Sweep The Leg Quotes

What we needed to raise in others was this instinct. The ability to recognize, in an instant, right from wrong. The clarity of mind to face it rather than ignore it. I learned that before they had chased Brock, they had checked on me. Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying.

Stop her!" Matthias bellowed as he thundered downstairs. Blake's mouth twisted sideways, hand tightened on the knob. What little breath I'd regained, caught. Heart sputtered to a standstill. Then he swung the door open with a sweep of his arm. "After you, milday." My legs didn't hesitate. I vaulted off the porch and hit the driveway running. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?!" "I'm her knight in shining armor. Seriously, dude, your chivalry needs some work. Ow!

Women can go mad with insomnia. The sleep-deprived roam houses that have lost their familiarity. With tea mugs in hand, we wander rooms, looking on shelves for something we will recognize: a book title, a photograph, the teak-carved bird -- a souvenir from what place? A memory almost rises when our eyes rest on a painting's grey sweep of cloud, or the curve of a wooden leg in a corner. Fingertips faintly recall the raised pattern on a chair cushion, but we wonder how these things have come to be here, in this stranger's home. Lost women drift in places where time has collapsed. We look into our thoughts and hearts for what has been forgotten, for what has gone missing. What did we once care about? Whom did we love? We are emptied. We are remote. Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.

Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying.

I heard him sweeping with the broom, and then he suddenly stopped. I had obviously got his attention, and he was looking. Take a good look, honey, I thought. Take a good look at what I’m offering. I liked the sound of that silence. Do you know what I mean? Have you heard that silence yourself? I love that silence you get, when a man who you fancy notices your body. In a weird way, it’s so loud, it’s deafening. It could be because of the way you sway your hips, your legs, or thrust your breasts. And you just know his erection is talking to him, about what he’d like to do to your body. How he’d like to have his delightfully wicked way with you, undress you, smother your naked skin with hungry urgent kisses, and thrust his hard and moist cock deep inside the pouting red lips of your mouth… I think you get my drift. There’s a lovely tension in that moment; I call it the lust moment. When a sexy man sees what you’ve deliberately put out on offer, and he stops in his steps as his lust lights up his mind, and puts him on a new track.

I gasp. All around me, the dead are risin. Another leg bone bobs to the muddy surface. Then a skull. A arm bone. They swing lazily. The current grabs 'em an carries 'em away. Wreckers must of used the dry riverbed as a mass grave an now the heavy rain's churnin it all up. I snatch my hands from the water, hold my arms high, outta the way. Slowly I turn in a circle, blinkin the rain away from my eyes. Ohmigawd, I says. Ohmigawd ohmigawd ohmigawd. The river's alive with dead men's bones. It's thick with 'em. My breath's comin shallow an fast. I feel somethin touch me. I make myself look down. A skellenton's wrapped itself around my chest. The skull grins up at me. I shove it away. But when I pull my hands up agin, the whole top half of the skellenton comes with 'em. I'm stuck in the ribcage. The skull's right in my face. I scream. Shake myself loose. Scramble to git away. Lose my footin. I fall. I go unner. An the current sweeps me away.

His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping his sickle-shaped lower jaw benieath him, Moby Dick had reaped away Ahab's leg.

In the leaping light, as the fresh wood blazed up, Frodo saw many grey shapes spring over the ring of stones. More and more followed. Through the throat of one huge leader Aragorn passed his sword with a thrust; with a great sweep Boromir hewed the head off another. Beside them Gimli stood with his stout legs apart, wielding his dwarf-axe. The bow of Legolas was singing.

It was always what my father called the last leg of the journey. But we did not stop this time. We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going.

He saw nothing but the gentle ruffling of the leaves in the wind, but as he finished his sweep of the area, he somehow knew. "Sophie!" He heard a gasp, followed by a huge flurry of activity. "Sophie Beckett," he yelled, "if you run from me right now, I swear I will follow you,and I will not take the time to don my clothing." The noises coming from the shore slowed. "I will catch up with you," he continued, "because I'm stronger and faster. And I might very well feel compelled to tackle you to the ground, just to be certain you do not escape." The sounds of her movements ceased. "Good," he grunted. "Show yourself." She didn't. "Sophie," he warned. There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps, and then he saw her, standing on the shore in one of those awful dresses he'd like to see sunk to the bottom of the Thames. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I went for a walk.What are you doing here?" she countered. "You're supposed to be ill.That-" she waved her arm toward him and, by extension, the pond- "can't possibly be good for you." He ignored her question and comment. "Were you following me?" "Of course not," she replied, and he rather believed her. He didn't think she possessed the acting talents to fake that level of righteousness. "I would never follow you to a swimming hole," she continued. "It would be indecent." And then her face went completely red, because they both knew she hadn't a leg to stand on with that argument. If she had truly been concerned about decency, she'd have left the pond the second she'd seen him, accidentally or not.

The time was ordinary, 24 seconds, but the victory was historic. From that crowded little red house in Clarksville, out of an extended family of twenty-two kids, from a childhood of illness and leg braces, out of a small historically black college that had no scholarships, from a country where she could be hailed as a heroine and yet denied lunch at a counter, Skeeter had become golden, sweeping the sprints in Rome.

Death would probably have a sweeter, more seductive pull, like a wave sweeping out from a shore, sucking hard at the legs of a swimmer who’d already ventured too far, and who mysteriously had lost his will to struggle.

Lola’s was not exactly a bar. It was a small beer-and-soda joint. There was a Coca-Cola box full of beer and soda and ice at the left of the door as you came in. A counter with tube-metal stools covered in yellow glazed leather ran down one side of the room as far as the jukebox. Tables were lined along the wall opposite the counter. The stools had long since lost the rubber caps for the legs and made horrible screeching noises when the maid pushed them around to sweep. There was a kitchen in back, where a slovenly cook fried everything in rancid fat. There was neither past nor future in Lola’s. The place was a waiting room, where certain people checked in at certain times.

I know the thrill of the grasses when the rain pours over them. I know the trembling of the leaves when the winds sweep through them. I know what the white clover felt as it held a drop of dew pressed close in its beauteousness. I know the quivering of the fragrant petals at the touch of the pollen-legged bees. I know what the stream said to the dipping willows, and what the moon said to the sweet lavender. I know what the stars said when they came stealthily down and crept fondly into the tops of the trees.

A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there.  It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures.  I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day.  At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon.  Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I

Dude, what're you waiting for?" Carlos calls. "Plant one on her." I lift my eyes and am shocked to see Brandon is staring at my mouth. He swallows audibly and flicks his gaze to mine. the emotions darkening the soft green color are too confusing to name. Does he want to back out? An exhale of breath leaves Brandon's lips, almost like a laugh, and he scoots closer to me on the blanket. I twist my legs under myself, sitting tall as I face him. He cups my chin and tilts it toward him, drowning me in the now dark-green depths of his eyes, the cologne I gave him for his birthday filling my head. It's woodsy and yummy and I always loved how it smelled on the store testers, but on Brandon, it's even sexier. My eyes flutter closed, and I inhale again, this time slowly. Goose bumps prickle my arms, and my head gets fuzzy. Brandon slides his hand down the column of my neck and brings the other up, threading his fingers through the hair at my nape. His breath fans across my cheek, and everything south of my bellybutton squeezes tight. When his mouth first meets mine, it's hesitant, questioning. But as I move my lips with his, he quickly grows bolder, coaxing them apart. Desire, pure and raw, electrifies my veins as his tongue sweeps my mouth. A whimpering sound springs from my chest, and instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him closer. Needing more. My teeth graze his full bottom lip, and I pull it, sucking on it gently. He moans and knots his fingers in my hair, and a thrill dances down my back. Brandon is an amazing kisser, just as I knew he would be. I have no control over my body's reactions. I lose myself in his lips, his tongue, and his strong arms, forgetting time and space and even my surroundings...

“My Peregrination Cap,” he grumbles, straightening his tie and vest while wavering on wobbly legs. I gesture to the layer of moths crawling around on Gizmo’s roof. “We lost a few of them to the wind. Sorry.” “Brilliant.” Scowling, Morpheus walks over and sweeps his hand across the insects, coaxing them to form the hat. They manage all but the brim. He puts it on anyway and turns to me. I bite my cheeks in an effort not to laugh. He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get too cheeky, little plum. Though your prank may have been irresistibly wicked, I’m still in the lead by a set of wings.”

I didn't know what cause the change. But one day, she came with her eyes flashing, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she managed to sweep my legs out from underneath me. I was dazed, looking up at the clouds through the trees and she just laughed. God, I loved that woman. More than anything

Her bathrobe came off with one sweep, exposing her silky skin, fragrant from the bath. Perfect, he marveled, even as part of him wondered when his tastes had changed so radically. Small breasts, boyishly slender hips, long, long legs. Mine! On that fierce thought, he proceeded to brand her with his mouth.

He leaned closer and she swallowed the rest of her words as he pressed a kiss to her lips. He lifted his head slightly and looked into her eyes. She stared back at him, stunned, her heart thudding against her breastbone. He palmed the nape of her neck, and then he was kissing her again, his tongue sweeping into her mouth this time, turning her legs to jelly. She pressed her body against his, her skin on fire, desire beating a tattoo through her veins. His tongue stroked hers gently, provocatively, and she reached out and gripped his shoulders with both hands. After a long, long moment he drew back. “Come home with me?” he asked very quietly, his voice a low husk. Dear God, I thought you’d never ask.

