can make you ill.” He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?” “You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see how you’re doing.” I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head. “Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.

Immediate pleasure tingled over his flesh at the contact, her hand soft and delicate and extraordinarily feminine. Tiny, as well, her palm barely a fraction of the size of his own- so small that without care he knew he could crush the fragile bones inside with no more than a squeeze. He was careful and tender, though, aware of his height and strength as he towered high above her. Gazing down, he met the suddenly rapt expression in her eyes. Without thinking, he tightened the contact between them, the tips of his fingers brushing idly against the silky texture of her skin as he pulled her a fraction closer. She trembled but did not resist, subtly swaying toward him, near enough now for the skirts of her gown to brush against his pantaloon leg. Her lips parted- pink and pretty and sweetly kissable. He bent his head and stared at her luscious, strawberry-hued mouth, wondering if her flesh would taste as good as it looked.

1. Start with your base. Bases come in convenient stick form, but I prefer a liquid one. A sallow skin need a pinkish tone. For a ruddy complexion, beige is flattering. Smooth the base right up to the hairline (you can always wipe spots off the hair with a tissue later) and blend it around the ears, on the earlobe, and down over the neck. 2. If your face is very round, smooth a darker shade at the sides, below the cheekbone, to narrow it. If your nose is too long, put the darker shade at the tip, and at the sides of the nostrils,. There are a number of possibilities depending on your bone structure. 3. A lighter shade will bring out receding features. [...]Use pale pink just under the brow and under the brow and under the eyes to bring out deep-set eyes. I don't use white under my brows because my bone structure doesn't lend itself to that. [...] I hate to see girls with TOO much white under the brow - or too much eye makeup of any kind, for that matter. If the forehead protrudes they shouldn't use the white under the brows at all. It exaggerates it. And if they have a tendency to be puffy - and everybody has puffy days - they look worse with great white blobs under the eyes. 4. The important thing about shading and contouring is to blend so carefully that you can never see where one shade ends and the other begins. 5. So start with three shades of base for the redesigning, plus white if you need it. Add a blusher that you brush on with a large soft brush made for the purpose. I like a brownish shade. It matches my natural complexion and I brush it on under my cheekbones to accent my bone structure. But a very fair skin could use a bluish pink blusher... 5. Translucent powder goes on next. It must be translucent or your careful job of shading will be covered over. And not too much. Just light dusting of it to cover the shine... 6. After powdering, take a tissue and BLOT. Then clothes won't get soiled. 7. I put on the lipstick and smooth it over with my finger - I never rub my lips together. Then I outline the lips carefully with a lipstick pencil. I never use a brush. Then BLOT. There's nothing uglier than lipstick on the teeth.

Gentle hands, soft lips, and hot little breaths down my stomach. Pleasure, a thick syrup pouring over my limbs. My cock rose, growing heavy with desire. We were so new together, by all accounts, I should be panting madly, trying to take over. But I was slowly heating wax molding to her will. Emma palmed me through my briefs, and I grunted. I wanted them off, no barriers between us. As if she heard the silent demand, she kissed my nipple and slowly eased the briefs down. I lifted my butt to help her. My dick slapped against my belly as it was freed. Emma made a noise of appreciation and then wrapped her clever fingers around me. "Please," I whispered. My body was weak, but my need grew stronger, drowning out everything else. She complied, stroking, her lips on my lower abs, teasing along the V leading to my hips. "Em..." My plea broke off into a groan as her hot mouth enveloped me. There were no more words. I let her have me, do as she willed, and I was thankful for it. And it felt so good I could only lie there and take it, try not to thrust into her mouth like an animal. But she pulled free with a lewd pop and gazed up at me. Panting lightly, I stared back at her, ready to promise her anything, when she kissed my pulsing tip. "Go ahead," she said. "Fuck my mouth." I almost spilled right there. She sucked me deep once more, and a sound tore out of me that was part pained, part "Oh God, please don't ever stop." The woman was dismantling me in the best of ways. Waves of heat licked up over my skin as I pumped gently into her mouth, keeping my moves light because I didn't want to hurt her, and because denying myself was outright torture. Apparently, I was into that. She sucked me like I was dessert----all the while, her hand stroking steady circles on the tight, sensitive skin of my lower abs. It was that touch, the knowledge that she was doing this because she wanted to take care of me, that rushed me straight to the edge. My trembling hand touched the crown of her head. "Em. Baby, I'm gonna..." I gasped as she did something truly inspired with her tongue. "I'm gonna..." She pulled free with one last suck and surged up to kiss me, her hand wrapping around my aching dick and stroking it. Panting into her mouth, my kiss frantic and sloppy, I came with a shudder of pleasure. And all the tension, all the pain, dissolved like a sugar cube dropped into hot tea.

Camille heard the rustle of grass. She opened one eye and saw Oscar settling down beside her. “We can spare a few minutes,” he said. She sat up and cradled her knees in her arms. He plucked a blade of grass and commenced peeling it down the center. They heard the Australian snoring from his spot a few yards away, completely hidden in a blanket of green. “I guess we can spare more than a few minutes.” Oscar smiled and met her gaze, holding it a moment. She suddenly realized how horrible she must look-her hair, her clothes, her skin. “Do you miss him?” he asked, not seeming to notice any of those things. Camille uprooted a purple flower and a white daisy near it. “Of course I do. But I’m hoping with the stone I won’t have to very long.” “Not your father, Camille. Randall.” She took a deep breath, shocked she hadn’t thought of her fiancé for so long. How many days had it been? A full week, maybe more. “Oh. Well…I suppose I do.” Oscar raised an eyebrow and laughed at her clear lack of conviction. Camille shrugged. “What? A lot has happened and right now getting back to San Francisco isn’t something I’m concerned about.” Oscar nodded and chewed on the tip of his blade of grass. “It’s not that Randall isn’t a perfectly good man,” she said, fiddling with the flowers in her hands. The roots crumbled dirt onto her lap. “He’s kind and caring and handsome and an excellent businessman.” Oscar continued to nod. “And he’ll make a fine husband, I’m sure,” she added, knowing he really was all those things. If only all of them combined could make up for what she didn’t feel while with him. “I’m sure,” Oscar repeated. Had he been mocking her? She thought she had caught a trace of sarcasm. All this talk about Randall had her itching. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondered if you missed home,” Oscar answered and threw the mangled blade of grass behind him. “Do you?” she asked, ashamed to her Oscar know how little she desired to return. He thought for a moment, tugging up another switch of grass and rolling it between his fingers. “No,” he answered with stark certainty. “I have everything I’d miss right here.” Every inch of Camille’s body smoldered under Oscar’s gentle, and so very forward, gaze. He’d miss her. She looked into his gray-blue eyes, rimmed by thick, honey-colored lashes-had they always been so full? The bridge of his nose crooked to the left slightly, perhaps broken in a fight after he’d moved from her father’s carriage house to a small apartment along the San Francisco harbor front. She’d never noticed the charming imperfection before. She watched as his eyes traveled over her own features, touching on the wound by her temple and settling on the heart-shaped fullness of her lips. Oscar held his piercing stare. “We probably won’t arrive home in time for your wedding.

Someone shakes my shoulder. I jerk awake, my eyes wide and searching, and I see Tobias kneeling over me. He wears a Dauntless traitor jacket, and one side of his head is coated with blood. The blood streams from a wound on his ear--the top of his hear is gone. I wince. “What happened?” I say. “Get up. We have to run.” “It’s too soon. It hasn’t been two weeks.” “I don’t have time to explain. Come on.” “Oh God. Tobias.” I sit up and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his neck. His arms tighten around me and squeeze. Warmth courses through me, and comfort. If he is here, that means I’m safe. My tears make his skin slippery. He stands and pulls me to my feet, which makes my wounded shoulder throb. “Reinforcements will be here soon. Come on.” I let him lead me out of the room. We make it down the first hallway without difficulty, but in the second hallway, we encounter two Dauntless guards, one a young man and one a middle-aged woman. Tobias fires twice in a matter of seconds, both hits, one in the head and one in the chest. The woman, who was hit in the chest, slumps against the wall but doesn’t die. We keep moving. One hallway, then another, all of them look the same. Tobias’s grip on my hand never falters. I know that if he can throw a knife so that it hits just the tip of my ear, he can fire accurately at the Dauntless soldiers who ambush us. We step over fallen bodies--the people Tobias killed in the way in, probably--and finally reach a fire exit. Tobias lets go of my hand to open the door, and the fire alarm screeches in my ears, but we keep running. I am gasping for air but I don’t care, not when I’m finally escaping, not when this nightmare is finally over. My vision starts to go black at the edges, so I grab Tobias’s arm and hold on tight, trusting him to lead me safely to the bottom of the stairs. I run out of steps to run down, and I open my eyes. Tobias is about to open the exit door, but I hold him back. “Got to…catch my breath…” He pauses, and I put my hands on my knees, leaning over. My shoulder still throbs. I frown, and look up at him. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says insistently. My stomach sinks. I stare into his eyes. They are dark blue, with a patch of light blue on his right iris. I take his chin in hand and pull his lips down to mine, kissing him slowly, sighing as I pull back. “We can’t get out of here,” I say. “Because this is a simulation.” He pulled me to my feet with my right hand. The real Tobias would have remembered the wound in my shoulder. “What?” He scowls at me. “Don’t you think I would know if I was under a simulation?” “You aren’t under a simulation. You are the simulation.” I look up and say in a loud voice, “You’ll have to do better than that, Jeanine.” All I have to do now is wake up, and I know how--I have done it before, in my fear landscape, when I broke a glass tank just by touching my palm to it, or when I made a gun appear in the grass to shoot descending birds. I take a knife from my pocket--a knife that wasn’t there a moment ago--and will my leg to be hard as diamond. I thrust the knife toward my thigh, and the blade bends.

