Super Hot Quotes

It was like the Justice League of Super Heroes but instead it was the Justice League of Hot Guys.

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs―the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limbs, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate―the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

His voice was low, and I think he would've been hot if he weren't radiating that air of "I Am Super Evil--No, Really--And Not In The Sexy Way.

I never believed in Santa Claus. None of us kids did. Mom and Dad refused to let us. They couldn't afford expensive presents and they didn't want us to think we weren't as good as other kids who, on Christmas morning, found all sorts of fancy toys under the tree that were supposedly left by Santa Claus. Dad had lost his job at the gypsum, and when Christmas came that year, we had no money at all. On Christmas Eve, Dad took each one of us kids out into the desert night one by one. "Pick out your favorite star", Dad said. "I like that one!" I said. Dad grinned, "that's Venus", he said. He explained to me that planets glowed because reflected light was constant and stars twinkled because their light pulsed. "I like it anyway" I said. "What the hell," Dad said. "It's Christmas. You can have a planet if you want." And he gave me Venus. Venus didn't have any moons or satellites or even a magnetic field, but it did have an atmosphere sort of similar to Earth's, except it was super hot-about 500 degrees or more. "So," Dad said, "when the sun starts to burn out and Earth turns cold, everyone might want to move to Venus to get warm. And they'll have to get permission from your descendants first. We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa myth and got nothing for Christmas but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. "Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten," Dad said, "you'll still have your stars.

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond! I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial! I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers. I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail. But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!

The corners of Bree’s mouth were tilted up into a huge grin. It was her I’ve just seen a super duper hot guy grin. Hot?” Raine asked, already knowing the answer. Bree nodded. “Hell to the yeah!” Like, Alex Pettyfer hot?” Dude, he puts Alex Pettyfer to shame!

What do we have here? Is my super-hot assassin boyfriend freaked out by clowns?

You also would love to hang out with Logan. And don’t even try to deny, you think Logan is super-hot. I know you. You like him, and he likes you. He was insanely worried about you last night. He’s either head over heels for you or he’s your guardian angel. He was insanely worried about you last night. If I didn’t know you had just met, I would swear he was in love with you.” Meredith said in an excited tone.

Just Leo’s luck. A super-hot immortal girl was waiting for him on Ogygia, but he couldn’t figure out how to wire a stupid chunk of rock into the three-thousand-year-old navigation device. Some problems even duct tape couldn’t solve.

So Nash and I went out and there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?   No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.   Now why is that?

Welcome to My Super Secret Life, where people try to kill us on a regular basis, and we thwart bad-guy schemes for breakfast. We’re almost like a reality show, only without the alcohol and hot tubs.

As soon as the door closed, Levi popped his eyes again. Bluely. "That's your twin sister?" "Identical," Reagan said, like she had a mouth full of hair. Cath nodded and sat down at her desk. "Wow." Levi scooted down the bed so he was sitting across from her. "I'm not sure what you're getting at," Cath said, "but I think it's offensive." "How can the fact that your identical twin sister is super hot be offensive to you?" "Because," Cath said, still too encouraged by Wren and, weirdly, by Abel, and maybe even by Nick to let this get to her right now. "It makes me feel like the Ugly One." "You're not the ugly one." Levi grinned. "You're just the Clark Kent." Cath started checking her e-mail. "Hey, Cath," Levi said, kicking her chair. She could hear the teasing in his voice. "Will you warn me when you take off your glasses?

i'm going for, like, depressed lesbian poet who met a hot yoga instructor at a speakeasy who got her super into meditation and pottery, and now she's starting a new life as a high-powered businesswoman selling her own line of hand-thrown fruit bowls

Oh, so there were angels and demons, but no vampires? No mysterious, super-hot bloodsuckers who would love you forever? Now that was totally unfair.

Not that she wasn't hot - she was super, mega, hot - but not.. approachable. Like, not even the Rock would dare to whistle at her, if you know what I mean.

Just because Hottie McHot Ass walks in with his super metro hot best friend, and all those like muscles and shit, doesn’t mean you get to turn into a pile of goo. We hate them.

Dear Judy Blume, why didn’t you write a book about how to survive talking to your centuries-old, super-duper experienced, smoking-hot soul mate about sex for the first time ever? That book would have been extremely helpful in preparing me for this incredibly awkward situation.

Another world, another day, another dawn. The early morning;s thinnest sliver of light appeared silently. Several billion trillion tons of super hot exploding hydrogen nuclei rose slowly above the horizon and managed to look small, cold, and slightly damp. There is a moment in ever dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.

Reading for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn't asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infititely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people. Take romans for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses. These clean, well-satisfied, perm-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he's a cool guy (or gal) who's invested in the woman's love life. Or, he's a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants. My boss cares about two things: Am I on time ? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift? And the mend in the romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes. I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I'd be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

You’re like Super Mario!” “You really know how to make a girl feel special.” “You’re like Super Mario, but a hot girl.” He blushed a little when he realized the compliment had slipped out.

So this is the girl all the fuss is over,” he said, studying me. His voice was low, and I think he would’ve been hot if he weren’t radiating this air of “I Am Super Evil-No, Really-And Not In The Sexy Way.

...there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?  No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.

Did you talk to him about it?" "Oh, sure. Nothing happened, yadda yadda. The usual. But my maydar went off like crazy." "Maydar?" "As in, he may be thinking about super hot sex with her. Like radar, only not as sure.

I've never been this naked with a girl before. I'm not self-conscious or anything, but its different. Not weird. I'm definitely all right with Hayles seeing this much of me. "Wowza." Okay, now I'm a little embarrassed. "Is that a good thing?" She puts her hands on my chest and her face goes from pink to red. (...) "Seriously? Brody, this is totally another reason why you're just super fabulous." Huh? "You don't even know how freaking hot you are. That's uber sexy." Her eyes go to my bare torso. "Count with me." One finger strokes part of my stomach. "One..." She moves an inch or two over. "Two..." She slides down. "Three..." Back over. "Four..." Down. "Five..." Over. "Six." She flicks her gaze back up to me. "That's what people call a six-pack." I roll my eyes, but she keeps moving her fingers up to my chest. I want to stop her, but I don't at the same time. It feels too good. "And these..." She flattens her hands on me, and I tug her closer. "Are called pecs. Its like you stepped out of a fantasy.

You’re like Super Mario!”“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”“You’re like Super Mario, but a hot girl.” He blushed, realizing the compliment had slipped out.

Gawd, this guy was hawt. Super hawt. He was giving off heat. Josh was getting hard just looking at him. He looked like that actor. In that show. The one where he was that guy. The hot guy.

Your rack looks fabulous in this dress. You should wear this one. He’ll lose his shit when he sees you in it.” “You always know the right things to say,” I joked. “I know. I’m like a super-hot version of Yoda.

Who is your famous crush? If a super-hot Hollywood actor who also happened to be a great person wanted to take you home—and the lights stayed on during the deed—what would you do? I mean, not in theory. Honestly, what would you do?” Claire looked at me for a long moment then asked, “Would I get a heads up a few months ahead of time? So I could eat low carb and start working out?” “No.” “Then, honestly, I’d run the other way.