What we needed to raise in others was this instinct. The ability to recognize, in an instant, right from wrong. The clarity of mind to face it rather than ignore it. I learned that before they had chased Brock, they had checked on me. Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying. At

Rhys lunged against his hold, but Amren stepped to their side and hissed, 'Listen.' Nesta whispered, 'I give it all back.' Her shoulders heaved as she wept. Rhys began shaking his head, his power a palpable, rising wave that would destroy them all, destroy the world if it meant Feyre was no longer in it, even if he only had seconds to live beyond her, but Amren grabbed the nape of his neck. Her red nails dug into his golden skin. 'Look at the light.' Iridescent light began flowing from Nesta's body. Into Feyre. Nesta kept holding her sister. 'I give it back. I give it back. I give it back.' Even Rhys stopped fighting. No one moved. The lights glimmered down Feyre's arm. Her legs. It suffused her ashen face. Began to fill the room. Cassian's Siphons guttered, as if sensing a power far beyond his own, beyond any of theirs. Tendrils of light drifted between the sisters. And one, delicate and loving, flowed towards Mor. To the bundle in her arms, setting the silent babe within glowing bright as the sun. And Nesta kept whispering, 'I give it back. I give it all back.' The iridescence filled her, filled Feyre, filled the bundle in Mor's arms, lighting his friend's face so the shock on it was etched in stark relief. 'I give it back,' Nesta said, one more time, and Mask and Crown tumbled from her head. The light exploded, blinding and warm, a wind sweeping past them, as if gathering every shard of itself out of the room. Ans as it faded, dark ink splashed upon Nesta's back, visible through her half-shredded shirt, as if it were a wave crashing upon the shore. A bargain. With the Cauldron itself. Yet Cassian could have sworn a luminescent, gentle hand prevented the light from leaving her body altogether. Cassian didn't fight Rhys this time as he raced to the bed. To where Feyre lay, flush with colour. No more blood spilling between her legs. Feyre opened her eyes. She blinked at Rhys, and then turned to Nesta. 'I love you, too,' Feyre whispered to her sister, and smiled. Nesta didn't stop her sob as she launched herself onto Feyre and embraced her.

her small white dog Bouton hurrying at her heels to keep up. A far cry from the fluffy lapdogs so popular with the ladies of the Court, he looked vaguely like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund, with a rough, kinky coat whose fringes fluttered along the edges of a wide belly and stumpy, bowed legs. His feet, splay-toed and black-nailed, clicked frantically over the stones of the floor as he trotted after Mother Hildegarde, pointed muzzle almost touching the sweeping black folds of her habit. “Is that a dog?” I had asked one of the orderlies in amazement, when I first beheld Bouton, passing through the Hôpital at the heels of his mistress. He paused in his floor-sweeping to look after the curly, plumed tail, disappearing into the next ward. “Well,” he said doubtfully, “Mother Hildegarde says he’s a dog. I wouldn’t like to be the one to say he isn’t.

Is the sky painted?” Isidore asked. “Are there really brush strokes that show up under magnification?” “Yes,” Mercer said. “I can’t see them.” “You’re too close,” Mercer said. “You have to be a long way off, the way the androids are. They have better perspective.” “Is that why they claim you’re a fraud?” “I am a fraud,” Mercer said. “They’re sincere; their research is genuine. From their standpoint I am an elderly retired bit player named Al Jarry. All of it, their disclosure, is true. They interviewed me at my home, as they claim; I told them whatever they wanted to know, which was everything.” “Including about the whisky?” Mercer smiled. “It was true. They did a good job and from their standpoint Buster Friendly’s disclosure was convincing. They will have trouble understanding why nothing has changed. Because you’re still here and I’m still here.” Mercer indicated with a sweep of his hand the barren, rising hillside, the familiar place. “I lifted you from the tomb world just now and I will continue to lift you until you lose interest and want to quit. But you will have to stop searching for me because I will never stop searching for you.” “I didn’t like that about the whisky,” Isidore said. “That’s lowering.” “That’s because you’re a highly moral person. I’m not. I don’t judge, not even myself.” Mercer held out a closed hand, palm up. “Before I forget it, I have something of yours here.” He opened his fingers. On his hand rested the mutilated spider, but with its snipped-off legs restored. “Thanks.” Isidore accepted the spider.

And then that wicked mouth lands on my aching core, and an even wickeder tongue sweeps out for a long, lazy lick. Oh. My. God. A shockwave of pleasure darts from my clit to my breasts to…well, to everywhere. I feel that one lick in every inch of my body, and it’s so good I don’t have the strength to push him away. I do the opposite, actually—I grab the back of his head and pull him closer while my traitorous legs part even farther. “Yeah, that’s what I want,” Blake mumbles against my sensitive flesh. “Open up for me, honey.

I once read the most widely understood word in the whole world is ‘OK’, followed by ‘Coke’, as in cola. I think they should do the survey again, this time checking for ‘Game Over’. Game Over is my favorite thing about playing video games. Actually, I should qualify that. It’s the split second before Game Over that’s my favorite thing. Streetfighter II - an oldie but goldie - with Leo controlling Ryu. Ryu’s his best character because he’s a good all-rounder - great defensive moves, pretty quick, and once he’s on an offensive roll, he’s unstoppable. Theo’s controlling Blanka. Blanka’s faster than Ryu, but he’s really only good on attack. The way to win with Blanka is to get in the other player’s face and just never let up. Flying kick, leg-sweep, spin attack, head-bite. Daze them into submission. Both players are down to the end of their energy bars. One more hit and they’re down, so they’re both being cagey. They’re hanging back at opposite ends of the screen, waiting for the other guy to make the first move. Leo takes the initiative. He sends off a fireball to force Theo into blocking, then jumps in with a flying kick to knock Blanka’s green head off. But as he’s moving through the air he hears a soft tapping. Theo’s tapping the punch button on his control pad. He’s charging up an electricity defense so when Ryu’s foot makes contact with Blanka’s head it’s going to be Ryu who gets KO’d with 10,000 volts charging through his system. This is the split second before Game Over. Leo’s heard the noise. He knows he’s fucked. He has time to blurt ‘I’m toast’ before Ryu is lit up and thrown backwards across the screen, flashing like a Christmas tree, a charred skeleton. Toast. The split second is the moment you comprehend you’re just about to die. Different people react to it in different ways. Some swear and rage. Some sigh or gasp. Some scream. I’ve heard a lot of screams over the twelve years I’ve been addicted to video games. I’m sure that this moment provides a rare insight into the way people react just before they really do die. The game taps into something pure and beyond affectations. As Leo hears the tapping he blurts, ‘I’m toast.’ He says it quickly, with resignation and understanding. If he were driving down the M1 and saw a car spinning into his path I think he’d in react the same way. Personally, I’m a rager. I fling my joypad across the floor, eyes clenched shut, head thrown back, a torrent of abuse pouring from my lips. A couple of years ago I had a game called Alien 3. It had a great feature. When you ran out of lives you’d get a photo-realistic picture of the Alien with saliva dripping from its jaws, and a digitized voice would bleat, ‘Game over, man!’ I really used to love that.

Her eyes flicker, so I know she hears me. She says nothing, just checks the chains on my legs and arms and then nods to the Commandant. My mother reads the charges against me, which I don’t pay much attention to, and pronounces the punishment, which I also ignore. Dead is dead, no matter how it happens. Helene steps forward and lifts her ax. It will be one clean sweep, left to right. Air. Neck. Air. Elias dead. Now it hits me. This is it. This is the end. Martial tradition says a soldier who dies well dances among the stars, battling foes for all eternity. Is that what awaits me? Or will I slip into endless darkness, unbroken and quiet? Uneasiness latches onto me, like it’s been waiting around a corner all this time and only now has the gall to emerge. Where do I fix my eyes? On the crowd? The sky? I want comfort. I know I won’t find any. I

She was about to take a step back when his hand slid onto her leg. Slow and lazy. “You don’t wear your scrubs home,” he murmured, his fingers idly stroking just behind her knee, the denim of her jeans no barrier to the sensations sweeping up her leg. Joss willed herself to move but not one damn synapse obeyed. It was as if his fingers had injected them with a paralyzing agent. “No.” Her voice was hushed yet high. Breathy. “It’s against hospital policy.” “Pity.” He smiled at her. “You look hot in them.” If it was possible to orgasm through compliments alone, she’d just moved into the red zone. He was dangerously good for her ego. He was bleary-eyed, rubbing his right hand over his hair, his biceps and abs shifting nicely. A flush of heat surged from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Sweet baby cheeses. Maybe she was perimenopausal? Thirty-four was young but it wasn’t unheard of…

I want to stretch our legs and show you the view of our valley. It's a tradition when we bring someone special to the ranch for the first time." He set the kitten on the seat opposite them and opened the door. He stepped out, then helped her to the ground and started to release her. Pamela squeezed his hand and didn't let go. John's quick smile told her he approved. He led her to a lookout and waved an arm in a sweeping motion. "Our valley." "Really?" Delighted, she leaned forward to take in the view. Grasslands studded with cattle surrounded a big white house, outbuildings, a barn, and two smaller homes. She studied the house. From this distance, it looked large and comfortable, two-story, as John had described, with a porch across the front. She relaxed at the sight. The distant mountains still held snow on their peaks. Stark blue sky stretched over the land, with several puffy white clouds floating by. Our valley, she echoed.

He grabs my head in both hands and kisses me. I let my eyelids fall closed while I pull him in. His lips are soft and wet. He slants his mouth over mine for real. A warm tongue sweeps the seam of my lips. Then we’re making out in a hospital shower, which is just insane. It’s not about sex, though. It’s comfort kissing. I like it a lot more than a palm on a forehead. When Wes pulls back, he gives me a secretive little smile. “Tonight you’ll be home,” he whispers. “In our bed.” Swallowing hard, I nod. I’d better be. “Lift your arms,” he prompts. When I do, he washes my underarms, skimming my sensitive skin with soap-slicked hands. Those palms continue their journey down my abs and into the juncture of my legs. He nudges my knees apart and washes my inner thighs, his fingertips grazing my balls. He lets his hand linger there, giving me one slow stroke. He’s reminding me that life isn’t always such a drag, and I’m grateful for the message.