Do you have vows?” Freeman asked. Zane nodded, but he didn’t move to take out a piece of paper or any notes. He licked his lips instead and took a deep breath. “Ty,” he said, and the sound was almost lost in the night. “Some roads to love aren’t easy, and I’ve never been more thankful for being forced to fight for something. I started this journey with a partner I hated, and a man in the mirror I hated even more. The road took me from the streets of New York to the mountaintops of West Virginia, from the place I born to the place I found a home. It forced me to let go of my past and face my future. And I had to be made blind before I could see.” Zane swallowed hard and looked down, obviously fighting to finish without choking on the words or tearing up. Ty realized his own eyes were burning, and it wasn’t because of the cold wind. Zane squeezed Ty’s fingers with one hand, and he met Ty’s eyes as he reached into his lapel with his other. “I promise to love you until I die,” he said, his voice strong again. He held up a Sharpie he’d had in his suit, and pulled Ty’s hand closer to draw on his ring finger. With several sweeping motions, he created an infinity sign that looped all the way around the finger. When he was satisfied with the ring he’d drawn, he kissed Ty’s knuckles and let him go, handing him the Sharpie. Ty grasped the pen, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Zane. He ran his thumb over Zane’s palm. He had a set of vows he’d jotted down on a note card, folded up in his pocket, but he left them where they were and gazed into Zane’s eyes, their past flashing in front of him, their future opening up in his mind. He took a deep breath. “I promise to never leave you alone in the dark,” he whispered. He pulled Zane’s hand closer and pressed the tip of the Sharpie against Zane’s skin, curving the symbol for forever around it. When he was satisfied, he kissed the tip of Zane’s finger and slid the pen back into his lapel pocket. Freeman coughed and turned a page in his book. “Do you, Zane Zachary Garrett, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” Zane’s lips curved into a warm smile. “I do.” Freeman turned toward Ty. “Do you, Beaumont Tyler Grady, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” “I do,” Ty said, almost before the question was finished. “Then by the power vested in me by the state of Maryland, I pronounce you legally wed.” Freeman slapped his little book closed. “You may now share the first kiss of the rest of your lives.” Ty had fully expected to have the urge to grab Zane and plant one on him out of sheer impatience and joy, but as he stood staring at his brand-new husband, it was as if they were moving underwater. He touched the tips of his fingers to Zane’s cheek, then stepped closer and used both hands to cup his face with the utmost care. Zane was still smiling when they kissed, and it was slow and gentle, Zane’s hands at Ty’s ribs pulling them flush. “Okay, now,” Livi whispered somewhere to their side, and a moment later they were both pelted with handfuls of heart-shaped confetti. Zane laughed and finally wrapped his arms around Ty, squeezing him tight. The others continued to toss the confetti at them, even handing out bits to people passing by so they’d be sure to get covered from all sides. They laughed into the kiss, not caring. They were still locked in their happy embrace when Deuce turned the box over above them and rained little, bitty hearts down on their heads.

When an ovulating woman offers herself to you, she's the choicest morsel on the planet. Her nipples are already sharp, her labia already swollen, her spine already undulating. Her skin is damp and she pants. If you touch the center of her forehead with your thumb she isn't thinking about her head—she isn't thinking at all, she's imagining, believing, willing your hand to lift and turn and curve, cup the back of her head. She's living in a reality where the hand will have no choice but to slide down that soft, flexing muscle valley of the spine to the flare of strong hips, where the other hand joins the first to hold both hip bones, immobilize them against the side of the counter, so that you can touch the base of her throat gently with your lips and she will whimper and writhe and let the muscles in her legs go, but she won't fall, because you have her. She'll be feeling this as though it's already happening, knowing absolutely that it will, because every cell is alive and crying out, Fill me, love me, cherish me, be tender, but, oh God, be sure. She wants you to want her. And when her pupils expand like that, as though you have dropped black ink into a saucer of cool blue water, and her head tips just a little, as though she's gone blind or has had a terrible shock or maybe just too much to drink, to her she is crying in a great voice, Fuck me, right here, right now against the kitchen counter, because I want you wrist-deep inside me. I hunger, I burn, I need. It doesn't matter if you are tired, or unsure, if your stomach is hard with dread at not being forgiven. If you allow yourself one moment's distraction—a microsecond's break in eye contact, a slight shift in weight—she knows, and that knowledge is a punch in the gut. She will back up a step and search your face, and she'll feel embarrassed—a fool or a whore—at offering so blatantly what you're not interested in, and her fine sense of being queen of the world will shiver and break like a glass shield hit by a mace, and fall around her in dust. Oh, it will still sparkle, because sex is magic, but she will be standing there naked, and you will be a monster, and the next time she feels her womb quiver and clench she'll hesitate, which will confuse you, even on a day when there is no dread, no uncertainty, and that singing sureness between you will dissolve and very slowly begin to sicken and die. The body knows. I listened to the deep message—but carefully, because at some point the deep message also must be a conscious message. Active, not just passive, agreement. I took her hand and guided the wok back down to the gas burner. Yes, her body still said, yes. I turned off the gas, but slowly, and now she reached for me.

Matthew knew it was wrong the instant their lips met. Because nothing would ever equal the perfection of Daisy in his arms. He was ruined for life. God help him, he didn’t care. Her mouth was soft and hot, like sunshine, like the white blaze of a heartwood fire. She gasped as he touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Slowly her hands came to his shoulders, and then he felt her fingers at the back of his head, sliding into his hair to keep him from pulling away. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening. Nothing could have made him stop. A tremor shook his fingers as he bracketed the exquisite line of her jaw in the open framework of his hand, gently angling her face upward. The flavor of her mouth, sweet and elusive, fueled a hunger that threatened to rage out of control… he searched the damp silk beyond her lips, deeper, harder, until she began to breathe in long sighs, her body molding against his. He let her feel how much stronger he was, how much heavier, one muscular arm clamped along her back, his feet spread to hold her between the powerful length of his thighs. Her upper half was bound in a laced and padded corset. He was almost overcome by a savage desire to tear away the stays and quilting and find the tender flesh beneath. Instead he sank his fingers into her pinned-up hair and tugged it backward until the weight of her head was cradled in his hand, and her pale throat was exposed. He searched for the pulse he had seen earlier, his lips dragging softly along the secret pathway of nerves beneath her skin. When he reached a senstive spot, he felt the vibration of her suppressed moan against his mouth. This was what it would be like to make love to her, he thought dazedly… the sweet shivering of her flesh as he entered her, the delicate chaos of her breath, the helpless sounds that rustled in her throat. Her skin, warm and female, scented like tea and talcum and a trace of salt. He found her mouth again, opened it, delving into wet silk, heat, and an intimate flavor that drove him mad. She should have struggled, but there was only yielding and more softness, driving him past all limits. He began to ravish her mouth with deep, twisting kisses, bringing her body rhythmically against his. He felt her legs part beneath her gown, his thigh fitting neatly between them. She squirmed with innocent desire, her face blooming with the color of late summer poppies. Had she understood exactly what he wanted from her, she would have done more than blush. She would have fainted on the spot. Lifting his mouth from hers, Matthew pressed his jaw against the side of her head. “I think,” he said raggedly, “this puts to rest any question of whether I find you desirable or not.

They'd eaten dinner in bed, and Lindsay had accidentally dropped an edamame bean down her towel dress, which he'd needed to fish out. With his mouth, naturally. "Ohhh," she moaned again. Was she trying to kill him? "My dick is hard enough to hammer nails," he said, gritting his teeth. 'I could be a proper handyman now." She didn't seem to hear him. She was too busy moaning as he rubbed her foot, using one of the techniques he'd discovered using Google. This would be the end of him. When she shimmied a little to adjust her position, her towel dress split apart, and fuck, it was a beautiful view. Her skin was so dewy, but her nipples were tight buds... He could be a fairly patient man at times, but this was testing his limits. "That's it," he growled. "I'll do the other foot afterward." "After...?" A moment later, he was on top of her. He slipped his hand down her body, cupping her mound as his middle finger slid inside her. She made some noises that were even better than the ones she'd made earlier, and she certainly squirmed more than she had during the foot massage. He grinned down at her. "How does that feel? Am I hitting the right spot?" "Yeah, that's a good...spot," she said in a strangled voice. He thrust a finger inside her before bending down and bringing the peak of her nipple into his mouth. She jerked beneath him. "What about that spot?" he asked, raising his head. In response, she cupped the back of his head and brought it down to her other breast. He tugged the brownish pink tip into his mouth as he continued to pleasure her between her legs. "Ryan," she moaned, raking her nails over his back. He didn't care about anything but making her feel good right now. He slid down her body and circled his tongue over her clit before feasting on her. "Is that the right spot?" Her inarticulate response was certainly gratifying, and when he looked up, she shoved his head back down. He chuckled. It didn't take long before she was coming apart, bucking against his face, twisting the sheets in her hands. He moved up her body and kissed her slowly, reverently on the lips as he fumbled for a condom. When he finally managed to roll it on, his hands shaking, he positioned his erection at her entrance and pushed inside. Sex was different with her than with other women. Not that sex had been bad for him before, and not that his partners hadn't enjoyed themselves---he always made sure of it. But. This. This was something else entirely. She ran her foot over the back of his leg, and he groaned as he pumped inside her. Her lips were parted, and he needed to kiss them. So, he did. She met him greedily, and that spurred him on. He didn't move faster; rather, he moved deeper. Filling her up, pulling back... again and again... When he stopped kissing her, he watched every little change in her expression, and then her face contorted in the loveliest way, and she cried out.