Frank grabbed a tourist brochure stuck under the napkin dispenser. He began to read it. Piper patted Leo’s arm, like she couldn’t believe he was really here. Nico stood at the edge of the group, eyeing the passing pedestrians as if they might be enemies. Coach Hedge munched on the salt and pepper shakers. Despite the happy reunion, everybody seemed more subdued than usual—like they were picking up on Leo’s mood. Jason had never really considered how important Leo’s sense of humor was to the group. Even when things were super serious, they could always depend on Leo to lighten things up. Now, it felt like the whole team had dropped anchor. “So then Jason harnessed the venti,” Hazel finished. “And here we are.” Leo whistled. “Hot-air horses? Dang, Jason. So basically, you held a bunch of gas together all the way to Malta, and then you let it loose.” Jason frowned. “You know, it doesn’t sound so heroic when you put it that way.” “Yeah, well. I’m an expert on hot air. I’m still wondering, why Malta? I just kind of ended up here on the raft, but was that a random thing, or—” “Maybe because of this.” Frank tapped his brochure. “Says here Malta was where Calypso lived.” A pint of blood drained from Leo’s face. “W-what now?” Frank shrugged. “According to this, her original home was an island called Gozo just north of here. Calypso’s a Greek myth thingie, right?” “Ah, a Greek myth thingie!” Coach Hedge rubbed his hands together. “Maybe we get to fight her! Do we get to fight her? ’Cause I’m ready.” “No,” Leo murmured. “No, we don’t have to fight her, Coach.” Piper frowned. “Leo, what’s wrong? You look—” “Nothing’s wrong!” Leo shot to his feet. “Hey, we should get going. We’ve got work to do!” “But…where did you go?” Hazel asked. “Where did you get those clothes? How—” “Jeez, ladies!” Leo said. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need two extra moms!” Piper smiled uncertainly. “Okay, but—” “Ships to fix!” Leo said. “Festus to check! Earth goddesses to punch in the face! What are we waiting for? Leo’s back!” He spread his arms and grinned. He was making a brave attempt, but Jason could see the sadness lingering in his eyes. Something had happened to him…something to do with Calypso.

He didn't just want pretty or hot. He wanted beautiful.

I am super hot.

I take super hot showers because I like to practice burning in hell. -Kitt to Ridley Kitt

It is a real art to combine different types of pleasure and create a super pleasure, like reading a nice book inside a hot bathtub in an open air while the sun is setting!

They were all women’s magazines, but they weren’t like the magazines my mother and sister read. The articles in my mother’s and sister’s magazines were always about sex and personal gratification. They had titles like “Eat Your Way to Multiple Orgasms,” “Office Sex—How to Get It,” “Tahiti: The Hot New Place for Sex,” and “Those Shrinking Rain Forests—Are They Any Good for Sex?” The British magazines addressed more modest aspirations. They had titles like “Knit Your Own Twin Set,” “Money-Saving Button Offer,” “Make This Super Knitted Soap-Saver,” and “Summer’s Here—It’s Time for Mayonnaise!

Those outfits are super hot, by the way,” I say with a contented sigh. “They’re not outfits,” Liam says. “They’re work attire,” Mikey adds. “Whatever. They’re hot.” “Yeah, we kind of figured that, Red. You’re a fucking deviant.

That’s what you asked him?” “Yeah, why?” Gina scrunched her face with confusion. “I thought you were going to say something juicy.” “Like what?” “I don’t know, like if he would be your sex slave or something like that.” “Kelly! Why would I ask him that?” “He’s a hot guy, you’re a hot girl. We’re in a super romantic castle on the coast.” Kelly waved her hand around the room for emphasis. “Why the hell not generate some heat in between these cold stone walls?

Say that you want me." His tongue was as hot as his fire. "Holy Odin and all the little cherubs, I thought that was pretty clear. I do want you, very much." "Tell me you accept what I am." "A dragon, you mean?" I wiggled my hips against him, dragging my nails gently up his sides and back. "Yes, I totally accept that you're really a dragon in a super-hot man package.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One said, “Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours is the right to begin.” The other added, “He is young and strong. There are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood. I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.

I would have liked the movie immeasurably better if, instead of being about a beautiful, smart virgin who acquired an unearned reputation and then cleared her name and bagged the super-nice boyfriend, it was a movie about a girl who actually had extremely hot sex with her queer best friend and then fcked a bunch nerds for Home Depot gift cards and was still presented as a sympathetic protagonist.

Admit it. If we were characters in a (super hot) romance novel, you’d be the vulnerable babe in need of a protector, and I’d be the hardcore alpha villain everyone secretly yearns to tame. Spoiler alert: I’m willing to let you give the taming thing your best shot. Because I’m a giver.

i’m going for, like, depressed lesbian poet who met a hot yoga instructor at a speakeasy who got her super into meditation and pottery, and now she’s starting a new life as a high-powered businesswoman selling her own line of hand-thrown fruit bowls … HRH Prince Dickhead Bitch, you took me there.

Spooning and sideways positions can get hot and dirty but they also can be about building connection and closeness. If you want to get super intimate and close, sideways sex can get deep quick when you’re skin-to-skin against your lover and moving in rhythm together. Your bodies feel snug and more conjoined than ever.

You're right. We do need to talk. In Private." Hudson's jaw ticked. It was hot, like a super-spicy dried meat stick from the 7-Eleven.

Guys that hot were used to getting any girl they wanted and, to me, relationships didn't have room for super-sized egos.

Flames sprang to life in his eyes, and he was closer than ever… and was it getting super hot in here? “Can you not be both a person and a possession?” I shook my head. “No, I can’t.” He reached for me, hauling me up and out of the chair—ah, that was more like it—standing as he did, so I was trapped in his embrace. “Then why do I want to possess the person you are so badly, little wolf?

New Rule: Americans must realize what makes NFL football so great: socialism. That's right, the NFL takes money from the rich teams and gives it to the poorer one...just like President Obama wants to do with his secret army of ACORN volunteers. Green Bay, Wisconsin, has a population of one hundred thousand. Yet this sleepy little town on the banks of the Fuck-if-I-know River has just as much of a chance of making it to the Super Bowl as the New York Jets--who next year need to just shut the hell up and play. Now, me personally, I haven't watched a Super Bowl since 2004, when Janet Jackson's nipple popped out during halftime. and that split-second glimpse of an unrestrained black titty burned by eyes and offended me as a Christian. But I get it--who doesn't love the spectacle of juiced-up millionaires giving one another brain damage on a giant flatscreen TV with a picture so real it feels like Ben Roethlisberger is in your living room, grabbing your sister? It's no surprise that some one hundred million Americans will watch the Super Bowl--that's forty million more than go to church on Christmas--suck on that, Jesus! It's also eighty-five million more than watched the last game of the World Series, and in that is an economic lesson for America. Because football is built on an economic model of fairness and opportunity, and baseball is built on a model where the rich almost always win and the poor usually have no chance. The World Series is like The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. You have to be a rich bitch just to play. The Super Bowl is like Tila Tequila. Anyone can get in. Or to put it another way, football is more like the Democratic philosophy. Democrats don't want to eliminate capitalism or competition, but they'd like it if some kids didn't have to go to a crummy school in a rotten neighborhood while others get to go to a great school and their dad gets them into Harvard. Because when that happens, "achieving the American dream" is easy for some and just a fantasy for others. That's why the NFL literally shares the wealth--TV is their biggest source of revenue, and they put all of it in a big commie pot and split it thirty-two ways. Because they don't want anyone to fall too far behind. That's why the team that wins the Super Bowl picks last in the next draft. Or what the Republicans would call "punishing success." Baseball, on the other hand, is exactly like the Republicans, and I don't just mean it's incredibly boring. I mean their economic theory is every man for himself. The small-market Pittsburgh Steelers go to the Super Bowl more than anybody--but the Pittsburgh Pirates? Levi Johnston has sperm that will not grow and live long enough to see the Pirates in a World Series. Their payroll is $40 million; the Yankees' is $206 million. The Pirates have about as much chance as getting in the playoffs as a poor black teenager from Newark has of becoming the CEO of Halliburton. So you kind of have to laugh--the same angry white males who hate Obama because he's "redistributing wealth" just love football, a sport that succeeds economically because it does just that. To them, the NFL is as American as hot dogs, Chevrolet, apple pie, and a second, giant helping of apple pie.