He felt like a character in a book. He thought of Mary Lennox as she discovered her secret garden. The blackberry bushes had become too thick to ride through and Percy dismounted, leaving Prince beneath the shade of a thick-trunked oak tree. He chose a strong whip of wood and started carving his way through the knotted vines. He was no longer a boy whose legs didn't always do as he wished; he was Sir Gawain on the lookout for the Green Knight, Lord Byron on his way to fight a duel, Beowulf leading an army upon Grendel. So keen was his focus on his swordplay that he didn't realize at first that he'd emerged from the forested area and was standing now on what must have been the top of a gravel driveway. Looming above him was not so much a house as a castle. Two enormous floors, with mammoth rectangular windows along each face and an elaborate stone balustrade of Corinthian columns running around all four sides of its flat roof. He thought at once of Pemberley, and half expected to see Mr. Darcy come striding through the big double doors, riding crop tucked beneath his arm as he jogged down the stone steps that widened in an elegant sweep as they reached the turning circle where he stood.

Confiding Julie, the first to get breasts, was cynical by Thanksgiving. Since no one else looked like the class slut, she was given the position, and she soon capitulated. She bleached her hair with Sun In, and started to mess around with boys who played in garage rock bands. Marianne, because she had long legs and a stem neck, rushed from school to her pliés at the barre, her hair in a bun, her head held high, to arch and sweep and bow toward the mirror until night fell. Cara delivered her audition piece flat, but since she had a wheat-colored rope of braid that brushed her waist, she would be Titania in the school play. Emily, bluntnosed and loud, could outact Cara in her sleep; when she saw the cast list she turned silently to her best friend, who handed her a box of milk chocolate creams. Tall, strong, bony Evvy watched Elise try out her maddening dimple. She cornered her outside class to ask her if she thought she was cute. Elise said yes, and Evvy threw a pipette of acid, stolen from the biology lab, in her face. Dodie hated her tight black hair that wouldn’t grow. She crept up behind blond Karen in home ec class and hacked out a fistful with pinking shears. Even Karen understood that it wasn’t personal.

At such a time [at dawn] I would dream of being a baker who delivers bread, a fitter from the electric company, or an insurance man collecting the weekly installments. Or at least a chimney sweep. In the morning, at dawn, I would enter some half-opened gateway, still lighted by the watchman's lantern. I would put two fingers to my hat, crack a joke, and enter the labyrinth to leave late in the evening, at the other end of the city. I would spend all day going from apartment to apartment, conducting one never-ending conversation from one end of the city to the other, divided into parts among the householders; I would ask something in one apartment and receive a reply in another, make a joke in one place and collect the fruits of laughter in the third or fourth. Among the banging of doors I would squeeze through narrow passages, through bedrooms full of furniture, I would upset chamberpots, walk into squeaking perambulators in which babies cry, pick up rattles dropped by infants. I would stop for longer than necessary in kitchens and hallways, where servant girls were tidying up. The girls, busy, would stretch their young legs, tauten their high insteps, play with their cheap shining shoes, or clack around in loose slippers.

There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read: A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this. -Poppy Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked... After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let a slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk. Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen. Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. "My God," he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers. "Do you like my nightgown?" Beatrix asked. Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. "Where's the rest of it?" "This was all I could find." Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. "I wonder if I put it on backward..." "Let me see." As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath. Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn't take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin. She went to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, relishing the billowy softness of its quilts and linens. Reclining on her side, she made no attempt to cover her exposed leg as the gossamer fabric fell open to her hip. Christopher came to her, stripping off his shirt along the way. The sight of him, all that flexing muscle and sun-glazed skin, was breathtaking. He was a beautiful man, a scarred Apollo, a dream lover. And he was hers.

When I burst into the terminal, my eyes swept around, bouncing from person to person in the crowded, bustling space. My stomach fell a little when I didn’t see him, but I knew he probably couldn’t come this far. He was probably at baggage claim. I looked around for a sign to point me in the right direction and finally saw one labeled Baggage Claim with an arrow pointing off to the left. But I didn’t follow the arrow. My eyes fixed on someone standing beneath the sign. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his well-worn slouchy jeans. The relaxed action pulled the waistband low, highlighting his flat, narrow waist his Henley tee molded to. As usual, he was wearing his varsity jacket and his blond hair was a mess. My gaze locked on his sapphire-blue eyes and didn’t let go. His eyes, ohmigod, his eyes. The blue was so intense it served as an emergency brake on everything in my life. The second I looked at him, everything else came to a screeching halt. I no longer noticed the huge crowd rushing around. The anxiety-causing flight was just a distant memory, and the two weeks I spent longing for his touch became something I would live through ten times over just to be in this moment with him again. His lips pulled into a smile and the charm that oozed from every pore in his body made me almost lightheaded. Romeo pulled his hands out of his pockets and straightened, motioning for me. I rushed across the space separating us, my bag slapping against my side as I, for once, gracefully maneuvered around the people in my path. His chuckle brushed over me when I was just steps away, and I threw myself at him with a little sigh of relief. My legs wrapped around his waist and his arms locked around my back. I burrowed my head into his shoulder and inhaled deep, taking in his distinctive scent. “Rim,” he murmured, his voice low. I pulled back and his lips were on mine instantly. The moment our lips touched, he stilled, his body and mouth pausing against mine. Before I could wonder why, he muttered a garbled curse against my mouth and then his lips began to move. He kissed me softly but fiercely. There was so much possession in the way he kissed me, in the way his arms locked around me that my heart stuttered. I parted my lips so his tongue could sweep inside, and when my tongue met his, desire, hot and heavy, unfurled within me. Someone chuckled as they walked by, and Romeo retreated slightly, still letting his mouth linger on mine before completely pulling away. He rested his forehead against mine and he smiled. “I really fucking missed you.” “Me too,” I whispered. -Romeo & Rimmel

When we pulled up to Marlboro Man’s house, I saw my Camry sitting in his driveway. I didn’t expect it to be there; I figured it was still on Marlboro Man’s parents’ road, sitting all crooked in the ditch where I’d left it the night before. Marlboro Man had already fixed it, fishing it out of the ditch and repairing the mangled tires and probably, knowing him, filling the tank with gas. “Oh, thank you so much,” I said as we walked toward the front door. “I thought maybe I’d killed it.” “Aw, it’s fine,” he replied. “But you might want to learn to drive before you get in it again.” He flashed his mischievous grin. I slugged him in the arm as he laughed. Then he lunged at me, grabbing my arms and using his leg to sweep my supporting leg right out from under me. Within an instant, he had me on the ground, right on the soft, green grass of his front yard. I shrieked and screamed, trying in vain to wrestle my way out of his playful grasp, but my wimpy upper body was no match for his impossible strength. He tickled me, and being the most ticklish human in the Northern Hemisphere, I screamed bloody murder. Afraid I’d wet my pants (it was a valid concern), I fought back the only way I knew how--by grabbing and untucking his shirt from his Wranglers…and running my hand up his back, poking at his rib cage. The tickling suddenly stopped. Marlboro Man propped himself on his elbows, holding my face in his hands. He kissed me passionately and seriously, and what started as a playful wrestling match became an impromptu make-out session in his front yard. It was an unlikely place for such an event, and considering it was at the very beginning of our night together, an unlikely time. But it was also strangely perfect. Because sometime during all the laughing and tickling and wrestling and rolling around in the grass, my worry and concern over my parents’ troubles had magically melted away. Only when the chiggers began biting did Marlboro Man suggest an alternate plan. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’m cooking dinner.” Yummy, I thought. That means steak. And as we walked into the house, I smiled contentedly, realizing that the stress of the previous twenty-four hours had all but disappeared from view. And I knew it, even then: Marlboro Man, not only that night but in the months to come, would prove to be my savior, my distraction, my escape in the midst of troubles, my strength in the face of upheaval, my beauty in times of terrible, heartbreaking ugliness. He held my heart entirely in his hands, this cowboy, and for the first time in my life, despite everything I’d ever believed about independence and feminism and emotional autonomy, I knew I’d be utterly incomplete without him. Talk about a terrifying moment.

But sex at twenty-two, well, that was really something, Jules thought, and Dennis apparently thought so too. Both of their bodies were still perfect, or perfect enough; they would come to see this later on, though they couldn’t see it at the time. Self-conscious, dying with embarrassment, but so excited, they stripped to their skin for each other for the first time standing beside the loft bed in his apartment that day, and she made him go up the ladder first so he wouldn’t be able to watch her from behind—knowing that if he did, as she lifted a leg to reach the next rung the most private section of herself would have been briefly cleaved and displayed. The hair, the shadow, the pinch of lip, the stingy little anus—how could she let him watch that particular show? “After you, kind sir,” she said—oh God, had she really said that? And why? Was she pretending to be a Victorian prostitute?—sweeping out her arm. Dark, woolly Dennis swung up the ladder naked. She watched as his parts did the male version of what hers would have done, his balls moving, if not swinging, and his downy ass separating into two as he bent his knee and climbed the vertical ladder into the bed near the ceiling. Dennis Boyd’s loft bed was so high up that they could not sit upright in it, but could only half-slouch, or else lie flat, or lie with their bodies on top of each other like a two-car pileup.