joke around—nothing serious—as I work to get my leg back to where it was. Two weeks later, I’m in an ankle-to-hip leg brace and hobbling around on crutches. The brace can’t come off for another six weeks, so my parents lend me their townhouse in New York City and Lucien hires me an assistant to help me out around the house. Some guy named Trevor. He’s okay, but I don’t give him much to do. I want to regain my independence as fast as I can and get back out there for Planet X. Yuri, my editor, is griping that he needs me back and I’m more than happy to oblige. But I still need to recuperate, and I’m bored as hell cooped up in the townhouse. Some buddies of mine from PX stop by and we head out to a brunch place on Amsterdam Street my assistant sometimes orders from. Deacon, Logan, Polly, Jonesy and I take a table in Annabelle’s Bistro, and settle in for a good two hours, running our waitress ragged. She’s a cute little brunette doing her best to stay cheerful for us while we give her a hard time with endless coffee refills, loud laughter, swearing, and general obnoxiousness. Her nametag says Charlotte, and Deacon calls her “Sweet Charlotte” and ogles and teases her, sometimes inappropriately. She has pretty eyes, I muse, but otherwise pay her no mind. I have my leg up on a chair in the corner, leaning back, as if I haven’t a care in the world. And I don’t. I’m going to make a full recovery and pick up my life right where I left off. Finally, a manager with a severe hairdo and too much makeup, politely, yet pointedly, inquires if there’s anything else we need, and we take the hint. We gather our shit and Deacon picks up the tab. We file out, through the maze of tables, and I’m last, hobbling slowly on crutches. I’m halfway out when I realize I left my Yankees baseball cap on the table. I return to get it and find the waitress staring at the check with tears in her eyes. She snaps the black leather book shut when she sees me and hurriedly turns away. “Forget something?” she asks with false cheer and a shaky smile. “My hat,” I say. She’s short and I’m tall. I tower over her. “Did Deacon leave a shitty tip? He does that.” “Oh no, no, I mean…it’s fine,” she says, turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…um, kind of a rough month. You know how it is.” She glances me up and down in my expensive jeans and designer shirt. “Or maybe you don’t.” The waitress realizes what she said, and another round of apologies bursts out of her as she begins stacking our dirty dishes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Really. I have this bad habit…blurting. I don’t know why I said that. Anyway, um…” I laugh, and fish into my back pocket for my wallet. “Don’t worry about it. And take this. For your trouble.” I offer her forty dollars and her eyes widen. Up close, her eyes are even prettier—large and luminous, but sad too. A blush turns her skin scarlet “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, please. It’s fine, really.” She bustles even faster now, not looking at me. I shrug and drop the twenties on the table. “I hope your month improves.” She stops and stares at the money, at war with herself. “Okay. Thank you,” she says finally, her voice cracking. She takes the money and stuffs it into her apron. I feel sorta bad, poor girl. “Have a nice day, Charlotte,” I say, and start to hobble away. She calls after me, “I hope your leg gets better soon.” That was big of her, considering what ginormous bastards we’d been to her all morning. Or maybe she’s just doing her job. I wave a hand to her without looking back, and leave Annabelle’s. Time heals me. I go back to work. To Planet X. To the world and all its thrills and beauty. I don’t go back to my parents’ townhouse; hell I’m hardly in NYC anymore. I don’t go back to Annabelle’s and I never see—or think about—that cute waitress with the sad eyes ever again. “Fucking hell,” I whisper as the machine reads the last line of

Many years later, when I began training as a plastic surgeon, I understood something that I had not that day in the kitchen arguing for Thalia to leave Tinos for the boarding school. I learned that the world didn't see inside of you, that it didn't care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that. My patients knew this. They saw that much of what they were, would be, or could be hinged on the symmetry of their bone structure, the space between their eyes, their chin length, the tip projection of their nose, whether they had an ideal nasofrontal angle or not.

Sea buckthorn oil works miracles reducing fine lines and wrinkles around the eyes and some even say it has reduced the appearance of dark circles under the eyes.

Lily shuddered. The thick arms surrounding her pulled her tighter. She couldn’t make sense of where she was or what was happening. But then she lifted her eyes. Connell’s face was only inches away. His eyes were closed. Weariness creased his forehead. And his breath rose and fell with the steady rhythm of exhausted slumber. He’d come after her. For the first time in her life, someone had cared enough to rescue her. A surge of gratefulness rose up swiftly and brought an ache to her throat. She had the urge to lift her fingers to his cheek and brush the tips along the day-old scruff that had grown over his normally clean-shaven skin. At the crackling of the fire behind her, she became aware of the heat against her back and the fact that she was warm—something she’d thought would never happen again. From what she could tell, she was lying on the floor, bundled under several blankets with Connell, and wrapped in his arms. Her gaze dropped again to the view directly before her eyes, and her mind registered what it hadn’t before: Connell was not fully clad. He’d stripped off his shirt and trousers and wore only a wool union suit. Her body sparked with the acute reality that she was partially unclothed too, that Connell had taken off her dress and left her in only her camisole and drawers. She knew why. Her coat and dress had been damp from the snow. And of course, being the considerate man he was, he’d shed it to save her. And he’d discarded his garments to give her his body heat, to warm her frozen body back to life. But she sucked in a hiss anyway, knowing she was in a completely improper, indecent situation, and that she should move away from him as fast as she could. She was plenty warm now, and there was no reason to continue to lie next to him. She began to wiggle away, but then stopped. He was likely exhausted. If she moved, she would wake him. For an agonizing moment, she held herself rigid, the uncertainty and embarrassment of the situation paralyzing her.

I guess there’s nothing else to say.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, crooking a finger. “Come here.” Her throat went dry, and her heart gave a thud. On instinct, she shook her head. His expression turned ruthlessly intent. “Maddie, I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours for almost twenty-four hours straight. You don’t think I’m going to let you go without touching you, do you?” Had it only been one day? How was that even possible? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d run out on her wedding. “Um . . .” She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Yes?” A long pause filled with sexual awareness so thick it practically coated the air. How did he do it, flip the mood? Only moments ago, she’d felt bereft, but with one wicked glance she’d forgotten everything dogging her. “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, and it was so filled with cunning that the fine hairs on her neck rose in anticipation. “Tell me you won’t regret it and we can end things right here with a friendly pat on the back.” “I-I d-don’t know what you mean,” she lied, loving and hating the direction the conversation had taken. “Do I need to spell it out?” “No?” The word was a question instead of the statement she’d intended. “You want to take care of yourself, right?” She nodded, sensing a trap but unable to stop playing into his hands. He leaned close, placing his elbow on the console, taking up every spare inch of breathing room. “You’re ready to ditch the good Catholic girl and start doing what you want?” The strange mixture of lust and irritation he evoked pulled in her stomach. “Well, when you put it that way.” The curve of his lips held a distinct sexual tilt. “If you get out of this car untouched, tell me you won’t lie in bed late at night and regret it. Tell me you won’t wonder and wish you’d done things differently.” Her pulse hammered and her throat dried up, leaving her unable to breathe, let alone speak. He stroked a path over the line of her jaw, and Maddie forced her eyes to stay open instead of fluttering closed from sheer desire. Why did it feel like an eternity since he’d touched her? Even more troubling, why did his hands feel so right? The slightly rough pads of his fingers trailed down the curve of her neck, leaving an explosion of tingles coursing through her. “And remember, Princess,” he said, in a deep rumble of a voice that vibrated through her as though he were her own personal tuning fork. “Lying is a sin.” She gasped, sucking in the last available bit of air left in the car. “That’s a low blow.” He gave a seductive laugh, filled with heat and promise and the kind of raw passion she’d always dreamed about. “I’m not above playing dirty.” A sly smirk as he rubbed a lazy circle over skin she hadn’t known was sensitive. “In fact, I think you prefer it that way.” “I do not!” Her heart beating far too fast, she clutched at the credit card hard enough to snap it in two. “Liar.” He slipped under the collar of her T-shirt to wrap a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. “I’m waiting.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning. How did one man feel so good? Hot and sinful. Irresistible. She whispered, “For what?” “My answer,” he said, inching closer. Their mouths mere inches away. She swallowed hard. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, and for once in her life, she decided to speak it instead of stuffing it back down. “I’d regret it.” “Exactly,” he said, the word a soft breath against her skin. The pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sliding over the dampness until it felt swollen. Needy. “I can’t live with myself unless I’ve tasted this mouth.” This

Along with John and Judi, we took a big risk and started filming on the movie before we had a contract signed with MGM. There didn’t seem to be any choice. I imagined all the insurance underwriters across the world reacting to the phrase “live crocodiles.” Those two words would be enough to blow them right out of their cubicles. So we began shooting with our zoo crocodiles, but without signatures on the dotted line for the movie. A particular scene in the script--and a good example of an insurance man’s nightmare--had a crocodile trying to lunge into a boat. Only Steve’s expertise could make this happen, since the action called for Steve and me to be in the boat at the time. If the lunging crocodile happened to hook his head over the edge of the boat, he would tip us both into the water. That would be a one-way trip. “How are you going to work it?” I asked Steve. “Get the crocs accustomed to the dinghy first,” he said. “Then I’ll see if I can get them interacting with me while I’m in the boat.” First he tried Agro, one of our biggest male crocs. Agro was too wary of the boat. He’s a smart crocodile. I think he remembered back when he was captured. He didn’t want any of it. We decided to try with our friend Charlie. Charlie had been very close to ending up at a farm, his skin turned into boots, bags, and belts. He definitely had attitude. He spent a lot of his time trying to kill everything within range. Steve felt good about the possibility of Charlie having a go. Because he was filming a movie and not shooting a documentary, John had a more complex setup than usual, utilizing three thirty-five-millimeter cameras. Each one would film in staggered succession, so that the film magazine changes would never happen all at once. There would never be a time when film was not rolling. We couldn’t very well ask a crocodile to wait while a fresh mag was loaded into a camera. “You need to be careful to stay out of Charlie’s line of sight,” Steve said to me. “I want Charlie focusing only on me. If he changes focus and starts attacking you, it’s going to be too difficult for me to control the situation.” Right. Steve got no argument from me. Getting anywhere near those bone-crushing jaws was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t keen on being down on the water with a huge saltwater crocodile trying to get me. I would have to totally rely on Steve to keep me safe.