And I was at that party in Venice,” Juliette continued. “When the mansion collapsed.” “I was there too!” said Lily. “Raphael was super sad to be at a party; it was hilarious. I made out with so many people, it was a personal record. I think one of them was a hot blonde! Was it you?” Juliette blinked. “Er, no. I don’t really . . . make out with girls.” Lily shrugged. “Sorry you’re wasting your life.

Trying to figure out where you fit while you’re living in a vanilla world is brutal. You basically never see yourself reflected back at you anywhere but porn. So your whole identity is super sexualized from the start. Which is so fucking weird, especially when you’re a kid. If you ever see any kind of Dom type on tv, ten times out of ten, people aren’t just making fun of them, they’re actually saying this person is a sadist and also a psychopath or a predator or a murderer, and they’re huge and scary and dressed in leather and latex and carrying whips. All that’s even available is warped caricatures of what vanilla people think kink is. It’s gross, and it makes it so hard to actually find your identity and not be ashamed when it’s just all bad rep written for shock value by people who have no idea what they’re talking about.

Why did you break in Mrs. Casnoff’s desk for?” Information on Archer. After he left. “Ah. You’re welcome, by the way?” For what? She jiggled the nail harder. “For putting him in his place the other night. Working with The Eye,” she scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant plan.” He’s just trying to think of something,” I said automatically. I wasn’t sure why I was defending him when I’d basically said that idea was the stupidest thing ever to have stupided, but I didn’t like the scorn in her voice. Well, my voice, her words. Elodie paused in trying to open the desk drawer and shoved my hair back with both hands. “What’s it going to take for you to realize that Archer Cross is bad news? He’s an Eye. He’s a liar and a jerk, and he’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. And you’re betrothed to Cal. Boys who can heal all wounds and are super hot, to boot? Don’t exactly come around every day.” I don’t think about Cal like that. Pressing the point of the nail back into the lock, Elodie snorted. “Um, hi, I’ve been in your head. You totally think about him like that.” Look,, this isn’t a slumber party, I snapped. Can you please get back to work? “Fine,” she muttered. “Don’t listen to me. But I’m telling you, Cal is the way to go. Heck, if I had a body, I wouldn’t mind-“ I’m going to need you to stop right there. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wasn’t going to stop right there, but before she could say anything else, the lock on the drawer gave way.

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs—the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate—the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them

You’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to have a fling with an old boyfriend and not feel like it’s some big life decision or an unhealthy coping mechanism. Be smart about it, but don’t deny yourself some simple life pleasures. Taking your photos. Hanging out with your awesome, amazing, super-wise friends. And hot cop penis.” A real laugh burst out of Liv this time, and she quickly pressed her hand over her mouth to staunch it. “He’s FBI, for the record.” “Federal cop penis,” Kincaid corrected. “That’s top shelf. It has authority across state lines.

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs—the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate—the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

He chuckles. “So you’re saying you were influenced by teenage vampires and kids on adventures without their parents?” he asks with a shrug. “That’s pretty much what I’ve been influenced by as well.” “Yeah, but come on, this one has Kiefer Sutherland in it when he was super hot,” I tell him. “Before he started looking like his dad.” “Kiefer Sutherland has a dad?” Cal asks me and I groan, because I know where this is going from the impish tone in his voice. “He must be even older than you.” I notice his smirk and I nudge him playfully. “Asshole,” I hiss. “Put the damn DVD into the machine and let’s watch it, then you can decide who was the hotter vampire: Kiefer Sutherland or Robert Pattinson. “Don’t forget David Boreanaz,” he reminds me. “He was a hot vampire too.

There, done! A Petite Loco Moco Bowl! *Loco Moco is traditional Hawaiian fare of hamburger and fried egg over rice.* "Wow, that looks super yummy!" "Huh. Loco Moco at a buffet? How interesting! Ooh, hot! The egg has been coddled to the perfect tenderness... ... and it melds beautifully with the powerful taste of the hamburger made from ground rib roast! Add to that the mild, fluffy rice to tie it all together and it fills the mouth with deliciousness... It's a dish that brings out the strength in you with every bite! Not only that, typical Loco Moco is covered with beef gravy... ... but you've used a vinaigrette instead! The tangy lightness of the white-wine vinegar in the vinaigrette wonderfully accentuates the richness of the egg yolk and the juiciness of the meat.

He studied Reyna. “How did you do that...that surge of energy?” Reyna turned her forearm. The tattoo still burned like hot wax: the symbol of Bellona, SPQR, with four lines for her years of service. “I don’t like to talk about it,” she said, “but it’s a power from my mother. I can impart strength to others.” Coach Hedge looked up from his rucksack. “Seriously? Why haven’t you hooked me up, Roman girl? I want super-muscles!

Well, remember when your husband died and you disappeared for a year and then came back, but were super depressed and you started banging an asshole who turned out to not be an asshole but just a dude who was hurt because his wife and son died? And then you two like kind of fell into a weird sexlationship where you pretended you were both someone else but then one day you were like, ‘But I want you to be you and me to be me,’ so you fell in love. And then you found out that your husband was involved in his family’s deaths, and then shit got weird and the dude left town, but for some reason thought it was okay to keep leaving you Post-It notes that just left you even more confused and hurt and totally, ‘Oh my gosh, it feels like I’m PMSing for four weeks out of every month and I can’t even eat any more ice cream because my hot tears melt it every time I cry into the Ben and Jerry’s.’ Do you remember all of that?

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

On the eve of Super Tuesday, the establishment struck. Despite having raised tens of millions of dollars, and having run campaigns that were still seen in many circles as credible, two of the leading moderate Democrats in the race, Pete Buttigieg and Minnesota senator Amy Klobuchar, abruptly canceled their candidacies and endorsed Biden. Both flew to Texas, the most hotly contested of the primary states, to appear with the former vice president. They were joined by another former candidate, Texan Beto O’Rourke, in a highly choreographed show of support. The establishment had succeeded in uniting, in support of Biden, the candidates who had been dividing up the moderate vote. Meanwhile, the liberal and progressive vote continued to be divided between Massachusetts senator Elizabeth Warren and myself. Despite poor showings in Iowa, New Hampshire, Nevada, and South Carolina, Warren chose to stay in the race. I was closer to her on the issues than any other candidate. But, at a point where her endorsement could have been significant in a number of Super Tuesday states, she chose not to give it. Even

Oh, crap. The last person she wanted to run into this morning when she had to be super-professional was Hot Pool Guy. Before she had a chance to hide behind a plant or something, his gaze connected with hers and held her hostage. He flashed a smile and headed her way. Shit. She got to her feet thinking she'd say a quick hello before telling him she was meeting someone and excuse herself. Look away from those amazing dark eyes before you get yourself in trouble. She forced her attention down. And found a logo on the breast pocket of his white polo shirt. Word. Heritage. Fund. Kill her now.