LATE ONE AFTERNOON, after watching for Chase Andrews, Kya walks from her shack and lies back on a sliver of beach, slick from the last wave. She stretches her arms over her head, brushing them against the wet sand, and extends her legs, toes pointed. Eyes closed, she rolls slowly toward the sea. Her hips and arms leave slight indentions in the glistening sand, brightening and then dimming as she moves. Rolling nearer the waves, she senses the ocean’s roar through the length of her body and feels the question: When will the sea touch me? Where will it touch me first? The foamy surge rushes the shore, reaching toward her. Tingling with expectancy, she breathes deep. Turns more and more slowly. With each revolution, just before her face sweeps the sand, she lifts her head gently and takes in the sun-salt smell. I am close, very close. It is coming. When will I feel it? A fever builds. The sand wetter beneath her, the rumble of surf louder. Even slower, by inches she moves, waiting for the touch. Soon, soon. Almost feeling it before it comes. She wants to open her eyes to peek, to see how much longer. But she resists, squinting her lids even tighter, the sky bright behind them, giving no hints. Suddenly she shrieks as the power rushes beneath her, fondles her thighs, between her legs, flows along her back, swirling under her head, pulling her hair in inky strands. She rolls faster into the deepening wave, against streaming shells and ocean bits, the water embracing her. Pushing against the sea’s strong body, she is grasped, held. Not alone. Kya sits up and opens her eyes to the ocean foaming around her in soft white patterns, always changing.

When the head of his cock sweeps past her sweet spot yet again, something explosive erupts out of nowhere. "Oh, fuuuuck," she whimpers. Her walls flutter around him as her whole body ignites into flames. The pleasure is all-consuming, knocking her thoughts from her mind. Alexander huffs, stunned. "Did you--- Just from me---" Eden covers her face with her hands, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. You just feel so good, I---" He chuckles, pushing her hands aside to pepper her face with kisses. "Don't be sorry, it's alright. Can I keep going?" "Yes. Yes, please. I want to make you come. Give it to me rough." "If you want it rough, you'd better hold on to me, sweetheart." She does so, circling his neck with her arms. He rolls his hips against her, pace picking up in rhythm. The slap of their skin combined with the sound of their filthy groans is music to her ears. He snaps his hips into her relentlessly, searching for more of that sweet friction. The bed creaks in protest beneath them, but they show no signs of slowing down. "Fucking God, your pussy feels so good." "Fuck, I--- Right there, oh God right there." "So nice and tight for me. Spread your legs wider--- that's it." Eden can feel herself growing tighter, hotter, brighter. She can hardly breathe, and her heart is racing a mile a minute. "I think--- Fuck, I think I'm going to come again. I'm gonna---" Alexander claims her mouth, tongue sweeping over hers as he pins both her wrists above her head against the pillow. He fucks her harder, claiming her, pushing her closer and closer toward climax. When it happens, she moans into his mouth, quaking beneath his weight. He finds release, too, his muscles tensing as he spills over.

When we pulled up to Marlboro Man’s house, I saw my Camry sitting in his driveway. I didn’t expect it to be there; I figured it was still on Marlboro Man’s parents’ road, sitting all crooked in the ditch where I’d left it the night before. Marlboro Man had already fixed it, fishing it out of the ditch and repairing the mangled tires and probably, knowing him, filling the tank with gas. “Oh, thank you so much,” I said as we walked toward the front door. “I thought maybe I’d killed it.” “Aw, it’s fine,” he replied. “But you might want to learn to drive before you get in it again.” He flashed his mischievous grin. I slugged him in the arm as he laughed. Then he lunged at me, grabbing my arms and using his leg to sweep my supporting leg right out from under me. Within an instant, he had me on the ground, right on the soft, green grass of his front yard. I shrieked and screamed, trying in vain to wrestle my way out of his playful grasp, but my wimpy upper body was no match for his impossible strength. He tickled me, and being the most ticklish human in the Northern Hemisphere, I screamed bloody murder. Afraid I’d wet my pants (it was a valid concern), I fought back the only way I knew how--by grabbing and untucking his shirt from his Wranglers…and running my hand up his back, poking at his rib cage. The tickling suddenly stopped. Marlboro Man propped himself on his elbows, holding my face in his hands. He kissed me passionately and seriously, and what started as a playful wrestling match became an impromptu make-out session in his front yard. It was an unlikely place for such an event, and considering it was at the very beginning of our night together, an unlikely time. But it was also strangely perfect. Because sometime during all the laughing and tickling and wrestling and rolling around in the grass, my worry and concern over my parents’ troubles had magically melted away. Only when the chiggers began biting did Marlboro Man suggest an alternate plan. “Let’s go inside,” he said.

I know he makes mistakes, but basically he’s a good kid,” she told him. “Trust him, and trust yourself.” She looked so earnest, he thought, as aroused as he was amused. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be trusting me,” he told her, right before he kissed her. As he lowered his mouth to hers, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. She leaned into him, her slender body warm and supple in his embrace. Her lips clung, then parted. When he swept inside, she was hot, sweet and more than willing to take him on. The second his tongue touched hers, she moaned. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and he felt a shudder ripple through her body. He went from hard to ready to explode in two seconds. The way they were next to each other on a log didn’t allow him to explore her the way he wanted, so he broke the kiss and pulled her to her feet. Phoebe went willingly, if a little unsteadily. When they were both standing, he pressed his mouth to her jaw before sliding to her neck. She moaned and leaned back her head. Their lower bodies brushed against each other. When her belly came in contact with his erection, it was his turn to groan. He slid one hand from her waist up to her breast and cupped the feminine curve. Even through the layers of her shirt and bra, he could feel her tight nipple. One sweep of his thumb against it had her gasping. She touched his head and guided his mouth back to hers. This time when he entered her, she closed her lips around his tongue and sucked. He dropped his free hand to the small of her back, holding her in place so he could rub against her. The thick ropes of his control began to unravel. When she curled both arms around his neck, it seemed natural to place his around her waist and pick her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing herself in direct contact with his hard-on. It was paradise. It was pure torture. He swore. She broke the kiss and smiled at him. “So you find me annoying, but you still want me,” she whispered. “I don’t find you annoying.” He pushed against her crotch. “I don’t find you annoying, either.

Warm hands held her firm as he settled between her legs. His warm, wet tongue drew lazy circles around her sensitive flesh, so gently at first, she hovered between pleasure and pain, and then harder, faster, until the ache inside her blossomed into edgy need. He slid one thick finger into her wet heat, and then another, a sensual intrusion that stole her breath. And then his lips closed around her aching nub. She cried out, throwing back her head, hands fisting his hair, pleasure cresting and flooding through her veins, trickling out to her fingers and toes. With a low growl, he pushed up and sheathed himself with a condom he pulled from his pocket. On instinct, she rolled her hips, wrapped her legs around his hips to pull him close. Liam grabbed the edge of her headboard with one strong arm and plunged inside her. She gasped at the exquisite sensation and tightened her legs around him. Need pulsed beneath her skin. "Move, Liam. Please. I won't break." Her body took over, hands gripping his thick biceps, hips rocking, taking him deeper. A strangled groan escaped his lips and he gripped her hip so hard she knew his fingers would leave bruises. Braced against her headboard, he pulled out and pushed in deep and hard, shoulders straining as he gave in to her demands, filling a need she didn't know had existed, taking her outside of herself, beyond control. The bed squeaked, swayed. The headboard hammered against the wall in time to the rhythm of his thrusts. Need coiled inside her, tighter and tighter, until finally she peaked. Her spine arched, her orgasm sweeping through her body in a tidal wave of pleasure, filling her with heat. Liam growled her name, corded throat tightening, muscles going rigid as he followed her into oblivion. The sound of wood splintering startled her, made her heart jump. Liam dropped down, covering her with his body as the headboard split in two and crashed down on top of them. "Oh my God." She panted beneath him. "We broke the bed. Are you okay?" Liam heaved the headboard up so she could slip out from underneath him. When she was safely away, he lifted it onto the floor and gave a satisfied growl. "Now, that was good sex.

Amy?" he breathed. Two dancers, caught up in the dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him down. "Lord Charles!  I beg your pardon!" But he never heard them.  He never saw them.  He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry.  She was a ravishing young woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to insignificance. Charles's mouth went dry.  His heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe. Another set of dancers collided with him, knocking him to his senses.  Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was partnering a grinning Nerissa.  "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?" quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past.  "You should've stuck around to see her announced, Charles.  Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting . . ." Charles had heard enough.  But as he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more. "Well, His Grace told me she's an heiress . . ." "Not just an heiress, but a princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ." ". . . came here to offer her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ." Charles clenched his fists.  Lucien.  No one else could have, would have, started and circulated such a preposterously crazy rumor!  What the hell was his brother trying to do, get Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life forever?  This was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned sure! His jaw tight, he stormed across the dance floor toward Amy.  He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've sworn she didn't have. She had not seen him yet, and as Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent, that it made him think of doing something totally irrational. Such as calling Perry out for dancing with his woman. Such as killing Lucien for whatever little game he was playing. Such

Areli kicked her dragon upwards and followed Aquilina and Fides through the lanterns and rock, out into clean mountain air. Aquilina had picked only the two, whom she said were hands down the greatest riders on the team, to ride with her. Areli didn’t know how to respond to that, except to turn red and cover her mouth with surprise. And now she was flying, not in an arena, but in free air, a privilege given to only the best professional riders. They flew over the city. The buildings looked like small blocks and the carriages looked like gold-colored ants roaming about. The sweep of the cool air was refreshing against Areli’s face. They flew over the trees leading to Emperor Abhiraja’s forest, which looked like nothing but a tossed salad from their view. And then they were over Emperor Abhiraja’s trees. Back at the boarding facility, before they left, Aquilina told them there was only one rule if they were to ride with her . . . keep up. Aquilina veered down towards the trees. Fides took after her and Areli followed. Areli sat hard into her seat and pulled the reins to her right. She leaned her leg into Kaia’s left shoulder and held on tight to the saddle horn. Kaia leaned her body and they knifed through the air. Areli shifted her legs and hands, chasing after Fides and Aquilina. They slipped through a tiny gap in the tops of the massive trees. Areli saw the red of Fidelja’s dragon ahead of her, and then it disappeared. She saw shades of brown and green coming up fast. Areli pulled on the reins, keeping her hands light, and sunk into the seat, leveling off their descent into the forest. She immediately started kicking Kaia forward as she saw Fides dragon’s tail wrap past a tree. Areli commanded Kaia in a way she never had before. Using every skill she ever learned, she cued Kaia right, then left, then into a roll to get through two narrowly placed trees, and then up, always following the blur of red in front of her. They came out above the trees again and then they swooped back down. This time it was into the Columns of Abhi. They curved around the large rock structures like a knife full of butter caressing a freshly baked roll. Areli didn’t think she could feel this exhilarated. But there was something utterly breathtaking about flying without walls, without spectators or trainers. This was true freedom, according to Areli. Freedom from homework, freedom from fears, freedom from worries. This was the place where she could be . . . just to be.