He kept digging, kept scratching — every finger, both hands, until he could feel the wood scraping on raw flesh. His wrists throbbed, the plastic cutting into them. He called out as one of his nails peeled back off the bed, screaming with a voice barely his own. But he couldn’t give up. And after who knows how long, he could get his fingers around the tip. Now he needed to get it out. He didn’t really wear man-jewellery, but he had a ring he wore around his index finger. A ring she’d given him — stolen for him. For them. Grace. He had to get back to her. Tell her he was okay. He got the flat side against the point and pushed, wedging himself under it.  Whether it took an hour or five, he didn’t know. He could feel blood in his palms as the steel stabbed at his skin with every slip.  But slowly he made progress, a millimetre at a time, forcing it upwards. And then it landed softly in the dirt next to the box. He managed to fold himself up under the new hole and shove his heel against it.  With what little strength he had left he pushed upwards, feeling the wood bow in the absence of the nail. He kicked at it, then kicked at it again. And again. And again. Until the pain in his foot was unbearable. And then he kept kicking, not feeling it moving, but knowing that staying inside meant death. People didn’t get nailed into boxes if they were going to survive.  The fuzz of whatever was in his system was still lingering. He didn’t seem to be able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time — but Grace was always there. Thin, brown hair, pretty in all the right ways. She was all he had now. He had to get back to her. The lid came loose, nails creaking in the wood, and in a blur he was out. Sweat-soaked, filthy, crying, he flopped out and into the dirt.  The room smelled like a swimming pool and polythene sheets hung from the ceiling. He didn’t wait to see what else there was. At the far side of the room, he could make out a door, outlined in the dim red glow of a tiny bulb above the frame. Next to it there was a crowbar, rusted and rough, silhouetted in the half-light. He limped over, his legs numb from the box and the drugs, and pulled it open, grabbing the bar. The light blinked off, the little plastic control unit next to it clicking, but he didn’t care. He had to get out.  The stairs beyond creaked under his weight as he dragged himself up on bloody fingers, the crowbar clanging against the mouldy stonework walls.

Amarose Boosting Cream The key's to research the various filters which may get on the market also to find out what they will do to your Skin Care Tips, and about what sort of purification they employ, what they eliminate. That way you will be able to make an informed choice by what quite shower filter is best for you.

Lord Ashton, we should stop now.” Her words were the barest whisper, for she no longer trusted herself. She was entranced by his handsome face and the way he was watching her now. If she lifted her mouth even the slightest fraction, she would be kissing him again. He drew his hand over the line of her jaw and tipped her chin up. “Here, in this place, you will call me Iain. And I intend to call you Rose.” She was trembling in his arms, feeling so lost. When he slid his hands into her hair, holding her imprisoned, she tried to look away. “What are you afraid of, a chara? I would never hurt you.” No, she knew that. But when she was in Lord Ashton’s arms, she felt more alive, in a way she’d never before experienced. In hardly more than a fortnight, he’d taken apart her illusions, making her question the feelings she’d held for the viscount. “Nothing,” she lied. The truth was, the earl had made her doubt Lord Burkham’s intentions, making her wonder if he’d ever cared for her at all. She had told herself that the six letters were a sign of interest and caring. But now, she wasn’t so certain. “Don’t be looking at me like that, Lady Rose,” he warned. His eyes had grown hooded, and he moved his hands around her in a true embrace. The warmth of his arms enfolded her, making her feel safe. “Like what?” Her breathing had shifted and was unsteady, her skin sensitive beneath the fabric of her gown. Though she was trying to behave as if nothing were wrong, her good sense was disappearing before her eyes. She was standing in a beautiful garden, locked away from the world in the arms of a handsome Irishman. If she had never met Thomas, undoubtedly this man would have caused her heart to flutter. Or pound against her chest, as it was currently doing. “Take a step back, Lady Rose,” he warned. “Or I’ll not be responsible for the consequences.” Rose lifted her eyes to his and there was no denying the desire in them. He was giving her the opportunity to raise boundaries between them, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She was lost in his gaze, feeling her own forbidden answer. In this place, there was no one to see. No one to tell her how wrong it was. And when he leaned down to kiss her, she didn’t pull away. His mouth assaulted hers with tenderness, flooding her with sensation. Her bare feet rested upon the grass while she clung to him for balance. His breath held the hint of tea, and the kiss became an awakening. It drew out the wilder side of herself, making her yearn for more. Beneath

Ye know,” he said, his eyes hot with challenge, “I never did get me kiss.” She swallowed the sudden dry spot in her throat. “Given that you didn’t end up in battle, I guess you didn’t need the kiss after all.” “A matter of opinion, Lady Nerissa.” “A matter of fact, Captain O’ Devir.” “A matter that needs rectification.” “A matter best settled away from curious eyes,” she said as he reached out and gently tipped her chin up, grazing the soft skin there with his rough and callused thumb. She shuddered despite the warmth of the day and took a deep and steadying breath, hating her body for the way it so wantonly responded to this man who was wrong for in every single way she could possibly think of. His head was lowering to hers, his powerful shoulders blotting out the mast and the great sails behind them. She tried, feebly, one last time to head off what she knew was coming. “Careful, Captain. You wouldn’t want your men to see you kissing Midshipman Cranton, would you?” “I’m past carin’ what anyone thinks,” he said and reaching out, took her into his arms.

Ally tells me that you’ve been good friends.” I say with a forced smile. It’s a statement more than a question. I want him to know that I trust what she tells me but that I am questioning his intentions. He clears his throat before speaking.   “Yeah. She’s great. We’ve, uh, been friends for about a year.” He smiles uncomfortably at Ally after he answers.   “She hasn’t told me how you met though, Joshua. Care to share?” Ally reaches for my thigh, pinching the skin lightly but it just makes me smile as I keep my eyes on the boy.   “It’s just Josh.” He swallows. “We met at a Halloween party last year, she helped me clean up after I tipped a table over with a bunch of pumpkin desserts all over it... that’s why she calls me ‘Pumpkin’.” They both laugh at that. I clench my teeth at their adorable inside joke but keep the smile on my face.   “And why do you call her ‘Sweetheart’?” They laugh again. I hate him. “Well, obviously because she’s a sweetheart.” He says it like I’m stupid for questioning that, like I don’t know exactly how sweet she is. Fucker.   “Do you want to fuck my girl, Joshua?” I ask bluntly. Done playing games.   “Alexander!” Ally gasps. I can see Molly and Zeke staring open mouthed in my peripheral but I keep my eyes on Joshua as he gaps at me like a fish…

Heterosexual These are people who are physically, emotionally, and romantically attracted to members of the opposite sex. This means that girls like boys and boys who like girls. Sometimes, people who fit into this category are known as being ‘straight.’ Homosexual Being homosexual means you’re physically, emotionally, and romantically attracted to people who are the same sex as you. This means boys who like boys and girls who like girls. Sometimes, people who fit into this category are known as being ‘gay.’ Bisexual Being bisexual means you are attracted to both the same sex as you and people who are the opposite sex as you. This refers to boys who are attracted to both boys and girls and girls who are attracted to both girls and boys. Asexual Being asexual means you’re not attracted to anyone, nor very interested in sex at all. Of course, being asexual means you still want to have emotional relationships with other people, but you may not want the physical act of sexual intercourse.

She bit back a protest as he took her hand in his. She gawked as one long-fingered hand grasped hers and stared, unblinking, at the black pen that appeared from nowhere and began moving against her skin, the tip as cold and sharp as those eyes. [...] His face remained emotionless as he made small, careful lines with the pen. The steady impression of the ballpoint tickled, creating knots in her stomach.