It felt good to scrub my skin, as if I was removing everything that felt dead about me. I was the "queen of skin care." Who knew that simply exfoliating my skin until raw (which I knew better than to do but now couldn't resist) would one day be what was left of my skin care regimen? My daily cleansing and moisturizing, weekly hydrating and purifying masks, along with monthly photo facials, glycolic peels, or microdermabrasion, was down to "super-scrub Saturdays." Pampering was a thing of the past. No more sunscreen applications to guard against the "UVAging" rays that were out to get me 365 days a year. No more weekly Epsom salts hot baths to detox my body, or lathering up with my favorite vanilla-scented moisturizing cream. No more applications of extra virgin olive oil to the ends of my hair to prevent splitting. I didn't even treat myself to my bedtime chamomile tea. All that had been replaced by a new nightly ritual of passing out on the bed, face down, which went against my cardinal rule of youth maintenance. Before the deep hollow pain was born inside me, I slept on my back, at the perfect thirty-degree angle to ensure proper circulation and prevention of any unnecessary creasing or wrinkling.

I’d just settled into bed when Sophie hailed me. Somehow she hurt herself bottling starlight for her Universe assignment. (Always an adventure with this girl!) SYMPTOMS/INJURIES: Major burns with blackish, purplish blisters. Looked super painful. Glad she set aside her fears and hailed me. TREATMENT: I started with my strongest burn salve mixed with painkiller and a Youth soak. But her skin still looked raw, so I ran home for something a little more extreme. (I figured Sophie wouldn’t want to know that her hands were covered in yeti pee, so I left out that detail—but I did warn her to wash her hands thoroughly.) NOTES: I also wrapped up the starlight to make sure she couldn’t hurt herself again. Weird thing was, it felt cold—not hot. And I’ve never seen light like that before—or heard of UPDATE: Sophie stopped by early (I think she didn’t want her friends to see her in the Healing Center again), and her hands looked perfect! But I still gave her one more elixir, just to be safe. ADDITIONAL NOTES: In the category of Proof That Things Keep Getting Weirder Around Here, a couple of Councillors showed up and asked me a billion questions—and made me black out the star’s name from this record. Pretty sure I know what that means.…

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

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “nymphets.” […] You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs — the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness, of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate — the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

What if—” I stopped, swallowing hard. Nope. I couldn’t even say it aloud. We’d figure something else out because we had to. Time for a subject change before I lost it. “What did your mom say?” “Mostly that she thinks my hair is getting too long and I should cut it.” “That’s not helpful.” “That’s my mom for you.” He was trying for humor but his voice caught, and I wondered if he was thinking about how if she left and he didn’t, he’d never ever see her again. “So,” I said, sitting on the floor against the wall as close to the kitchen doorway as I could get without Lend dropping like a rock, “do you want your Christmas present?” “You got me something?” He sounded surprised. “I’ve been working on it for a while.” “I, uh, didn’t find you anything yet. I was actually setting up for your party, not Christmas shopping like I said.” “Being kidnapped by the Dark Queen and then cursed gets you off the hook for a lot. Besides, my birthday party totally counted.” “This isn’t how I wanted our first Christmas to go. We were going to go all out, pick out a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, decorate it, watch cheesy holiday movies, drink hot chocolate, let my dad make his eggnog and then complain about how disgusting it was, then I was going to deck out my entire room in mistletoe . . .” “Wait, you mean you didn’t plan for us to be stuck in different rooms for the holidays?” “Well, that part’s kind of nice.” I heard his head bang against the wall where he was sitting right on the other side of it from me. “I mean, who wants to actually be able to touch their super hot girlfriend? Overrated.” “I know, right?” I tried to laugh, but it came out choked. I swallowed, forcing my one to come out light. “And I totally dig watching people sleep. It’s so sexy.

You’re really nice,” I slur. We’re waiting for the valet to bring Gavin’s truck around, and it feels like the fresh Colorado air has increased my alcohol level from drunk to trashed . . . and I still haven’t cracked open my wine.   “You’re pretty nice too.” He’s watching me closely, and I’m trying to watch him closely. His eyes are crinkled with amusement; mine are struggling to focus.   “I really wish you were an investment banker.”   Oh no. The loose lips part of the night has arrived.   “Besides my mom, you’re probably the only person in the world who does.”   “Because everyone else would miss their superstar quarterback in his super-hot pants throwing the ball every Sunday?” Sober me hates drunk me so hard right now.   “Because I’m terrible with numbers. I had three different tutors trying to get me to pass my math courses in college. And I’m not sure most of the fans focus on my pants, but I’m glad you do.” His body is shaking with laughter as he nudges me with his shoulder.

Would the pair of you like to turn your backs so you exclude us more effectively?” Jode asks. “We’re just adding to the list.” I hold up my journal. “Daryn.” Gideon shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It’s our list.” “A list?” Jode leans back, resting his head against his bag. “What’s this list about?” Rather than explain it, I just lean over and give it to him. Gideon puts his hand over his heart and winces. “I hate sharing, Martin.” I lean up, whispering in his ear. “Some things are only for you.” He gives me a long unblinking look that makes my face burn and my body feel light and hot. “This is an outrage,” Jode says dryly. “I’m in here once and Gideon is here … two, three, four times?” “Three,” I say. “The last one doesn’t really count.” “Oh, it counts,” Gideon says. “How many times am I in it?” Marcus asks. “Are you guys making this a competition?” “Of course.” “Yeah.” “Definitely. And I’m dominating.” “For real,” Marcus says. “How many times am I on there?” “Once, like me. For your winning smile.” Jode closes the notebook and tosses it to Marcus. “But don’t let it go to your head. Gideon’s arse has a spot on the list as well.” Gideon looks at me and winks. “Like I said, dominating.” “Dare, you got a pen?” Marcus asks. This catches me by surprise for a moment. “Yes.” I toss it to him, smiling. This is perfect. Whatever he adds, it’s already perfect. As Marcus writes, Jode leans back and gazes up at the trees. “You’re thinking it’ll be five for you after this. Aren’t you, Gideon?” “You know me well, Ellis.” Marcus finishes writing. He sets the pen in the fold and hands the journal to Gideon. I lean in and read. Marcus’s handwriting is elegant cursive—almost astonishingly elegant. And what he wrote is, as expected, perfection. Even better is that Gideon reads it aloud. “‘Twenty-eight. The family you make.’” He looks at Marcus. “Damn right, bro. This is the best one here.” He looks at me. “Tied with fourteen.” “Ah, yes,” Jode says. “Gideon’s Super Lips.” Marcus shakes his head at me. “Why?” “It was a mistake. I wrote it before the list went public. What’s your addition, Jode? It can be anything. Anything that has significance to you.” “Full English breakfast,” he says, without missing a beat. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, marmalade. With tea, of course. One of life’s undeniable pleasures.” My mouth instantly waters. “Well, it’s no trail mix, but all right.” I add “English Breakfast” to the list.