They came in to look. I watched them. Most people go through museums like they do Macy's: eyes sweeping the display, stopping only if something really grabs their attention. These two looked at everything. They both clearly liked the bicycle picture. Yup, Dutch, I decided. He was a few steps ahead when he got to my favorite painting there. Diana and the Moon. It was-surprise surprise-of Diana, framed by a big open window, the moon dominating the sky outside. She was perched on the windowsill, dressed in a gauzy wrap that could have been nightclothes or a nod to her goddess namesake. She looked beautiful, of course, and happy, but if you looked for more than a second, you could see that her smile had a teasing curve to it and one of her hands was actually wrapped around the outside frame. I thought she looked like she might swing her legs over the sill and jump, turning into a moth or owl or breath of wind even before she was completely out of the room. I thought she looked, too, like she was daring the viewer to come along. Or at least to try. The Dutch guy didn't say anything. He just reached out a hand. His girlfriend stepped in, folding herself into the circle of his outsretched arm. They stood like that, in front of the painting, for a full minute. Then he sneezed. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue.He took in and, without letting go of her, did a surprisingly graceful one-handed blow. Then he crumpled the tissue and looked around for a trash can. There wasn't one in sight. She held out her free hand; he passed over the tissue, and she stuck it right back into her pocket. I wanted to be grossed out. Instead, I had the surprising thought that I really really wanted someone who would do that: put my used Kleenex in his pocket. It seemed like a declaration of something pretty big. Finally,they finished their examination of Diana and moved on.There wasn't much else, just the arrogant Willings and the overblown sunrise. They came over to examine the bronzes. She saw my book. "Excuse me. You know this artist?" Intimately just didn't seem as true anymore. "Pretty well," I answered. "He is famous here?" "Not very." "I like him." she said thoughtfully. "He has...oh, the word...personism?" "Personality?" I offered. "Yes!" she said, delighted. "Personality." She reached behind her without looking. Her boyfriend immediately twined his fingers with hers. They left, unfolding the map again as they went, she chattering cheerfully. I think she was telling him he had personality. They might as well have had exhibit information plaques on their backs: "COUPLE." CONTEMPORARY DUTCH. COURTESY OF THE ESTATE OF LOVE, FOR THE VIEWING PLEASURE (OR NOT) OF ANYONE AND EVERYONE.

Come on, show me what you got” Shelby said throwing a set of gear to wing before pulling on a pair of gloves herself “I'll try not to hurt you too badly” “how reassuring” Wing said pulling on his gloves he had been giving Shelby hand-to-hand combat training for some time back at H.I.V.E And what she lacked in technique she made up for in speed and cunning. “Bring it” Shelby said with a grin raising both gloves in a defensive stance and beckoning him towards her “It will be brought” Wing replied. He feinted to her left and she went to block as he simultaneously swung a low blow into her other side, carefully pulling his punch so that he just tapped her. “Two perhaps three broken ribs” Wing said matter of factly “maintain your guard” Shelby nodded and took a quick jab at his jaw which wing blocked effortlessly “Try not to look where you are striking you betray your intentions” They went on like that for a couple more minutes just as in their previous sparring sessions Wing noticed that once they began Shelby became totally focused. There were none of this smart comments or sarcasm that she'd normally used - she was suddenly deadly serious. “Broken job possible unconsciousness” Wing said calmly as he struck her passed her guard stopping his fist millimetres from her chin. “Oh my God” Shelby gasped suddenly, staring in shock at something over wings shoulder. He spun around, his guard raised. Shelby dropped low swinging her leg out, sweeping Wing's feet out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. “Wounded pride, possible humiliation” Shelby said with a grin offering her hand to Wing and pulling him up off the floor. “and so ends today's lesson” she said pulling off her head guard. “an unconventional tactic” Wing said with a nod, taking off his own helmet. “but a successful one none the less” “ I kinda like unconventional tactics” Shelby said stepping towards him. “never underestimate the power of surprise” She grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him for a few long seconds. “what was that about maintaining your guard?” she said with a smile as she pulled away from him. “sometimes one should let ones guard down” Wing said staring at her for a moment before drawing her towards him and kissed her back. “Er...guys?” a familiar voice said causing Wing and Shelby to spring apart. “Dr Nero wants you to report to the briefing room” Wing winced slightly as he saw Nigel and Franz standing in the doorway. Nigel was looking pointedly at the floor and Franz was staring at him and Shelby, his mouth hanging open in surprise. “come on big guy - no rest for the wicked” Shelby said to Wing with a grin, taking his hand and dragging him out of the room past Nigel and the stunned looking Franz.

THE NIGHTGOWN was only the first of the garments in the box. There were seven nightgowns, in fact—one for each day of the week—of delicate silk, lovely georgette, and beautiful tiffany. As Alexandra pulled them out, she draped them on the bed. She’d never seen a nightgown that wasn’t white, but these were almond and pale blush pink, powder blue and soft peach, with delicate edgings of lace and intricate, exquisite embroidery. “They’re stunning,” she said. “Madame Rodale has nothing like them in her book of fashion plates.” Tris just grinned. He seemed different tonight. More relaxed, less worried. She didn’t know what had prompted his sudden good humor, but she didn’t want to question it. She’d rather enjoy it instead. After the afternoon she’d had—starting with Elizabeth’s letter and ending with three fruitless interviews—she wasn’t about to risk the one thing that seemed to be going right. “Are you going to try one on for me?” he asked. Her face heated. He chose a nightgown off the bed, palest lavender with black lace and violet embroidery. “This one,” he said, handing it to her. “Do you require assistance with your dress?” “Just the buttons,” she said, and turned to let him unfasten them. She shifted the nightgown in her hands. It felt so light. “There,” he said when the back of her green dress gaped open. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck, then settled on one of the striped chairs, sipping from the glass of port he’d brought upstairs with him. “Use the dressing room. I’ll be waiting.” In the dressing room, she shakily stripped out of her frock, chemise, shoes, and stockings, then dropped the nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs. She turned to see herself in the looking glass. Sweet heaven. She’d never imagined nightgowns like this existed. Her nightgowns all had high collars that tied at the throat. This one had a wide, low neckline. Her nightgowns all had long, full sleeves. This one had tiny puffed sleeves that began halfway off her shoulders. Her nightgowns were made of yards and yards of thick, billowing fabric. This one was a slender column that left no curve to the imagination. It was wicked. “Are you ready yet?” Tris called. Alexandra swallowed hard, reminding herself that he’d seen her in less clothing. And he was her husband. Still, wearing the nightgown for him somehow felt more intimate than wearing nothing at all. She was as ready as she’d ever be. Drawing a deep breath, she exited the dressing room, walked quickly through the sitting room, and paused in the bedroom’s doorway. She dropped her gaze, then raised her lashes, giving him the look—the one Juliana had said would make men fall at her feet. Judging from the expression on Tris’s face, it was a good thing he was sitting. The way he looked at her made her heartbeat accelerate. He rose and moved toward her. She met him halfway, licking suddenly dry lips. “Will you kiss me?” she asked softly, reaching up to sweep that always unruly lock off his forehead. It worked this time. He kissed her but good.

How you doing, Helena?" she asked quietly. "Not so good, Alley." The wounded trooper's voice was harsh, strained, despite all the painkillers in her pharmacope could do. The plasma bolt which had knocked out her armor hadn't killed her outright, but she'd lost her left leg just below the hip, and the entire left side of her armor was a smoking ruin. Her battle rifle had been destroyed, and her vital signs flickered unsteadily on Alicia's monitors. Alicia looked up at Tanis' face through the visor of her armor, and her wing shook her head silently. "We -" Alicia began, but Chu cut her off. "I already figured it out, Alley," she said. "I figured you had," Alicia said softly, and laid her armored hand on Chu's right shoulder. She knelt there for a few silent heartbeats, then straightened her spine. "You guys need to get moving," Chu said. She reached down and drew her sidearm-a CHK three-millimeter, identical to the one Alicia normally carried. "I'll just wait here with Bill," the crippled corporal said, nodding to where her wingman had already died. Alicia gazed down at her, longing for something-anything-to say. Some comforting lie, like "I'm sure the bad guys will be too busy concentrating on us to send in a follow-up sweep," or "Hang on, and we'll get a med team out here as soon as we've polished off Green Haven." But Chu knew the odds as well as Alicia did, and she could read her own life sign monitors. She knew how little time she had left unless the med team arrived almost instantly, that only her pharmacope and augmentation were keeping her alive even now, and Alicia owed her people something better than a lie. "God bless, Helena," she said, very quietly, instead, then turned to lead the fifty-eight surviving effectives of Charlie Company, Third Battalion, Second Regiment, Fifth Brigade, Imperial Cadre back into motion.