See, the main problem—the thing that really and truly holds him back, and always will—is that the thought of settling down, the thought of commitment, makes Barty want to scream at the top of his lungs and take off running. Anything past friendship and fucking, and Barty hits a brick wall. No, actually, it makes him turn and go in the opposite direction. It's just not for him. He doesn't want to do it; he doesn't want to find one person who calms him, who makes him feel safe, who can ease the brimming fire under his skin when he still wants to blaze on. He's not ready for it yet, and maybe it's not love, but it's something like it; maybe it's not love, but it could be; and that's enough for him to refuse it. Barty wants to live. He wants to make mistakes, and be reckless, and experience everything and everyone he can. He wants to care and not care in equal measure without any of the guilt. He wants to carry wild stories in the tips of his fingers and create memories that will light him up even when the world feels so dull. He wants to shag who he wants to shag, anyone he likes, and he wants to continue on to the next when the mood strikes. He wants to be young; he wants to slow down and feel every moment, not rushing, because he can't even conceptualize what he's meant to be rushing towards.

three or more Oily Skin Care Ideas For oily skin varieties, the process to keep typically the skin from looking junk and too shiny is fairly a daunting task. When your sebaceous glands are very active, you will find that you have extra oil all over your current face. You face even more problems like acne, whiteheads, and clogged pores. It is also frustrating when you are applying makeup foundation as it just produces even a lot more oil making your encounter look too greasy. With regard to this reason, oily skin types want to have got a perfect solution where they can control the particular oil production in their own skin. Here are three or more effective oily skin care tips. 1. Cleanse your skin twice or thrice a day. Perhaps the most tried and tested techniques to control the essential oil production within your face is usually to keep it clear at all times. In addition to that is by washing it twice or 3 times a day. This way, an individual will be able to be able to remove each of the dirt plus oil build-up all through the day. Use foaming cleansers that are manufactured for oily skin. two. Make sure to clean your skin once or perhaps twice a week. A single important skin care idea you shouldn’t skip is to be sure you scrub your current face once or two times per week. Excess oil manufacturing in the skin results in typically the formation of dead epidermis cells and once this takes place; your pores could possibly get blocked resulting in acne. That is why, make sure you slough off all those dead skin cells from your face. 3. Apply a rigorous face mask weekly. Face masks are quite effective when this comes to controlling the oil production in your current skin. It’s the most effective methods to manage your oily skin. Do this at least once a week and a person will see a big difference in no time. Your current pores could possibly get smaller in addition to your face won’t end up being that greasy.

Introduction When it comes to skincare, one of the most important factors we often overlook is maintaining the hydration of our skin. Dry and dehydrated skin can lead to a multitude of issues, including itching, flaking, and premature aging. That's where Tatily London Bodywash comes in. Powered by Botnica and enriched with glycerine and blueberry extract, this bodywash offers a luxurious and nourishing experience that leaves your skin feeling soft, smooth, and deeply hydrated. In this article, we will explore the science behind glycerine, the key ingredient in Tatily London Bodywash, and dive into the numerous benefits of incorporating this bodywash into your daily skincare routine. So, let's delve into the world of skincare and discover how Tatily London Bodywash can transform your skin. The Science Behind Glycerine Glycerine, also known as glycerol, is a natural compound that is derived from plant or animal fats. It is a colorless and odorless liquid that has been used extensively in the skincare industry for its moisturizing properties. Glycerine acts as a humectant, drawing moisture from the air into the skin and forming a protective barrier that helps to seal in hydration. One of the unique properties of glycerine is its ability to attract and retain water molecules. This means that when glycerine is applied to the skin, it helps to replenish and maintain the skin's moisture levels, leading to a plump and hydrated complexion. Additionally, glycerine has emollient effects, which help to soften and smooth the skin's texture Benefits of Tatily London Body-wash Tatily London Body-wash takes the power of glycerine to the next level with the added benefits of blueberry extract. This combination creates a body-wash that not only hydrates the skin but also provides it with essential nutrients and antioxidants to promote overall skin health. Here are some of the key benefits of using Tatily London Body-wash: 1. Deep Hydration: The glycerine in Tatily London Body-wash deeply moisturises the skin, leaving it feeling hydrated and supple. Say goodbye to dry and itchy skin! 2. Nourishing Blueberry Extract: Blueberries are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals that help to protect the skin against environmental damage and promote a youthful complexion. 3. Gentle and Safe: Tatily London Body-wash is free of parabens and silicons, making it suitable for all skin types, including sensitive skin. It is dermatologically tested to ensure safety and efficacy. 4. Luxurious Fragrance: The delightful scent of blueberries and mint adds a touch of luxury to your shower routine, transforming it into a spa-like experience. 5. Smooth and Soft Skin: With regular use, Tatily London Body-wash helps to improve the texture of your skin, leaving it smooth, soft, and radiant. How to Incorporate Tatily London Bodywash into Your Skincare Routine To unlock the full benefits of Tatily London Body-wash, here are some tips on how to best incorporate it into your skincare routine: - Wet Your Skin: Start by wetting your skin thoroughly in the shower. - Dispense Bodywash: Squeeze Blueberry & Mint Bodywash onto your palm or a loofah. - Apply and Lather: Gently massage the body wash onto your damp skin using circular motions. - Focus on Areas: Pay special attention to areas that tend to accumulate more oil, dirt, or impurities. - Rinse Thoroughly: Once you’ve worked up a rich lather and cleansed your skin, thoroughly rinse off the body wash using warm water. - Pat Dry: After rinsing, gently pat your skin dry with a clean, soft towel. - Frequency: You can use the Multani Mitti Bodywash daily or as needed, depending on your skin’s requirements. For best results, use Tatily London Body-wash daily as part of your skincare routine. You'll notice a visible difference in the texture and hydration of your skin

Weaning Your Baby Off Breast Milk The paediatrician in Sector 62 Mohali recommends the following tips for weaning your baby off breast milk: Recognize the Signs Your baby starts giving signs showing that they are ready for weaning. The signs include: Sitting with support. Holding their head in an upright position. Expressing interest in what you are eating. Losing their active tongue-thrust reflex. Acting cranky during feeding sessions. Apart from your child showing signs, you can also be the one to stop breastfeeding. You can check with your best paediatrician in Mohali to see if you are ready to start weaning. Set a Schedule Once you prepare yourself to start weaning, give yourself at least a month to move through the process. Giving some time to yourself and the baby gives you time for obstacles. If, however, your child is going through teething, you can wait for some time before weaning. Start Slowly Easing into weaning gives you and your baby some time to adjust to the change. You may start it slowly by dropping one breastfeeding session per week. Once you notice that both you and your baby are comfortable with the change, you can start dropping more sessions until your baby is having solids. Provide Physical Comfort Breastfed babies are used to skin contact with their mothers. Hence, when you are into weaning, you must give them the physical connection in other ways. For instance, you can cuddle them while singing a song reading a book or give them a massage. Let Your Baby Decide Some babies wean on their own when they are given the control. If you are comfortable with your child taking the lead, rely on one rule “Don’t offer, don’t refuse”. You nurse them when they show interest and do not initiate it when they don’t want it. Resistance is Normal If you are the one to start weaning, it will be normal for your babies to resist weaning. Once they become normal with it, they will start showing interest in solid foods and drinking liquids from a bottle. Take Care of Yourself Your baby is not only the one who will be adjusting to weaning. As a mother, you must also deal with a whole range of emotions. Some mothers may even feel rejected when their baby does not show interest in feeding. You may also feel nostalgia about your baby getting older. Accustom yourself to the routine and know that this is necessary. At Motherhood Hospitals, we have a team of experienced super specialists backed by the latest in infrastructure and facilities. We have the best Paediatricians in Mohali that consists of a team of paediatric specialists that cater to all the needs of children, across age groups, and provide the best care for your child’s development.

NOTE: The character of Aoleon is deaf. This conversation takes place in the book via sign language... “Feeling a certain kind of way Aoleon?” She snapped-to and quickly became defensive. “What in the name of the Goddess are you on about?” Shades of anger and annoyance. The old Aoleon coming out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t poke at you like that. It’s okay you know. There’s nothing wrong about the way you feel.” As if suddenly caught up in a lie, Aoleon cleared her throat and ran her fingers absentmindedly over her ear and started to fidget with one of the brass accents in her snowy hair. A very common nervous reaction. “No…I mean…well I was…uh...” “Aoleon, I know about you and Arjana.” he admitted outrightly as he pointed at the drawing. She coughed, stuttered, smiled, but could bring herself to fully say nothing. Words escaped her as she looked about the room for answers. “My sight is Dįvįnë, lest we forget. I knew you were growing close.” “Yes. Well…she’s…something else.” “Indeed?” he responded. Images flashed briefly in Aoleon’s head of her father’s old friend. Verging on her fiftieth decade of life. She was a fierce woman by all accounts. One who’d just as soon cut you with words as she would a blade. Yet, she was darling and caring towards those she held close to her. Lovely to a fault; in a wild sort of way. Dark skin, the colour of walnut stained wood. Thick, kinky hair fashioned into black locs that faded into reddish-brown tips that were dyed with Assamian henna; the sides of her head shaved bare in an undercut fashion. Tattoos and gauged ears. Very comfortable with her sexuality. Dwalli by blood, but a native of the Link by birth although she wasn’t a Magi. Magick was her mother’s gift. “I heard her say something very much the same about you once Aoleon.” “Really?” Aoleon perked up right away. “Did she?” “Yes. After she first met you in fact. Nearly exactly.” Aoleon’s smile widened and she beamed happiness. She sat up assertively and gave a curt nod. “Well, of course she did.” “She’s held such a torch for you for so long that I was starting to wonder if anything would actually come of it.” “Yeah. Both you and Prince Asshole.” Aoleon exclaimed with a certainty that was absolute as she once again tightened up with defensiveness. Samahdemn walked his statement back. “Peace daughter. I didn't know your brother had been giving you a row about her. Then again, he is your brother. So anything is possible.” Aoleon sighed and nodded. “Not so much problems as he’s been giving me the silent treatment over it. Na’Kwanza. It’s always Na’ Kwanza.” Samahdemn nodded knowingly and waived a dismissive hand. “He’s just jealous. He always has been.” “So I’ve noticed.” “Why would you hide it? Why not tell me?” “I don’t know.” she said; shrugging her shoulders. “I didn’t know how you’d take it I suppose.” “Seriously? You were afraid of rejection? From me? Love, have I ever held your individuality against you? Have I ever not supported you or your siblings?” She shook her head; a bit embarrassed that she hadn't trusted him. "No, I suppose not." -Reflections on the Dįvonësë War: The Dįvįnë Will Bear Witness to Fate

This is where you break free,' he said softly. 'I don't want to,' she said, but the words came out wrong, breathless. And despite all the cold and the damp, she could feel herself go hot from her cheeks all the way down to the bare skin beneath Archer's hands. 'I mean, I just need to catch my breath.' He mad a scolding sound with his tongue. 'You don't get to catch your breath. If you stop fighting, you lose.' He moved one icy hand to her throat and she felt the sharp tip of a knife against her neck. Evangeline went very still, or she tried to. It was surprisingly hard not to move with a blade to her throat and a hand intimately wrapped around her stomach. 'Are you insane?' 'Undoubtedly.' He slowly moved the dagger, drawing a careful line over her pulse. He didn't pierce her skin, but the effect was still dizzying. 'Never imagine you're safe,' he scolded. His knife traced a line from the hollow of her throat to the centre of her chest all the way down to the laces of her vest.