The front door is locked—what’s up with that?” “Logan fixed the lock,” I tell her. Her bright red, heart-shaped mouth smiles. “Good job, Kevin Costner. You should staple the key to Ellie’s forehead, though, or she’ll lose it.” She has names for the other guys too and when her favorite guard, Tommy Sullivan, walks in a few minutes later, Marlow uses his. “Hello, Delicious.” She twirls her honey-colored, bouncy hair around her finger, cocking her hip and tilting her head like a vintage pinup girl. Tommy, the fun-loving super-flirt, winks. “Hello, pretty, underage lass.” Then he nods to Logan and smiles at me. “Lo . . . Good morning, Miss Ellie.” “Hey, Tommy.” Marlow struts forward. “Three months, Tommy. Three months until I’m a legal adult—then I’m going to use you, abuse you and throw you away.” The dark-haired devil grins. “That’s my idea of a good date.” Then he gestures toward the back door. “Now, are we ready for a fun day of learning?” One of the security guys has been walking me to school ever since the public and press lost their minds over Nicholas and Olivia’s still-technically-unconfirmed relationship. They make sure no one messes with me and they drive me in the tinted, bulletproof SUV when it rains—it’s a pretty sweet deal. I grab my ten-thousand-pound messenger bag from the corner. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Elle—you should have a huge banger here tonight!” says Marlow. Tommy and Logan couldn’t have synced up better if they’d practiced: “No fucking way.” Marlow holds up her hands, palms out. “Did I say banger?” “Huge banger,” Tommy corrects. “No—no fucking way. I meant, we should have a few friends over to . . . hang out. Very few. Very mature. Like . . . almost a study group.” I toy with my necklace and say, “That actually sounds like a good idea.” Throwing a party when your parents are away is a rite-of-high-school passage. And after this summer, Liv will most likely never be away again. It’s now or never. “It’s a terrible idea.” Logan scowls. He looks kinda scary when he scowls. But still hot. Possibly, hotter. Marlow steps forward, her brass balls hanging out and proud. “You can’t stop her—that’s not your job. It’s like when the Bush twins got busted in that bar with fake IDs or Malia was snapped smoking pot at Coachella. Secret Service couldn’t stop them; they just had to make sure they didn’t get killed.” Tommy slips his hands in his pockets, laid back even when he’s being a hardass. “We could call her sister. Even from an ocean away, I’d bet she’d stop her.” “No!” I jump a little. “No, don’t bother Liv. I don’t want her worrying.” “We could board up the fucking doors and windows,” Logan suggests. ’Cause that’s not overkill or anything. I move in front of the two security guards and plead my case. “I get why you’re concerned, okay? But I have this thing—it’s like my motto. I want to suck the lemon.” Tommy’s eyes bulge. “Suck what?” I laugh, shaking my head. Boys are stupid. “You know that saying, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade’?—well, I want to suck the lemon dry.” Neither of them seems particularly impressed. “I want to live every bit of life, experience everything it has to offer, good and bad.” I lift my jeans to show my ankle—and the little lemon I’ve drawn there. “See? When I’m eighteen, I’m going to get this tattooed on for real. As a reminder to live as much and as hard and as awesome as I can—to not take anything for granted. And having my friends over tonight is part of that.” I look back and forth between them. Tommy’s weakening—I can feel it. Logan’s still a brick wall. “It’ll be small. And quiet—I swear. Totally controlled. And besides, you guys will be here with me. What could go wrong?” Everything. Everything goes fucking wrong.

What does he have planned?” “He said it was a surprise, but apparently it includes all my favorites things about the city.” “That’s cute. Maybe it’ll be the refresher you guys need. It’s hard being apart for so long, especially when there is a super-hot ex-boyfriend living next to you.” I give her a pointed look. “And speak of the devil. Look whose truck just pulled into the driveway.” Amanda puts her drink on the coffee table and crawls on top of me, her knees digging into my stomach as she tries to catch a view of Aaron. “Will you please get off me?” “I want to see what he looks like. I want to see these muscles you speak of.” Amanda reaches the window, but I yank on her body so she can’t sneak a peek. “Hey, stop that, I can’t see.” “Exactly. He’ll catch you looking, and I don’t want him thinking it’s me.” “Don’t be paranoid. He won’t think that. Now let me catch a glimpse.” Pushing down on my head, trying to climb over me, she reaches for the blinds, but I hold strong and grip her around the waist, using my legs to hold her down as well. “Stop it.” She swats at my head. “Just a little looksy.” “No, he’ll see you.” “He won’t.” “He will.” “He—” Knock, knock. We still, our heads snapping to the front door. “Is someone at the door?” Amanda whispers, one of her hands holding on to my ponytail. “That’s what a knock usually means,” I whisper back. “Is it him?” Oh hell. “I have no idea.” I hold still, trying not to move in case the person on the other side of the door can hear us. “Answer it,” Amanda scolds. “No.” “Why not?” “Because if it’s Aaron, I don’t want you anywhere near him. You’ll embarrass me, I know it.” Amanda scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She pushes off me, her hand palming my face for a brief second. “I’ll answer the door.” When she places one of her feet on the floor, I hold her in place. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not answering that door. Just be still, the person will go away.” Knock, knock. “You’re being rude,” Amanda says as she plows her elbow into my thigh, causing me to buckle over in pain. She frees herself from my grip and rushes to the door. Right before she opens it, she fluffs her hair. You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t even have to ask if it’s Aaron because that’s just my luck. Also, Amanda makes a low whistle sound when she opens the door. “Amanda?” Aaron’s voice floats into my house. “Aaron Walters, look . . . at . . . you.” I sit up just in time to see Amanda give him a very slow once-over. “You were right, Amelia, he has gotten sexier.” What? Jesus! I hop off the couch, limping ever so slightly from the dead leg Amanda gave me. “I didn’t say that.” Amanda waves her hand. “It was in the realm of that. Come in, come in. We need to catch up.” Amanda wraps her hand around Aaron’s arm and pulls him into the house. When she passes me, she winks and squeezes his arm while mouthing, “He’s huge.” I shut the door behind them and bang my head on it a few times before joining them in the living room. I knew Amanda’s visit was going to be interesting