A few more steps and you’ll be in the bedroom. I’m going to lay you down and try to get your wet clothes off.” She sounded dispassionate, as if he wasn’t a man at all. She didn’t seem embarrassed by the thought of removing his clothes, but then she was a diver and he knew they often had to strip with other divers around them. He didn’t mind that she wasn’t embarrassed, but it vaguely bothered him that she didn’t see him as a man. With his head pounding so hard and his chest so tight, he wasn’t certain of anything, so he dismissed the notion as idiotic. The moment he stretched out on the bed, he closed his eyes and let her work. She found his knife in one boot and his holdout gun in the other. There was another knife strapped to his leg. Another gun in his belt. A third one in a harness. Another knife and three small daggers in loops at his belt. She didn’t say a word but her breathing changed. She inhaled several times quite sharply. That made him want to smile too. She found his throwing stars and the two throwing knives, but she missed the garrotes sewn into his clothing. “What are you? Some kind of assassin?” He didn’t answer. She was tugging his clothing off of him, and he knew the instant she saw him as a man. Her hands stilled and she made a single sound, a low note he couldn’t quite interpret. He opened his eyes and caught her looking, her eyes enormous and beautiful, the lashes fanning the sweep of her high cheekbone. She looked up at him and he felt a physical jolt. She cleared her throat and tugged on his jeans. “Lift up.

Though the scoffers still revile at Christianity and say that it spreads not as once it did, a speedy answer shall confound them, or if not speedy, yet the stroke shall be sure! Our King waits a while. He has leisure. Haste belongs to weakness. His strength moves calmly. Only let Him be awakened and you shall see how quick are His paces! He redeemed the world in a few short hours upon the Cross and I guarantee you that when He gets that iron rod once to working, He will not need many days to ease Him of His adversaries and make a clean sweep of all that set themselves against Him! If you want to see how it will be done, read, I pray you, Daniel 2:31—“You, O king, saw and behold a great image. This great image, whose brightness was excellent, stood before you; and the form thereof was terrible. This image’s head was of fine gold, his breast and his arms of silver, his belly and his thighs of brass, his legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay.” It was a strange conglomeration—all the metallic empires are set forth as combined in one image—which image is the embodied idea of monarchical power which has fascinated men even to this day. The Prophet goes on to say, “You saw still that a stone was cut out without hands, which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay and broke them to pieces. Then was the iron, the clay, the brass, the silver and the gold broken to pieces together and became like the chaff of the summer threshing floors and the wind carried them away, that no place was found for them: and the stone that smote the image became a great mountain and filled the whole earth.” And so it is to be—the vision is being each day fulfilled. The Gospel stone, which owes nothing to human strength or wisdom, is breaking the image and scattering all opposing powers. No system, society, confederacy, or cabinet can stand which is opposed to the Truth of God and righteousness. I, even I, that am but of yesterday and know nothing, have seen one of the mightiest of empires of modern times melt away all of a sudden as the frost of the morning in the heat of the sun. I have seen monarchs driven out of their tyrannies by the powers of a single man and a free nation born as in an hour. I have seen states which fought to hold the Negro in perpetual captivity subdued by those whom they despised, while the slave has been set free! I have seen nations chastened under evil governments and revived when the yoke has been broken and they have returned to the way of righteousness and peace. He who lives longest shall see most of this. Evil is short-lived. Truth shall yet rise above all. The Lord says, overturn, overturn till He shall come whose right it is and God shall give it to Him. Woe unto those that stand against the Lord and His Anointed, for they shall not prosper. “Be wise now, therefore, O you kings: be instructed, you judges of the earth. Kiss the Son, lest He be angry and you perish from the way, when His wrath is kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust in Him.

No, now I know four secrets.” “Four?” A perfectly sculpted brow arched and her laugh twisted Jackson’s quixotic emotions into a knot. The pressure inside his pants grew. He envisioned her naked beneath him, her long, coltish legs wrapped tight in a lover’s squeeze around his waist. A sliver of sweat slid down his neck. God help me, I want her. He shot a glance to the cup and saucer on the piano. “You make and serve tea. That’s one.” His hand slid along the Steinway, thankful for the coolness beneath his fingers. “Two…you play this instrument with remarkable skill.” He motioned toward her green damask evening gown. “Three. You do know how to wear a dress.” He then rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, and steepled his fingers in an outward show of control. Inside, however, his blood still churned. “And four…” Jackson paused to slide his gaze in a deliberate, self-indulgent sweep over the curve of her breasts before reconnecting with her now-widened eyes. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman.

Visitors come on two legs, on four, on the sweeping sinuosity of scaled legless bodies. There are perches in front of every exhibit for those who come by wing, whethered feathered or mebranous, and the Museum does its best to accomodate those whose habitual method of locomotion is aquatic.

Beside him was a small employee sweeping the floor, just by Andrei. The cleaner clenched the broom with effort and quick movements. She moved forcefully, with so much vigor that one saw a girl scout. But wrinkles had already formed on her neck, that sweated, moistening her black wig. Andrei stared, noticing she was damn good at her job, but too good. She would bend her legs to sweep the difficult corners of the shop. The woman would adjust the picture frames on the wall and wipe down the chairs, tasks which were not part of her required duties. Whenever her co-workers talked casually, the woman steered the conversation to the topic of the conditions of the store, which she knew, or to certain customers, who she knew, or to how business was, which she knew. She drove back home with a smile, knowing she’d done a great job that day. “They need me! Otherwise, who else would have caught the slip hazard by the trash? No one, not even my manager!” she would say before bed. She was naturally helpful. It was tragic to see that kind employee, happy like a little child, be so great at some stupid shop, when in her pumped a heart large enough to fuel the future, a forest, or a country. There was no structure of life, or invention yet created, whose mechanism could righteously allocate the innocence and love embedded in the warm blood of a human being. There deserved to be. She was sacred. But the world, decidedly corporate, had seized her, eaten her up, devouring what was left of the lively.

The Yin Heel Vessel starts at KI-6 on the inside of the heel and ascends the inside of the leg until it enters the genital area. From there it continues on an internal path through the abdomen and chest. It emerges again at ST-12 and then continues up the throat, at ST-9, and intersects with the Yang Heel Vessel and the Bladder Meridian at BL-1. It then branches into the brain.4 Yin Heel Vessel Point Descriptions KI-6 Chinese Point name: Zhao Hai;5 English translation: “Shining Sea;” Special Attributes: This bilateral point is an intersection point for the Yin Heel Vessel and the Kidney Meridian. It is one of the 36 Vital Points listed in the Bubishi; Location: About one inch below the inside of the anklebone; and is bilateral. Western Anatomy: The posterior tibial artery and vein and the medial crural cutaneous nerve are present; Comments: This point can be struck, with a number of other points, with low sweeping kicks to the inside of the lower leg and foot. Additionally, once an opponent has become prone on the ground this point can be stomped.

Your belly button is important for leg sweeps. Every sweep, throw, or takedown you have ever seen involves either removing a supporting foot (leaving the center of mass far away from the only remaining support) or shifting the center of mass away from the supporting feet in such a way as to make it difficult or impossible to move the feet back under the center of mass. The fact that we can describe all takedowns so succinctly means we can also boil all of their complexity down to simple concepts. Anytime you practice a sweep, throw, or takedown, ask yourself these two questions: Q1: How are you putting your opponent’s center of mass in a position where it is unsupported? Q2: Why is it that your opponent cannot just reposition his feet in time to save himself? If you can answer those two questions, you are on your way to developing a deep understanding and mastery of the technique. Alternatively, if you find yourself on the receiving end of a takedown, it would be to your advantage to understand the answers to these questions as well, so you can do your best to keep your opponent from putting you on the floor. Let’s look at a simple example here, so when it comes time for you to answer these questions yourself, you have somewhere to start. The simplest and perhaps most effective takedown we see in the ring today is the wrestler’s favorite: get low and shoot the legs. There are, of course, many variations and many subtleties to the technique, but for now, we will stick to the basics. Q1: How are you putting your opponent’s center of mass in a position where it is unsupported? A1: Your shoulder is pushing your opponent’s center of mass behind and possibly to the side of his supporting feet as you charge in. Q2: Why is it that your opponent cannot just reposition his feet in time to save himself? A2: Getting a hand behind one or both knees will assure you your opponent is not capable of recovery as you advance. While focusing on these questions will not grant you immediate mastery of the technique, it will get you started thinking like a scientist when it comes to takedowns, and over time, the “magic” behind them will start to seem more and more like common sense.

Mr Lancelot Trotman looked like a very well-bred fish. Small head with pale blue cod’s eyes; a perfect sweep of chest and belly which seemed to curve right to his feet; and as he walked his legs moved from the knees only in a paddling motion, like swimming in air. The short fin-like arms, the white flapping hands and sensual lips which had a half-drinking expression permanently upon them, the straight nose. It was as if a magician had taken a large carp from a pond, blessed it, and sent it to Savile Row with orders to get dressed and become a man.

Stacy simply says no and leaves everyone unscathed and unimplicated. Me, I opt for the hard way every single time, with all the stricken faces and the “I’m so sorrys” this implies. I take guilty, grim satisfaction in being able to blamelessly detonate this grenade in the lives of strangers. It is a cruel and ungenerous leg sweep in response to a question born only of fellowship and human curiosity. “Yeah, I had a fucking kid. She died. Have a pleasant afternoon.

He was still wearing the khaki pants, his more formal shirt now unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. His dark hair hung over one eye, but I could see his gaze sweeping over me, taking me in. At least this time I wasn't wearing coffee-stained pajama pants. I'd put on what was essentially my uniform that morning--- black leggings, black T-shirt, my long hair in a messy bun, and winged eyeliner because fuck it why not.