I was barely ever bad-tempered with Marcel, and my tone made him press his lips together to keep from smiling. When I parked in front of Mr. Anderson’s house, he stretched over to take my face in his hands. He handled me very thoroughly, touching just the tips of his fingers softly against my temples, my cheekbones, my jawline. Like I was exceptionally breakable. Which was specifically the case-compared with him, at most limited. ‘You should be in a good mood, today of all days,’ he muttered. His unseasoned breath crossed my face. ‘Moreover, if I don't want to be in a good mood?’ I asked, my breathing irregular. His golden eyes smoldered. ‘Too bad.’ My head was already spinning by the time he leaned closer and pressed his icy lips against mine. As he intended, no doubt, I forgot all about my worries and concentrated on remembering how to inhale and exhale. His mouth lingered on mine, cold and smooth and gentle until I wrapped my arms around his neck and threw myself into the kiss with a little too much enthusiasm. I could feel his lips curve upward as he let go of my face and reached back to unlock my grip on him. Marcel had drawn many careful lines for our physical relationship, with the intent being to keep me alive. Though I respected the need for maintaining a safe distance between my skin and his razor-sharp, venom-coated teeth, I tended to forget about trivial things like that when he was kissing me. ‘Be good, please,’ he breathed against my cheek. He pressed his lips gently to mine one more time and then pulled away, folding my arms across my stomach. My pulse was thudding in my ears. I put one hand over my heart. It drummed hyperactivity under my palm. ‘Do you think I'll ever get better at this?’ I wondered, mostly to myself. ‘That my heart might someday stop trying to jump out of my chest whenever you touch me?’ ‘I hope not,’ he said, a bit smug. I rolled my eyes. ‘Let's go watch the Capulets and Montagues hack each other up, all right?’ ‘Your wish, my command.’ Marcel sprawled on the couch while I started the movie, fast-forwarding through the opening credits.

She came to him toward morning. She entered very carefully, moving silently, floating through the chamber like a phantom; the only sound was that of her mantle brushing her naked skin. Yet this faint sound was enough to wake the witcher—or maybe it only tore him from the half-slumber in which he rocked monotonously, as though traveling through fathomless depths, suspended between the seabed and its calm surface amid gently undulating strands of seaweed. He did not move, did not stir. The girl flitted closer, threw off her mantle and slowly, hesitantly, rested her knee on the edge of the large bed. He observed her through lowered lashes, still not betraying his wakefulness. The girl carefully climbed onto the bedclothes, and onto him, wrapping her thighs around him. Leaning forward on straining arms, she brushed his face with hair which smelled of chamomile. Determined, and as if impatient, she leaned over and touched his eyelids, cheeks, lips with the tips of her breasts. He smiled, very slowly, delicately, grasping her by the shoulders, and she straightened, escaping his fingers. She was radiant, luminous in the misty brilliance of dawn. He moved, but with pressure from both hands, she forbade him to change position and, with a light but decisive movement of her hips, demanded a response. He responded. She no longer backed away from his hands; she threw her head back, shook her hair. Her skin was cool and surprisingly smooth. Her eyes, glimpsed when her face came close to his, were huge and dark as the eyes of a water nymph. Rocked, he sank into a sea of chamomile as it grew agitated and seethed.

Any memories of other women were banished permanently from his mind... there was only Evie, her red hair streaming and curling over his stomach and thighs, her playful fingers and frolicsome mouth causing him an agony of pleasure like nothing he had ever felt before. When he could no longer hold back his groans, she climbed over him carefully, straddling him, crawling up his body slowly like a sun-warmed lioness. He had one glimpse of her flushed face before she sought his mouth with teasing, sucking kisses. The rosy tips of her breasts dragged through the hair on his chest... she rubbed herself against him, purring with satisfaction at the hard warmth of the male body beneath her. His breath snagged in his throat as he felt her hand slip between their hips. He was so aroused that she had to gently pull his sex away from his stomach before she could fit it between her thighs. The crisp red curls of her mound tickled his exquisitely sensitive skin as she guided him between the hot folds of her body. "No," Sebastian managed, recalling the bet. "Not now. Evie, no---" "Oh, stop protesting. I didn't make nearly this much of a fuss after our wedding, and I was a virgin." "But I don't want---oh God. Holy Mother of God---" She had pushed the head of his sex into her entrance, the sweet flesh so snug and soft that it took his breath away. Evie writhed a little, her hand still grasping the length of his organ as she tried to guide him deeper. Seeing the difficulty she was having in accommodating him caused him to swell even harder, his entire body flushed with prickling excitement. And then came the slow, miraculous slide, hardness within softness. Sebastian's head fell back to the pillow, his eyes drowsy with intense desire as he stared up into her face. Evie made a little satisfied hum in her throat, her eyes tightly closed as she concentrated on taking him deeper. She moved carefully, too inexperienced to find or sustain a rhythm. Sebastian had always been relatively quiet in his passion, but as her lush body lifted and settled, deepening his penetration, and his cock was gripped and stroked by her wet depths, he heard himself muttering endearments, pleas, sex words, love words. Somehow he coaxed her to lean farther over him, resting more of her body against his, adjusting the angle between them. Evie resisted briefly, fearing she would hurt him, but he took her head in his hands. "Yes," he whispered shakily. "Do it this way. Sweetheart. Move on me... yes..." As Evie felt the difference in their position, the increased friction against the tingling peak of her sex, her eyes widened. "Oh," she breathed, and then inhaled sharply. "Oh, that's so---" She broke off as he set a rhythm, nudging deeper, filling her with steady strokes. The entire world dwindled to the place where he invaded her, their most sensitive flesh joined. Evie's long auburn lashes lowered to her cheeks, concealing her unfocused gaze. Sebastian watched a pink flush creep over her face. He was suspended in wonder, suffused with vehement tenderness as he used his body to pleasure hers. "Kiss me," he said in a guttural whisper, and guided her swollen lips to his, slowly ravishing her mouth with his tongue. She sobbed and shuddered with release, her hips bearing greedily against his as she took his full length. The rim of her sex clamped tightly around him, and Sebastian gave himself up to the squeezing, enticing, pulsing flesh, letting her pull the ecstasy from him in great voluptuous surges. As she relaxed over him, trying to catch her breath, he drew his hands over her damp back, his fingertips gently inquiring as they traveled to the plump curve of her bottom. To his delight, she squirmed and tightened around him in helpless response. If he had his usual strength... oh, the things he would have done to her...

Collagen can be a fibrous material that forms a lattice of power within our Skin Care Tips. Elastin is really a soft protein, responsible for the flexible softness of skin. Together in correct sums, they're why is --young skin small.

Many years later, when I began training as a plastic surgeon, I understood something that I had not that day in the kitchen arguing for Thalia to leave Tinos for the boarding school. I learned that the world didn’t see the inside of you, that it didn’t care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that. My patients knew this. They saw that much of what they were, would be, or could be hinged on the symmetry of their bone structure, the space between their eyes, their chin length, the tip projection of their nose, whether they had an ideal nasofrontal angle or not. Beauty is an enormous, unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly. And so I chose my specialty to even out the odds for people like Thalia, to rectify, with each slice of my scalpel, an arbitrary injustice, to make a small stand against a world order I found disgraceful, one in which a dog bite could rob a little girl of her future, make her an outcast, an object of scorn.