Meditation + Mental Strength An emotion is our evolved biology predicting the future impact of a current event. In modern settings, it’s usually exaggerated or wrong. Why is meditation so powerful? Your breath is one of the few places where your autonomic nervous system meets your voluntary nervous system. It’s involuntary, but you can also control it. I think a lot of meditation practices put an emphasis on the breath because it is a gateway into your autonomic nervous system. There are many, many cases in the medical and spiritual literature of people controlling their bodies at levels that should be autonomous. Your mind is such a powerful thing. What’s so unusual about your forebrain sending signals to your hindbrain and your hindbrain routing resources to your entire body? You can do it just by breathing. Relaxed breathing tells your body you’re safe. Then, your forebrain doesn’t need as many resources as it normally does. Now, the extra energy can be sent to your hindbrain, and it can reroute those resources to the rest of your body. I’m not saying you can beat whatever illness you have just because you activated your hindbrain. But you’re devoting most of the energy normally required to care about the external environment to the immune system. I highly recommend listening to the Tim Ferriss’s podcast with Wim Hof. He is a walking miracle. Wim’s nickname is the Ice Man. He holds the world record for the longest time spent in an ice bath and swimming in freezing cold water. I was very inspired by him, not only because he’s capable of super-human physical feats, but because he does it while being incredibly kind and happy—which is not easy to accomplish. He advocates cold exposure, because he believes people are too separate from their natural environment. We’re constantly clothed, fed, and warm. Our bodies have lost touch with the cold. The cold is important because it can activate the immune system. So, he advocates taking long ice baths. Being from the Indian subcontinent, I’m strongly against the idea of ice baths. But Wim inspired me to give cold showers a try. And I did so by using the Wim Hof breathing method. It involves hyperventilating to get more oxygen into your blood, which raises your core temperature. Then, you can go into the shower. The first few cold showers were hilarious because I’d slowly ease myself in, wincing the entire way. I started about four or five months ago. Now, I turn the shower on full-blast, and then I walk right in. I don’t give myself any time to hesitate. As soon as I hear the voice in my head telling me how cold it’s going to be, I know I have to walk in. I learned a very important lesson from this: most of our suffering comes from avoidance. Most of the suffering from a cold shower is the tip-toeing your way in. Once you’re in, you’re in. It’s not suffering. It’s just cold. Your body saying it’s cold is different than your mind saying it’s cold. Acknowledge your body saying it’s cold. Look at it. Deal with it. Accept it, but don’t mentally suffer over it. Taking a cold shower for two minutes isn’t going to kill you. Having a cold shower helps you re-learn that lesson every morning. Now hot showers are just one less thing I need out of life. [2] Meditation is intermittent fasting for the mind. Too much sugar leads to a heavy body, and too many distractions lead to a heavy mind. Time spent undistracted and alone, in self-examination, journaling, meditation, resolves the unresolved and takes us from mentally fat to fit.

This rich pork flavor, which lands on the tongue with a thump... It's Chinese Dongpo Pork! He seasoned pork belly with a blend of spices and let it marinate thoroughly... ... before finely dicing it and mixing it into the fried rice!" "What? Dongpo Pork prepared this fast?! No way! He didn't have nearly enough time to simmer the pork belly!" "Heh heh. Actually, there's a little trick to that. I simmered it in sparkling water instead of tap water. The carbon dioxide that gives sparkling water its carbonation helps break down the fibers in meat. Using this, you can tenderize a piece of meat in less than half the normal time!" "That isn't the only protein in this dish. I can taste the seafood from an Acqua Pazza too!" "And these green beans... it's the Indian dish Poriyal! Diced green beans and shredded coconut fried in oil with chilies and mustard seeds... it has a wonderfully spicy kick!" "He also used the distinctly French Mirepoix to gently accentuate the sweetness of the vegetables. So many different delicious flavors... ... all clashing and sparking in my mouth! But the biggest key to this dish, and the core of its amazing deliciousness... ... is the rice!" "Hmph. Well, of course it is. The dish is fried rice. If the rice isn't the centerpiece, it isn't a..." "I see. His dish is fried rice while simultaneously being something other than fried rice. A rice lightly fried in butter before being steamed in some variety of soup stock... In other words, it's actually closer to that famous staple from Turkish cuisine- a Pilaf! In fact, it's believed the word "pilaf" actually comes from the Turkish word pilav. To think he built the foundation of his dish on pilaf of all things!" "Heh heh heh! Yep, that's right! Man, I've learned so much since I started going to Totsuki." "Mm, I see! When you finished the dish, you didn't fry it in oil! That's why it still tastes so light, despite the large volume and variety of additional ingredients. I could easily tuck away this entire plate! Still... I'm surprised at how distinct each grain of rice is. If it was in fact steamed in stock, you'd think it'd be mushier." "Ooh, you've got a discerning tongue, sir! See, when I steamed the rice... ... I did it in a Donabe ceramic pot instead of a rice cooker!" Ah! No wonder! A Donabe warms slowly, but once it's hot, it can hold high temperatures for a long time! It heats the rice evenly, holding a steady temperature throughout the steaming process to steam off all excess water. To think he'd apply a technique for sticky rice to a pilaf instead! With Turkish pilaf as his cornerstone... ... he added super-savory Dongpo pork, a Chinese dish... ... whitefish and clams from an Italian Acqua Pazza... ... spicy Indian green bean and red chili Poriyal... ... and for the French component, Mirepoix and Oeuf Mayonnaise as a topping! *Ouef is the French word for "egg."* By combining those five dishes into one, he has created an extremely unique take on fried rice! " "Hold it! Wait one dang minute! After listening to your entire spiel... ... it sounds to me like all he did was mix a bunch of dishes together and call it a day! There's no way that mishmash of a dish could meet the lofty standards of the BLUE! It can't nearly be gourmet enough!" "Oh, but it is. For one, he steamed the pilaf in the broth from the Acqua Pazza... ... creating a solid foundation that ties together the savory elements of all the disparate ingredients! The spiciness of the Poriyal could have destabilized the entire flavor structure... ... but by balancing it out with the mellow body of butter and soy sauce, he turned the Poriyal's sharp bite into a pleasing tingle!

It rained for four days and four nights, hard. Aniline wasn’t used to it. At first in the neighborhoods, ditches adjacent to the streets handled the flood. The water finished filling the ditches and hid the potholes in the roads. Rain then brimmed the streets over, making Aniline into Venice. It eventually spread out in the low spots in the driveways, invaded lawns, and crept up towards the house foundations. People wandered into the café with squelching boots and comments ranging from philosophical to querulous. Then the weather broke. They had two intensely hot days. Banks of mist rose off the saturated yards and fields. The roads drained, and a blanket of mud covered the pavements. As if all this wasn’t enough, a super-cell thunderstorm rolled towards them to give them another taste of violent Texas weather.

But it was taking forever. I was drooling hard as Cindy ate her chicken. I got impatient, so I reached into the furnace and pulled out the chicken before it was done. I didn’t bother blowing on it or anything, I was too hungry. I bit into the semi-cooked chicken meat. It was super hot, and it seared my tongue. “AHHHH!! Hssssssss!” I screamed and then hissed. I accidentally dropped my chicken on the grass. Cindy looked over to me. “What’s wrong?!” “Yikes! I burnt my tongue a bit. Now I know how Lucky felt.” “Oh, are you okay?” “I think so,” I said as I picked up my chicken. It was covered in grass and dirt. “Ew… it’s all dirty…” “Here, have some of my chicken. We can share,” Cindy suggested. I inspected my chicken further and shrugged. “It’s okay, dirt don’t hurt,” I said as I dusted off my semi-cooked chicken. “You’re still going to eat that?” Cindy asked with big o’ eyes. “Yeah, I can’t waste food.” “I guess you’re right.” I raised the chicken up to my mouth. The smell of dirt and grass filled my nostrils and I gagged a bit.

Dear Santa and his badass wife, Mrs. Claus. Please let the super hot guy from Shae’s old job sweep her off her feet and give her the dicking of a lifetime, just in time for Christmas. In Frosty’s name, amen.

Cuddle in or take away at this super-popular all-organic cafe in the heart of Bryggen's tiny alleyways. Daily soups always include a vegan, vegetarian and meat option, and sandwiches are hearty. There's homemade lemonade and strawberry frappes in summer, killer hot chocolates when it's cold and excellent coffee year-round.