Drew winced. “My back hurts. What did you do to me in your front yard? One minute I was standing, then I was flat on my back in the grass.” “I swept the leg,” she said matter-of-factly. “But why?” “Why not? It’s the fastest way to get someone to the ground.” “But we were standing on your lawn.” “Exactly. We were on nice, soft grass. I would have wrestled you sooner, but it’s not safe on the pavement.” “Do you always wrestle with guys?” “Just the ones I like.” She tapped him on the nose. “Boop.” He tapped her right back. “Boop.” She asked, “Now that I’ve taught you to watch out for the leg sweep, what else can I do for you? Breakfast in bed? Pack you a bagged lunch for work today?” He checked the time on her alarm clock. “It’s Saturday, which is a light day, but I do have a few patients after lunch.” “What do you mean it’s a light day? You’re not fully booked? You must not be a very good dentist. Maybe I should get a second opinion on that cap you glued into my mouth all willy-nilly.” He dropped his jaw in mock outrage. “Not a very good dentist? Those are fighting words, you bad girl.” She raised her eyebrows. “Want to take this back out to the front lawn?” “I think we gave your neighbors enough of a show last night.” “True,” she said. “Plus, we already got grass stains all over one change of clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “Grass stains.” He groaned. He leaned back, resting his head on Megan’s second pillow, where Muffins normally slept. The sea-foam-green linens were a perfect complement to his skin tone. His brown eyes were a rich chocolate with bright flecks and an inner ring that was nearly green. The sheets had been purchased to complement Muffins, with his orange fur and entirely green eyes, but they looked even better around Dr. Drew Morgan. Drew asked, “What are you thinking about?” He reached up to run his fingers through her tangled morning hair. She normally hated that, but it felt good when Drew did it. “I’m thinking that you look really good in my sheets. You look good in sea-foam green.” “Thanks.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to see how you look in my bed.” “You think you’re going to get me into your bed?” “Sure. I know how it’s done. You just sweep the leg.” “I shouldn’t have told you all my secrets.” Muffins returned and situated himself between them for a bath. Drew propped himself up on one elbow and petted the cat. “So what do I have to do to get you to my place in the first place?” “Reverse psychology works well on me. You could tell me to never come over. You could ban me from your house.” He chuckled. “Whatever you do, don’t show up naked under a trench coat.” “What makes you think I’d show up naked in a trench coat?” “You’re a wild girl. Exactly what I need right now.” “You need me? Are we talking about, like, a medical type of emergency?” “You tell me.” He scooped up Muffins, placed him on the chair next to the bed, and pulled Megan close to him.

What we needed to raise in other was this instinct. The ability to recognize, in an instant, right from wrong. The clarity of mind to face it rather than ignore it. I learned that before they had chased Brock, they had checked on me. Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying.

When they called me in for an interview, I knew I had a chance, because I did well with first impressions, particularly when sober. It was everything following the first impression that troubled me. I could give you what you wanted. I just couldn’t keep giving it to you. Sitting across from me in a large conference room, an extremely put-together, reserved woman with long, curly brown hair asked, “What experience do you have with administrative work?” She wants honesty. “Well, I spent a summer as an intern at an office supplies business, but I don’t have a ton of experience.” I smiled and made a little face, as if to say, Can I really say that? As if I were a bit coy. “I graduated from UC Davis about a year ago, but stayed home with my baby,” I continued, “but I am a quick learner. I am very thorough.” My mother had told me once while I was sweeping out our motor home that I was “very thorough.” I stuck with it. “What do you think your greatest asset is?” She offered a quick smile between jotting notes. I noticed she was left-handed and that her blouse perfectly matched her cardigan. Humility. Tie it in with the honesty, Janelle. “I am willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. If the firm needs me to scrub toilets, I’ll do it. I’m here to work and I don’t have too much ego wrapped up in that.” She smiled again, and I felt bolstered. You’re doing great, Janelle. “We are extremely focused on collaboration. What is your greatest weakness?” Captain Morgan. Nope. Don’t say that. “Oh, well, I think it must be that I can be a bit of a perfectionist. I don’t want to let things go if they aren’t perfect, or close, you know? So sometimes I get frustrated with people who don’t have the same focus as I do.” I failed to mention that I thought most people around me were fucking idiots who should lose their jobs. That if I thought things, they were true, even if I had no evidence for them, and that, frankly, I was not exactly shining in my own life, and threatened to leave my husband on the daily. And, speaking of daily, I drank at that exact interval, and used to chase my brother around the house with a large kitchen knife. I kept all that to myself and crossed my legs.

Maybe the God we see, the God who calls the daily shots, is merely a subGod. Maybe there’s a God above this subGod, who’s busy for a few Godminutes with something else, and will be right back, and when he gets back will take the subGod by the ear and say, “Now look. Look at that fat man. What did he ever do to you? Wasn’t he humble enough? Didn’t he endure enough abuse for a thousand men? Weren’t the simplest tasks hard? Didn’t you sense him craving affection? Were you unaware that his days unraveled as one long bad dream?” And maybe as the subGod slinks away, the true God will sweep me up in his arms, saying: My sincere apologies, a mistake has been made. Accept a new birth, as token of my esteem. And I will emerge again from between the legs of my mother, a slighter and more beautiful baby, destined for a different life, in which I am masterful, sleek as a deer, a winner.

His scales were smooth and hot beneath my palms but I managed to gain purchase by grabbing hold of his wing and hoisting myself higher. His body was trembling beneath me and he bellowed in pain again, urging me on faster. I reached up, grabbing a thick spine which ran down the centre of his neck before coming face to face with the creature from my nightmares. The Nymph shrieked, lunging at me faster than should have been possible and I almost lost my grip on Darius as I fell back. My heart lurched violently but I managed to catch the top of his wing, swinging myself around as that paralysing rattle juddered through my core, halting my magic in its tracks and stealing my energy from me. Fear shot through me as the Nymph pounced, its probes aimed right for my chest. I screamed, throwing my fist out even though I knew it was no good. As my knuckles connected with the bony ridges of its face, pain exploded through my hand swiftly followed by a flood of red and blue flames. The Nymph shrieked so loudly that I threw my hands over my ears as the flames consumed it, a wisp of black smoke sweeping up towards the sky where it had been moments before. I fell forwards, my palms meeting the warmth of Darius’s blood as I braced myself against him. More Nymphs were running straight for us and with an echoing roar which vibrated right through my body, Darius destroyed all five of them with a torrent of Dragon Fire. His head fell forward as he used the last of his energy and I cried out, grabbing hold of his wing as he tilted sideways beneath me. He crashed to the ground on his side and through some miracle, I managed to keep hold of his wing before falling against his neck. I wrapped my arms around him, scrunching my eyes closed as a tremor tore through his body and the golden colour of his scales seemed to shine with inner power and heat. My stomach lurched and I released a scream as I found myself falling over ten foot down to the ground as Darius retreated into his Fae form. I kept hold of him as I fell, crashing down into the mud of the Pitball pitch on top of him with a cry of fear. All around us the fight raged on but beneath my hands, blood was pulsing from his chest and he was lying deathly still. “Darius?” I demanded, shaking him while still trying to press down on his wounds. It wouldn’t be enough though, his back and legs were bleeding too. A bloody gouge shone wetly on his neck and his breaths were far too shallow. “Help!” I shouted, though my eyes stayed fixed on Darius’s face and my heart was pounding the rhythm of a war drum in my chest. The hairs were rising along the back of my neck, a strange sensation prickling in my chest. This moment felt eternal and fleeting all at once, like we were hanging between two great points and everything could change on the turn of a coin. “Wake up!” I demanded, pushing my magic towards him in hopes of being able to do something. Instead of stopping the blood or healing him, my magic spilled into his body, merging with his in the reverse of what we’d been doing when he helped me with my fire magic. His power welcomed mine instantly, drawing it in, blending with it completely like it had been waiting for this moment. The feeling took my breath away and though it didn’t slow the blood, I felt the tension ease from his muscles and the fear loosen its grip on his heart. My hands were shaking as they ran slick with Darius’s blood and silent tears tracked down my cheeks. His heart was slowing down, his power flickering like a candle in a breeze. If someone didn’t get to us soon, Darius Acrux was going to die. And though it seemed like he should have been the last person in the world for me to care about after everything he’d done to me, I wasn’t sure I could bear it if I lost him here.(tory)

Rhys lunged against his hold, but Amren stepped to their side and hissed, “Listen.” Nesta whispered, “I give it all back.” Her shoulders heaved as she wept. Rhys began shaking his head, his power a palpable, rising wave that could destroy them all, destroy the world if it meant Feyre was no longer in it, even if he only had seconds to live beyond her, but Amren grabbed the nape of his neck. Her red nails dug into his golden skin. “Look at the light.” Iridescent light began flowing from Nesta’s body. Into Feyre. Nesta kept holding her sister. “I give it back. I give it back. I give it back.” Even Rhys stopped fighting. No one moved. The light glimmered down Feyre’s arms. Her legs. It suffused her ashen face. Began to fill the room. Cassian’s Siphons guttered, as if sensing a power far beyond his own, beyond any of theirs. Tendrils of light drifted between the sisters. And one, delicate and loving, floated toward Mor. To the bundle in her arms, setting the silent babe within glowing bright as the sun. And Nesta kept whispering, “I give it back. I give it all back.” The iridescence filled her, filled Feyre, filled the bundle in Mor’s arms, lighting his friend’s face so the shock on it was etched in stark relief. “I give it back,” Nesta said, one more time, and Mask and Crown tumbled from her head. The light exploded, blinding and warm, a wind sweeping past them, as if gathering every shard of itself out of the room. And as it faded, dark ink splashed upon Nesta’s back, visible through her half-shredded shirt, as if it were a wave crashing upon the shore. A bargain. With the Cauldron itself.

What we need to raise in others was this instinct. The ability to recognize, in an instant, right from wrong. The clarity of mind to face it rather than ignore it. I learned that before they had chased Brock, they had checked on me. Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying.