out and started again? Well, she hated cold tea, so she tipped it onto the grass, holding her breath. No complaint, so she began again. ‘Milk?’ Hannah studied him from under her hair. ‘Yes, please, just a small amount. Lapsang is a very delicate tea and too much milk kills the flavour.’ ‘I’ll need lots of milk then.’ Balancing the cup, saucer and spoon carefully, she offered it. ‘Thank you, Miss Hollis.’ ‘Hannah.’ She poured her own tea, wondering if it would taste like the ashtray it smelled like. With cup only in hand, she leaned against the back of the wooden chair then threw a leg over the side arm. ‘So, Miss Hollis, what brings you to Cornwall?’ ‘Call me Hannah. Miss Hollis makes me sound like some old school marm.’ ‘Is that a problem? Most old school marms, as you call them, of my acquaintance are delightful people.’ ‘Sure, but boring I bet.’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘Right. Not to you, maybe.’ Hannah braved a sip and winced. ‘Back to the question: what has brought you to Cornwall?’ ‘Bloody bad luck,’ she said, frowning at her tea. ‘No need to swear,’ he said. ‘I didn’t swear.’ ‘You did,’ he said. ‘What? Are you talking about bloody?’ she asked. ‘Yes. It is a curse.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, maybe in the dark ages it was, but it isn’t now.’ She began to wonder if she’d walked through a time machine when she’d come through the gate earlier. It was a nice one, though. The orchard was beautifully laid out and the table and chairs were a lovely weathered blue. ‘Who advised you of this?’ he asked. Hannah sat up and put her empty cup on the table, not quite sure when she had drunk it. ‘Look, it’s a word that’s used every day.’ ‘Yes, but does that change its meaning?’ he asked. ‘No, but no one takes it like that any more.’ ‘Who is no one?’ he asked. ‘I mean no one who hasn’t lived in the dark ages.’ She looked at his wrinkled skin and tried to guess his age. ‘You mean anyone over the age of, say, sixty?’ he suggested. ‘Yeah, sort of.’ ‘Well, as I fit that category, could you refrain from using it?’ ‘Yeah, I guess. If it bothers you that much.’ ‘Thank you. Would you be kind enough to pour more tea?’ Old Tom leaned back into his chair. The sun wasn’t coming through the east window when Maddie opened her eyes for the second time that day; instead, she found Mark standing at the end of the bed with a tray. She blinked. When she last peered at the bedside clock, it had been eight a.m. and she’d thought that if she slept for another hour, she would begin to feel human. What a wasted day. What had Hannah been up to? Had she come into the room and seen her like this? Well, it was a lesson in what not to do in life. The end of last night, no, this morning, was more than fuzzy; in fact, she didn’t remember coming up to her room. The last clear memory was saying goodbye to Tamsin and Anthony. She and Mark had gone back into the kitchen and had another glass of wine or two. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘It’s not that late?’ ‘Almost time for a drink.’ He smiled. She winced. ‘Oh, don’t.’ ‘Would a bit of tea and toast help?’ ‘It might.’ Maddie eased herself onto her elbows and then slipped back down again. She was only wearing knickers. Mark’s eyes widened. ‘Could you hand me that shirt on the end of the bed?’ she asked. ‘Certainly.’ She wrestled with it under the duvet. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t find your pyjamas last night.’ ‘What?’ Maddie

Darren just kissed me. As many times as I’ve imagined him kissing me, the shock of it as a reality sends a quake through my entire body. “I don’t believe it.” I straighten and stare at his chin, his cheeks, his sharp jawline. He almost gets knocked over by a wave that slams in the chest. “What?” “You shaved! How did I not see that earlier?” “Finally she notices!” He laughs. “I went through great pains to smooth out this face for you. Even cut myself.” He juts out his chin and points to a spot so small I can hardly see it. “Aww, poor baby,” I tease and give it a swift peck, still in shock that I’m suddenly allowed to get this close to him. To touch him with my lips. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He smirks, resting his hands on my waist. “Hoped.” My cheeks ache from smiling, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but Darren and him kissing me again. I trace the smooth skin around his mouth. “You better be careful,” he says, kissing the tip of my finger with each word. “I’ve been known to bite.

You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He smirks, resting his hands on my waist. “Hoped.” My cheeks ache from smiling, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but Darren and him kissing me again. I trace the smooth skin around his mouth. “You better be careful,” he says, kissing the tip of my finger with each word. “I’ve been known to bite.

You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He smirks, resting his hands on my waist. “Hoped.” My cheeks ache from smiling, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but Darren and him kissing me again. I trace the smooth skin around his mouth. “You better be careful,” he says, kissing the tip of my finger with each word. “I’ve been known to bite.” We laugh and he tightens his hold at my waist and pulls me against him, pressing our lips together. I rake my fingers through his hair and grab a fistful, tugging him closer and deepening the kiss. Electricity courses through me from my chest to hips and back again. His warm, wet hands explore my bare back, setting every inch of my skin on fire. His shoulder muscles tense and release in synchronization with his hands all over me. He takes my face in his palms and slows the kiss down, our breathing still heavy. I’ve never been so dizzy in my whole life. My head, my body, are part of the sea, ebbing and flowing with the tides. I get it now. This is what kissing is really supposed to be. Any others before were merely run-throughs with understudies. Darren is a leading man. Our foreheads rest together and the pads of his fingers slowly trail up and down my arms. “What do we do now?” he asks. I inhale deeply, trying to clear my mind, to be struck with a brilliant solution. “I have no idea.” He plays with the wet ends of my hair. “I think we just made saying good-bye the next time exponentially more difficult.” “Infinitely more difficult.” But I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

We have time?” he said. She didn’t say anything, just unbuckled his pants, flipped him half erect out of his shorts. Traced a fang on his tenderest skin, put the tip of it in the hole. “Ah,” he said. “Careful.” She smiled around him, then sucked him.

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Broccoli branches, mashed potatoes, spools of gravy, sliced pillowy white bread. It slides on to Sirine's plate, glossy with butter. The meat loaf is oniony and dense under its charred crust, dressed in sweet puddles of ketchup. On the counter there's a food-stained copy of The Joy of Cooking and a red-plaid Betty Crocker cookbook, both from the library. She's impressed. No one ever wants to cook for her; the rare home-dinners at friends' houses are served with anxiety and apologies. But Han just seems excited- his skin slightly damp and pink from the kitchen heat- and intrigued by the new kind of cooking, a shift of ingredients like a move from native tongue into a foreign language: butter instead of olive oil; potatoes instead of rice; beef instead of lamb. He seats her on a pillow on the blue cloth and then sets the dishes before her on the cloth. He sits across from her, one knee skimming hers. They touch and she makes herself lean forward to reach the bowl of potatoes. Their knees graze again. Han tastes each dish while looking at Sirine, so the meal seems like a question. She nods and praises him lavishly. "Mm, the rich texture of this meat loaf- the egg and breadcrumbs- and these bits of onion are so good, and there's a little chili powder and dry mustard, isn't there? It's lovely. And there's something in the sauce... something..." "You mean ketchup?" Han asks. "Oh yes, I suppose that's it." She smiles. "That's remarkable." Sirine smiles vaguely, tips her head, not sure of what he means. "What?" "The way you taste things...." He gestures over the food, picks up a bite of meat loaf in his fingers as if it were an olive. "You know what everything here is- I mean exactly." "Oh no." She laughs. "It's so basic, anyone can do that. It's like you just taste the starting places- where it all came from. Unless of course it's ketchup." He gazes at her, then carefully takes her hand and kisses her fingers. "Then I think you must be of this place." Sirine laughs again, disconcerted by his intensity. "Well, I don't know about that, but I think food should taste like where it came from. I mean good food especially. You can sort of trace it back. You know, so the best butter tastes a little like pastures and flowers, that sort of stuff. Things show their origins

When I returned from the triclinium, where the guests were finishing their honey cakes and drinking from jeweled goblets of pear juice, a woman entered the kitchen from a side door. Out of all the surprises I'd had that day, she was the most surprising of all. The vision of her dark eyes, waves of auburn curls, and the sylphlike curve of her hips would haunt me in the days to come. "I came for Apicata's meal," she said. Her voice floated across the room, undulations of sound washing over my skin. This was the woman Aelia had said would come for the tray. Passia. The name glittered in my mind as I made the connection. "Is that it?" She pointed, one long finger tipped with carefully curved, pink-pale nails. I had been standing like a statue, stunned by my close proximity to what I thought might be the physical manifestation of Venus herself. "That's the plate, yes, over there. There." Suddenly I wished she would leave. If not, all would be lost. I wouldn't be able to complete the cena, wouldn't be able to direct the servers, and would end up under the lash as the result of my gloomy failure to live up to Apicius's expectations. Inside my head, I said a prayer to Venus that Passia would go, but in the same breath, I begged the goddess that Passia would remember me, as I knew I would remember every sumptuous detail about the moments she stood before me.

Cass didn’t know what she and Falco were looking for, but whatever it was, they weren’t going to find it rowing around wealthy neighborhoods in the dark. “This is pointless,” she said. “The man with the falcon mask could live in any of these palazzos, or none at all. Besides, we don’t even know if he has anything to do with this mess.” Falco shook his dark hair back from his face. “I was worried this would be a dead end, but I…” He trailed off. “You what?” Cass asked. Falco rubbed at the scar under his eye. “I wanted to see you,” he said. “I wanted to spend time with you.” Cass looked away from him. Again, she felt like someone was stabbing her between her ribs. “Maybe that’s pointless too,” she said. Their boat floated past a gondola. Two forms were visible in the moonlight. A man and woman lay intertwined on the base of the boat. Bare skin, gentle rocking. Falco followed her eyes. “You know that I care about you, Cass.” “But it doesn’t mean anything.” Cass tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Because it can’t lead to anything more.” Falco set aside the oars and turned her face toward his. “You’re wrong. It means everything. You mean everything.” He held her chin between his thumbs and forefingers. “Why do my feelings have to lead anywhere at all? Why can’t we just be here, now, in this moment?” His touch made shivers dance up and down her back. Maybe Falco was right. Why did she care so much about the future? Maybe she should just be thankful that they could be together here, right now. “Why can’t you just be who you are?” Falco asked, his lips moving toward hers. Because I don’t know who that is anymore. “You’re changing me,” she whispered. “I see everything differently now.” Cass didn’t fight it when Falco leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t resist as he tipped her gently backward and laid her down on the wooden bottom of the batèla. Just be who you are. Easy to say, but so difficult to do. Falco unfolded a blanket over her. “So you don’t get cold,” he said. “What’s going to keep you warm?” Cass asked softly, reaching up to tousle his hair. Falco laughed. “Trust me, I’m plenty warm.” “Prove it,” Cass said, pulling him down to her level.