Leah’s intelligence, wit, and level of coolness in a woman who looked like I used to would make her a “fun work colleague” or “a hilarious sexless friend in whom I confide about my love life.” But put those same characteristics in a super hot girl and you now have men falling all over themselves to crown her Time’s Person of the Year.

Sundays when they could come, my mother would bring a piece of cake and some cookies from the bakery. Of course, the cookies and the cake were past their prime, but that was just the way I liked them. I really don’t know how happy my parents were to see me since most of the time they were there; they would talk to my teachers in conference, and then tell me all the things I had supposedly done wrong. Sadly, I would always wind up with a lecture on how bad I had been and what was expected of me. It was something I had grown to expect, but more importantly, I was grateful for the cake and pastries. I have no idea why, but they also brought me cans of condensed milk. I can only guess that they believed that the thick syrupy milk, super saturated with sweet, sweet, sugar, would give me the energy I needed to think better. After one such visit, I made the mistake of leaving my cake unattended. It didn’t take long before it grew legs and ran off. I couldn’t believe that one of my schoolmates would steal my cake, not at a Naval Honor School! Nevertheless, not being able to determine who the villains were, I hatched a plan to catch the culprits the next time around. Some months later when my parents returned to check on my progress, my mother brought me a beautiful double-layer chocolate cake. This time I was ready, having bought all the Ex-Lax the pharmacy in Toms River had on hand. Using a hot plate, I heated the Ex-Lax until it liquefied, and then poured the sticky brown substance all over the cake in a most decorative way. With that, I placed the cake on my desk and invitingly left the door open to my dorm room. I wasn’t away long before this cake also grew legs, and, lo and behold, it also disappeared. The expected happened, and somewhat later I found the culprits in the boys’ bathroom, having a miserable time of it. Laughingly, I identified them as the culprits, but didn’t turn them in. It was enough that I caught them with their pants down!

Sensual Nuru Massage London A session with our super hot masseuses will be a different experience that will break you out of the dulling effect routine on the body and assist you to let go and breathe deep, and explore freedom of sexuality in a secure and moderate environment. We provide Sensual Nuru Massage services on short notice at your desired location.

So I march into this pizzeria, and smell hot cheese and basil and oregano and garlic and onions and maybe pepperoni in the air, and notice some youngsters and loud cowboys eating pizzas and drinking beer at wooden tables, and start studying all the scrumptious pies in the display case in front of the big oven. There's one with sausage and mushrooms and three cheeses, and one with bacon and charred peppers and black olives and shrimp, and another with tiny meatballs and broccoli and whole garlic cloves, and one called the Super Deluxe, with everything but the kitchen stove.

By late January 2014, Tesla had completed the construction of a cross-country Supercharger corridor that would allow Model S drivers to get from Los Angeles to New York without having to spend a penny on energy. The electric highway took a northern route through Colorado, Wyoming, South Dakota, Minnesota, and Illinois, before approaching New York from Delaware. The path it cut was similar to a trip taken by Musk and his brother, Kimbal, in a beat-up 1970s BMW 320i in 1994. Within days of the route’s completion, Tesla staged a cross-country rally to show that the Model S could easily handle long-distance driving, even in the dead of winter. Two hot-pepper-red Model S’s, driven by members of the Supercharging team, left Tesla’s Los Angeles–based design studio just after midnight on Thursday, January 30. Tesla planned to finish the trip at New York’s City Hall on the night of February 1, the day before Super Bowl XLVIII, which would take place at MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey, just across the state line. Along the way, the cars would drive through some of the snowiest and most frigid places in the country, in one of the coldest weeks of the year. The trip took a little longer than expected. The rally encountered a wild snowstorm in the Rocky Mountains that temporarily closed the road over Vail Pass and then provided an icy entrance to Wyoming. Somewhere in South Dakota, one of the rally’s diesel support vans broke down, forcing its occupants to catch a flight from Sioux Falls to rejoin the rest of the crew in Chicago. And in Ohio, the cars powered through torrential rains as the fatigued crew pressed on for the final stretch. It was 7:30 A.M. on Sunday, February 2, when the Teslas rolled up to New York’s City Hall on a bright, mild morning. The 3,427-mile journey had taken 76 hours and 5 minutes—just over three days. The cars had spent a total of 15 hours and 57 seconds charging along the way,

Isn't love at least as important in life as money? And aren't the objects of the romantic and sexual fantasies of the masses as dependent upon society for their desirable status as surely as the super-rich are for their material wealth? If a billionaire like Bill Gates or Oprah Winfrey has to pay lots of money in taxes so that economically disadvantaged people's needs can be met, why shouldn't 'billionaires of love' like Pamela Anderson and Brad Pitt have to provide romantic walks on the beach and hot makeout sessions so that the needs of the romantically and sexually disadvantaged can likewise be met? Who are we as a society to judge that it is more wrong to force someone to be sexually intimate than to take their resources by force? The fact is that some people feel more violated by being robbed than by being groped. If we're going to have a redistributionist system based on aggression, wouldn't it be fairer, when Tax Day comes around, to at least give each victim a choice? 'Pay up or put out!

Hunt had thought of the name while watching his children playing with one of the hot novelties of the period, the Wham-O company's high-bouncing Super Ball.

All a dude has to do to be seen as a dream guy in this modern dating hellscape is to be halfway decent. But you know what he should have to be to be seen as actual 'dream guy' material?" I nod, chuckling softly. We've had this discussion countless times when one of us has had a frustrating experience with a guy. "Kind," I say. "And smart." "And attentive." "And patient." "And funny." "And hot. Super hot. And dynamite in bed." I snort at Whitney's embellishment. "Of course. Can't forget that." "And willing to be open and honest about how much he cares about you," she says. "Willing to say 'I love you', no matter if you're blissfully happy or fighting like cats and dogs... and mean it just the same." I clear my throat, unable to hide the wistfulness in my tone. "That's a fantasy for sure.

Are you…kidnapping me?” “Damn straight I am,” I say as I stomp to the driver’s side of the van. “And you’re going to play all Stockholm Syndrome and we’re going to have super hot, Shirley Temple-flavored kidnap sex games, so get in the fucking van.

We fall into a familiar rhythm of filthy kisses and eager hands. Soon we're shedding our clothing onto the floor. "Mmm, shower," Max mutters against my lips. "I need a shower. I'm so dirty right now." I lean away, playfully pulling out of his hold, and walk down the hallway to stand by the bathroom door. "You know, if I'm gonna move in, first I think I'd like a tour of the bathroom, specifically the shower. I need to know what kind of water pressure this place has before I commit to anything." A mischievous gleam flashes in his eyes. "You've been in that shower once or twice before. And you seemed to enjoy your time in there, if I remember correctly." "True, but I think I need to test it out one more time. Just to be sure I know what I'm getting." That half smile I love so much appears. As I stand there, I soak in the bliss of this moment. Max and I are together. After eighteen months of harboring secret crushes on each other, a million friendly conversations---and a few super-awkward ones---and all the conflict and work upheaval and family struggles, we're here. Together. Back in each other's arms and crazy in love. The motion of his muscled, beautifully tattooed arm yanking off his shirt pulls me back to the very hot moment unfolding. He walks over to me and hoists me over his shoulder. I squeal before falling into a fit of giggles. "Allow me to give you an up-close-and-personal grand tour of the shower," he says. "And the bedroom after that?" "Absolutely." And for the next few hours, Max Boyson gives me one hell of a grand tour.