There seemed no way to accurately describe Kathleen. He could say that her hair was red and that her eyes were golden-brown and tip-tilted like a cat's. He could describe her fair skin and the rosy undertone that rose to the surface like a winter sunrise. The way she moved, her supple athletic grace constrained by laces and stays and layers. But none of that explained the fascination she held for him... the sense that somehow she had the power to unlock some altogether new feeling inside him, if only she cared to try.

Many years later, when I began training as a plastic surgeon, I understood something that I had not that day in the kitchen arguing for Thalia to leave Tinos for the boarding school. I learned that the world didn’t see the inside of you, that it didn’t care a whit about the hopes and dreams, and sorrows, that lay masked by skin and bone. It was as simple, as absurd, and as cruel as that. My patients knew this. They saw that much of what they were, would be, or could be hinged on the symmetry of their bone structure, the space between their eyes, their chin length, the tip projection of their nose, whether they had an ideal nasofrontal angle or not. Beauty is an enormous, unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly.

I need you to do as I ask you,” he said in desperation, fighting the beast lifting its head hungrily. Her laughter was soft, enticing, the sound dancing over his skin. “No, you don’t. Too many people think your word is law. You need someone to defy you a little bit. I know you won’t hurt me, Mikhail. I can feel your fear of yourself. You think there’s something in you I can’t love, some kind of monster you’re afraid for me to see. I know you better than you know yourself.” “You are so reckless, Raven, so heedless of danger.” He gripped the back of a chair so hard the wood threatened to disintegrate into dust. As it was, it would hold the imprint of his fingers for all time. “Danger, Mikhail?” She tipped her head to one side, her hair falling in a slide over one shoulder. Her hands went to the top button of her blouse. “I would never be in danger from you, even if you were furious with me. The only danger right now is to my clothes.” She took a step back, laughing again, letting the sound warm him, ignite the fuse deep inside him. Heat coiled, spread; need slammed into him, hard and urgent. Hunger tore at him, a blind red haze. “You, little one, are playing with fire, and I am totally out of control.” He made one last attempt to save her. Why couldn’t she see how selfish he really was? How he had taken over her life and would never release her? He was the monster she couldn’t see. Perhaps with the rest of the world cold logic and justice ruled him, but not with her. With Raven he was taken over by emotions with which he was so unfamiliar that he could not control them. He did things he felt were unconscionable. He let her see the violence in his mind, tearing her clothes, taking her body without thought or control. She answered him in her mind, warmth, love, her body eager for his, receptive, accepting of his violent side. She had total trust and faith in his feelings for her, in his commitment to her. He swore softly, ripping the clothes from his fettered body, leaping upon her like an attacking jungle cat. “Mikhail, I love this dress,” she whispered against his throat, laughter still spilling into his mind. Laughter. Joy. No fear. “Get out of the damned thing,” he said hoarsely, not realizing he was confirming her belief in him. She took her time, teasing him by fumbling at buttons, making him find the hook in her skirt. “You do not know what you are doing,” he objected raggedly, but his hands were gentle on her body, carefully stripping away her clothes until she was all bare satin skin and long silky hair.

Tell me what I’ve done, Mikhail.” His eyes were fathomless, watchful. “You have given your life into my care. Rest assured, little one, you are safe in my hands.” She touched the tip of her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. Her heart pounded in alarm at the enormity of her decision. She had the taste of him in her mouth, the smell of him on her body, his seed trickling along her leg, and they were still locked together, her body clenching sensuously, hotly, around his. “What do I taste like?” His voice was low, compelling. It whispered against her skin like the brush of fingers. The brush of fantasy. She closed her eyes tightly, like a child wanting to shut him out. “Mikhail.” Her body rippled, tightened at the sound of his voice, at the erotic question he whispered. He eased out of her, but retained his hold so he could cradle her close as he slid back into the foaming pool. “Tell me, Raven.” He kissed her throat, tiny little kisses, each as potent as wine. Her arm wound around his neck, her fingers finding his thick mane of hair. “You taste like the forest, wild and untamed and so erotic you make me crazy.” The admission broke from her, the confession of a grave sin. The bubbles fizzed and burst against their sensitized skin, foamed on their most intimate parts. Mikhail leaned back, taking their weight, securing her on his lap. Her rounded bottom brushed against him, sent sweet fire streaking through their blood. “You taste like sweet, hot spice, addictive and so sensual.” His teeth grazed the nape of her neck, and sent a shiver of excitement down her spine.

There goes your pretty face,” hisses Peter. “Oh, wait. You don’t have one.” I recover my balance and walk toward Al. He nods at me. I try to smile encouragingly, but I can’t manage it. I stand in front of the board, and my head doesn’t even reach the center of the target, but it doesn’t matter. I look at Four’s knives: one in his right hand, two in his left hand. My throat is dry. I try to swallow, and then look at Four. He is never sloppy. He won’t hit me. I’ll be fine. I tip my chin up. I will not flinch. If I flinch, I prove to Eric that this is not as easy as I said it was; I prove that I’m a coward. “If you flinch,” Four says, slowly, carefully, “Al takes your place. Understand?” I nod. Four’s eyes are still on mine when he lifts his hand, pulls his elbow back, and throws the knife. It is just a flash in the air, and then I hear a thud. The knife is buried in the board, half a foot away from my cheek. I close my eyes. Thank God. “You about done, Stiff?” asks Four. I remember Al’s wide eyes and his quiet sobs at night and shake my head. “No.” “Eyes open, then.” He taps the spot between his eyebrows. I stare at him, pressing my hands to my sides so no one can see them shake. He passes a knife from his left hand to his right hand, and I see nothing but his eyes as the second knife hits the target above my head. This one is closer than the last one—I feel it hovering over my skull. “Come on, Stiff,” he says. “Let someone else stand there and take it.” Why is he trying to goad me into giving up? Does he want me to fail? “Shut up, Four!” I hold my breath as he turns the last knife in his hand. I see a glint in his eyes as he pulls his arm back and lets the knife fly. It comes straight at me, spinning, blade over handle. My body goes rigid. This time, when it hits the board, my ear stings, and blood tickles my skin. I touch my ear. He nicked it. And judging by the look he gives me, he did it on purpose. “I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is,” says Eric, his voice smooth, “but I think that’s enough for today.” He squeezes my shoulder. His fingers feel dry and cold, and the look he gives me claims me, like he’s taking ownership of what I did. I don’t return Eric’s smile. What I did had nothing to do with him. “I should keep my eye on you,” he adds.

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Spend an afternoon with me," he urged. "Tomorrow." "No, Mr. Rutledge. I'm-" "Harry." "Harry, I can't-" "An hour?" he whispered. He bent to her again and she turned her face away in confusion. He sought her neck instead, his lips brushing the vulnerable flesh with half-open kisses. No one had ever done such a thing, even Michael. Who would have thought it would feel so delicious? Dazed, Poppy let her head fall back, her body accepting the steady support of his arms. He searched her throat with devastating care, touching his tongue to her pulse. His hand cradled her nape, the pad of his thumb tracing the satiny edge of her hairline. As her balance faltered, she reached around his neck. He was so gentle, teasing color to the surface of her skin, chasing little shivers with his mouth. Blindly she followed, wanting the taste of him. As she angled her head toward his, her lips grazed the close-shaven surface of his jaw. His breath caught. "You should never cry over a man," he said against her cheek. His voice was soft, dark, like smoked honey. "No one is worth your tears." Before she could answer, he caught her mouth in a full, open kiss. Poppy went weak, melting against him as he kissed her slowly. The tip of his tongue entered, playing gently, and the feel of it was so strange and intimate and tantalizing that a wild tremor ran through her. His mouth lifted at once. "I'm sorry. Did I frighten you?" Poppy couldn't seem to think of an answer. It wasn't that he had frightened her, more that he had given her a glimpse of a vast erotic territory she had never encountered before. Even in her inexperience, she comprehended that this man had the power to turn her inside out with pleasure. And that was not something she had ever considered or bargained for.

Nothing existed outside of this bed. There was only the sensuous friction of tangled limbs and gently wandering hands. She whimpered as he cupped her bottom and brought her against the hard ridge of his aroused flesh. He guided her hips in a slow rhythm, rubbing her sensuously against him until she began to moan with each stroke. The soft place he teased began to swell and twitch with sensation, and she flushed with shame. She shouldn’t feel this way, she shouldn’t want…what she wanted. No matter how close she pressed to him, she needed more. She could almost have attacked him, the desire was so acute. As she squirmed against him, Devon flinched and gasped, and she realized she had inadvertently pressed against his ribs. “Oh…I’m sorry…” Kathleen began to roll away from him, panting. “No harm done.” He kept her in place. “Don’t go.” He was breathing hard--it must have been hurting him--but he didn’t seem to care. “We have to stop,” she protested. “It’s wrong, and it’s dangerous for you--and I feel--” She paused. No word in her vocabulary could account for the seething desperation that filled her, the agonizing tension coiling inside. Devon nudged her intimately, the subtle movement drawing a deep shiver from her. “Don’t,” she moaned. “I feel hot and ill, and I can’t think. I can’t even breathe.” She couldn’t fathom why Devon was amused, but as he brushed his lips against her cheek, she felt the shape of his smile. “Let me help you, love.” “You can’t,” she said in a muffled voice. “I can. Trust me.” He pressed her onto her back, his parted lips dragging over her throat and chest. She didn’t realize that he’d been working at the fastenings of her clothes until he spread her gown open. She started as cool air wafted over her bare skin. “Devon--” “Hush.” The word blew against the tip of her breast. She moaned as his mouth covered her, drawing in the tender flesh with a firm, warm tug. It seemed that his notion of how to help was to heap even more torment on her.