And Alejandro, who never swallowed—hell, who never even gave head without a condom—had licked at his bared, tender skin like candy and swallowed down bitter seed like it was orange soda, because it had been Donnie, and it had tasted good, and because the noises saturating Alejandro’s skin like color had been so hot.

My Atlas pinged behind me. And again. And again. “You’re popular this morning,” Darcy commented, eyeing it with interest. I grunted in response. “Caleb’s just trying to get into my pants again.” She snorted a laugh. “How hard are you going to make him work for it?” “He took part in the whole throwing us in a pit business. So I’m thinking I’m done with him,” I said dismissively. “Yeah, you totally should be,” she agreed. “But that look in your eye says you’re not.” “That’s just the part of my brain which is blinded by his hotness. I refuse to listen to her because she’s a slut. The sensible part of my brain says hell no and I’ll be keeping company with her and her chastity belt from now on.” “Okay,” Darcy said in a way which told me she wasn’t totally convinced but there wasn’t much I could do about that. My track record spoke for itself. The Atlas pinged again. And again. “At least let’s see how hard he’s grovelling,” she said with a wicked smile. I laughed and moved to grab my Atlas from the bed. Caleb: That’s so cold, Tory. I know you felt things too... the noises you were making in response to them are kinda hard to deny ;) Caleb: Do you want me to beg? Do you like the idea of getting me on my knees for you? Caleb: Are you ignoring me now? Can’t we just agree to disagree about the whole throne issue and take out our frustrations over the situation on each other? I promise, I’m super frustrated over it and it will take a lot of work to make me feel any better about it... Caleb: You wanna see how frustrated I am...? I really need help working through this... The last message contained a photograph which Caleb had taken of himself in a mirror after getting out of the shower. His blonde curls were damp and looked darker than usual and every inch of his exposed, muscular body glistened with fat drops of moisture. The picture cut off at his waist and his navy eyes blazed with an intensity which made me swallow a lump in my throat. Caleb: Want to come over and see the rest? Darcy released a breath of laughter. “Well he certainly knows what he wants.” My gaze raked over the picture of his tight abs glistening with water and I groaned. “Why does he have to be such an asshole?” I complained. “Well if he wasn’t, you probably wouldn’t like him at all,” she reasoned and I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “That is a tragically accurate assessment,” I agreed. I decided to leave Caleb hanging and closed down the private messages with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. (tory)

I slid a hand up her spine, moving it towards the back of her neck as I watched her mouth and prepared to claim it. Claim her. Claim everything that went with that choice, because it didn't even feel like a choice at all, more like an urgent need which demanded to be answered. “Drink!” Caleb demanded suddenly from beside us, snapping the tension that had been building and destroying the moment before I could claim her in any of the ways I ached to. Roxy turned away from me to accept the shot he was holding out for her and I took mine without once looking away from her face, tipping it down my throat and wishing something else was gracing my lips. There was a question hanging between me and her. A want which we both felt and ached to satisfy. But there was a whole chasm full of reasons for us to deny that need too. Not that I gave a shit. Because every fibre of my being was screaming for me to claim her and make her mine with an urgency that made my head spin. I swear I could practically hear the universe holding its breath like there was so much hanging on the choice we made now. But before either of us could make it, Caleb interrupted again. “Orion’s looking for you,” he said to me, pointing back over to the bar where I had to assume Lance was. “Something about an assignment you haven’t handed in. I told him to chill the hell out and enjoy his drink but he gave me that look, you know the look where you’re not sure if he’s trying to set you alight with the power of thought alone or if he’s just super constipated, so I said I’d tell you.” Roxy snorted a laugh, and as she looked away to search the crowd for Lance, the spell between us was broken. I scrubbed a hand down my face, wondering what the hell I'd been thinking. The girl might have been hot. Scorching fucking hot and endlessly intoxicating. And I might have wanted to fuck her more than I think I'd ever wanted to fuck any girl I'd ever met. But she was a star damned Vega. And that meant me and her were over before we could ever even consider beginning. “I guess I’d better see what he wants,” I said, knowing that the moment I stepped away from here would be the moment this opportunity left us. I cast a final look at Roxy, not really knowing what I expected to find there but she seemed to have forgotten me already as she moved away to place her empty shot glass down on a table. A growl rumbled through my chest and Caleb grinned widely, slapping me on the shoulder as I passed him and making me want to punch his fucking face all over again. No doubt Lance's appearance had made his fucking night. And it had definitely ruined mine.(Darius POV)

. . . He was sweating bullets all through dinner. I was half-convinced he was going to tell me he’d been sent to an operation in Perth and I’d have to lie and say he’d died in a fire so he could resurface as a super-hot meth dealer and I could visit him, and we could have sex on top of a bunch of drug money.” “But…it wasn’t that, right?” “No.” Julia sighed, apparently disappointed.

she love me? His pelt grew hot. “I’m so sorry. I never realized—” “Not like that, you flea-brain!

In thirty years, he reflected, perhaps sooner, there would be one vast undifferentiated culture, one complex of super-highways, hot-dog stands and neon, interrupted only by the Atlantic, stretching from Los Angeles to Jerusalem; possibly, by then, as far as Calcutta, three-quarters of the way round the world. Where there had been Americans and British and French and Italians and Greeks and the rest, there would be only citizens of the West, uniformly affluent, uniformly ridden by guilt and neurosis, uniformly alcoholic and suicidal, uniformly everything.

He was going to Texas too and talked longer than I wanted to cope with. Unfortunately for both of us, there were not any stops or places to get off. He finally shut up when a super tan Latino dude ran up and chucked a mysterious carcass into the empty car. As I helped the exasperated man up into the slow-moving boxcar, he thanked me in English. Then explained how he planned to cook the Armadillo. The ride became unbearably hot, but at least it got quiet.

Andrew, come on. You’re clearly trying to get in my head. That kiss and then dropping me against the wall… it was super-hot but I know you don’t actually want that.” “I want nothing more,” he murmured. “We would be amazing together.

Fuck, Jessie. You just turned me into some kind of demon.” “A super-hot demon,” I giggle. “I thought you were going to lose your mind.” “I almost did.

Where are your pajamas?” she asks us. “Um. Wearing em,” I say, pointing down at the ridiculous pants. “You’re supposed to wear the whole ensemble,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Now you don’t look like Santa, just…” she chews on her lip as her eyes roam over the four of us. “Just what, angel?” Conor asks. “Just four super hot…” She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I can work with it,” she adds with a soft sigh. “But what the hell are you wearing, baby?” my twin asks as she walks toward the four of us. “I’m Mrs. Claus,” she whispers.

Sadness would inevitably happen down the road. It wasn't being pessimistic, just realistic.

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So she’s a super-hot lady, and she’s a Marine?” Jase scoffed and took a drink of his beer. “I give you a fucking week before she breaks your neck between her thighs.”   “If you’re lucky,” said Will.   “Dude, that would be the most legendary and spectacular death a warrior could ask for,” said Ghost, pointing hard at Jase. “And you fucking put my casket on parade if that’s how I die. You make sure every asshole in this town knows how it went down!

Why is it when British men bitch they sound super hot simply because of their accents?

You mean a super hot author.’ Aditya knew she liked being called that.