I’m going to be thinking about you all day. I have so many meetings, Margo. I can’t be hard for all of them.” “I regret to inform you that you share an office with me and you can’t escape,” I teased. “I don’t regret any of the time I’ve spent with you. Not one single moment.” “Even when we were enemies?” I poked him in the leg and he grabbed my hand. “Even then. God, the way you used to bark at me around the office. I was hard all the time.” He let his head fall back against the seat and closed his eyes. “And there’s this one dress you wear to client meetings that drives me absolutely insane.” “The light blue one? I thought you hated that dress. You always looked so angry on the days I wore it.” I remembered his jaw clenching during client meetings. He huffed a laugh, and I admired the sweep of his lashes and his full lips. “Angry is not what I was feeling.” I sat back. “Wow. Wait, what about the leggings?” He opened his eyes, and they were hazy with desire. “I fucking love those,” he murmured. “This is going to be fun.

Dancing was outlawed. So, back in the day, the Irish only used their legs so the Garda couldn’t see them dancing through the window. Women held brooms to make it look like they were doing some vigorous housework. Look.” He pointed over to the side of the dance floor, at a collection of brooms. “Those will be coming out later, when people have had plenty to drink, and they’re not for sweeping.

He presses a finger against her wet entrance, dipping down to tease her clit with a quick swipe of his tongue. A sharp gasp escapes her throat as electricity jolts through her, the heat in her stomach growing more and more intense. He draws tight circles with the tip of his tongue as he presses a single finger into her. Eden moans at the stretch. It's nothing she can't handle, and her slick desire makes it easy to adjust. He inserts a second, this time curling his fingers to sweep over her sweet spot. Eden's hips buck involuntarily, desperation mounting. "Oh, God," she pants, reaching down between her legs to comb her fingers through his hair. "Right there--- Fuck." It's almost too much. She's dizzy, overwhelmed by his touch and his tongue. He seems to know exactly what she needs and how she likes it, impossibly accurate and relentless in pursuit of her release. The hot coil within her grows tighter and tighter, threatening to explode. And then it does, a bright wave of pleasure sweeping over her. She drowns in it, moaning languidly as she closes her eyes and enjoys the high. Her chest heaves, rapid breaths matching the rhythm of her heart. A sudden, satisfying exhaustion hits her soon after. Every inch of her body is alight with soft fire, satiation evident in the way she strokes his hair.

Bryce lifted her chin, though she remained sitting on the ground. “Are Ruhn and Hunt still alive?” Something like distaste flashed in the Autumn King’s eyes. As if such mortal bonds should be the least of her concerns. “You show your hand, Bryce Quinlan.” “I thought my name was Bryce Danaan now,” she seethed. “To the detriment of the line, yes,” the Autumn King said, his eyes sparking. “Where have you been?” “There was a sample sale at the mall,” Bryce said flatly. “Are Ruhn and Hunt still alive?” The Autumn King’s head angled, gaze sweeping over her filthy T-shirt, her torn leggings. “I was informed that you were no longer on this planet. Where did you go?” Bryce declined to answer. Her father smiled slightly. “I can connect the dots. You arrive from off-world, bearing a knife that matches the Starsword. The dagger from the prophecy, no?” His eyes gleamed with greed. “Not seen since the First Wars. If I were to guess, you managed to reach a place I have long desired to go.” He glanced up at the orrery. “You might want to reconsider before packing your bags,” Bryce said. “They don’t take kindly to assholes.” “Your journey hasn’t impacted that smart mouth of yours, I see.” She smiled with saccharine sweetness. “You’re still an absolute bastard, I see.

and I might have very well gone to that pretty shop with Rhysand. I could almost see what would have happened: The shop ladies would have been polite—a bit nervous—and given us privacy as Rhys sat on the settee in the back of the shop while I went behind the curtained-off chamber to try on the red lace set I’d eyed thrice now. And when I emerged, mustering up more bravado than I felt, Rhys would have looked me up and down. Twice. And he would have kept staring at me as he informed the shop ladies that the store was closed and they should all come back tomorrow, and we’d leave the tab on the counter. I would have stood there, naked save for scraps of red lace, while we listened to the quick, discreet sounds of them closing up and leaving. And he would have looked at me the entire time—at my breasts, visible through the lace; at the plane of my stomach, now finally looking less starved and taut. At the sweep of my hips and thighs—between them. Then he would have met my gaze again, and crooked a finger with a single murmured, “Come here.” And I would have walked to him, aware of every step, as I at last stopped in front of where he sat. Between his legs. His hands would have slid to my waist, the calluses scraping my skin. Then he’d have tugged me a bit closer before leaning

He was watching her. As if her gaze was important to him as he worked himself. As he touched his 'cock.' She inhaled on the thought of the word, looking back down. He'd pushed his shirt out of the way with his other hand and she could see the flat muscles of his belly flexing as he worked himself. A tangle of dark hair surrounded his navel, narrowing abruptly below to a thin line that disappeared into the thicket of curls around his cock. He sat, spread-legged, still dressed in white shirt and gold waistcoat, his scarlet coat spread wide around his thighs. His feet were braced against the floorboards and she could see his hips begin to move, thrusting up into the steady rhythm of his fist. He looked like a debauched satyr, all sex and male desire, and she had a sudden wish that he'd taken off 'all' of his clothes off. She wanted to see his nipples and his buttocks, wanted to discover the broad sweep of his nude chest.

looks flawless, even… Inhuman. I look around her. Next to the rocking chair in which she’s seated is a— “Oh, Jesus—” My hand jerks, and the beam of light shoots to the ceiling. Hands shaking, I sweep the light through the darkness again, past the woman— A man. Wearing some kind of coat, tweed. Hair greased back. A thin face, eyes open and vacant. Sitting on a love seat, legs crossed. Same deal with the glossy skin, the immobile eyes, unresponsive to light. Not dead people. Not people at all. Wax figures. I exhale with the realization. I was two seconds away from kicking in this window to rescue a couple of wax mannequins. I keep the light moving. An area rug on the floor. A battered coffee table with a vase and flowers—fresh flowers, not fake. Against the wall, a faux fireplace—something painted on the wall, complete with logs and a spirited flame. A television set. I can only

I’ve dropped my drink,” she said, a barely noticeable quaver in her voice. “My apologies, my lord. If you’ll just…” “Hold still.” He hadn’t meant to be giving a command, exactly. “If you move, you might step on the glass, and it will slice your foot open.” He hoisted her easily against his chest, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders. “Arms around my neck,” he growled, but rather than taking her to the door, he moved across the room to sit in a large, overstuffed wing chair. “You can put me down,” she said, and in his arms, her spine was stiff, her body rigid. “Soon,” he replied, arranging her legs over the arm of the chair. “This will do for now.” “It will not do,” she protested, but she put her arms around his neck, and St. Just would have sworn he felt her nose graze his collarbone. As the rain pounded against the windows and the wind rattled the panes, the earl settled them in the chair. His hand moved in slow sweeps along her back, and his chin rested against her temple. He was stealing comfort from her under the guise of protecting her feet; he knew it; she likely knew it, as well. “It

Lotari turned back to the dance floor in time to see Stitch spin Carah before sweeping her into a low dip. Stitch grinned at Jerin and gave him a wink. Jerin's fist clenched. His face went from red to almost purple. Lotari thought he might need to intervene before this got out of hand and Jerin pulled out the sword. He glanced at Alyra. The bird was gone. The girl sat wide-eyed, her hands fumbling with something beneath the table. "Ooh, oh, my." The palomino stumbled. Lotari rushed over to help. "Oh, my leg. My leg!" he limped, draping his arm over Carah's shoulder. "Please, my dear, help me over to my friends where I can rest it a moment. Ohhh, this is tragic. I was having such fun. Oh my." Lotari stopped, realizing Stitch had suddenly switched the leg he limped on. "I am sorry. You are such a marvelous dancer. Jerin, you must take her out for me. She is much too good to be another wallflower." Jumping right into the game, Lotari gave the big man a hard push. "Yes, you must." Carah's gaze narrowed on Stitch with suspicious amusement. Perhaps realizing the opportunity given her, she smiled endearingly, turning the solid young man into a puddle of mush. "I'll be most grateful if you could finish the song with me, Jerin." She even flipped her strawberry curls from her face. Perfect. Lotari wasn't sure, but thought Jerin said something that sounded like, "Ilbebbedgladtoooo." As he led Carah to the dance floor, Stitch and Lotari clapped each other's back. "Well done, Son" Lotari looked toward Alyra. "Pure brilliance." She was gone.

Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Matt?” I ask. And I really want to know, because it’s unfathomable to me that he’s single. He’s handsome, and he’s so kind. He shakes a finger at me. “There’s a story there,” he says. I settle into the sofa a little deeper and turn so that my feet are pointed toward him, my legs extended. My toes almost touch his thigh. But then he lifts my feet and slides under them, scooting closer to me. “I was in love with a girl. For a long time.” “What happened to her?” I ask. He starts to tickle across my toes, and then his fingertips drag down the top of my foot. It’s a gentle sweep, and it feels so good that I don’t want him to stop. His fingers play absently as he starts to talk. “When I got the diagnosis,” he says, “she couldn’t deal with it.” “Cancer?” I ask. He nods. His fingers drag up and down my shin, and he slides around to stroke the back of my knee. I don’t stop him when his hand slides beneath my skirt, although I do tense up. He smiles when he finds the top of my thigh-highs, and he unclips the little fastener that attaches them to my garters. He repeats the action on the other side, his hands teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he frees the stocking and rolls it down. He pulls it all the way over my foot, and does the same with the other side. I am suddenly really glad I shaved my legs this morning. I wiggle my toes at him, and he starts to stroke me again. I don’t ever want him to stop. “This okay?” he asks. But he’s not looking at my face. He’s looking at my legs. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Keep talking. You got diagnosed…” “I got diagnosed, and the prognosis wasn’t good. I went through chemo and got a little better. But then I needed a second round. Things didn’t look good, and we were flat broke. I couldn’t work at the tattoo parlor anymore because my immune system was too weak, so I had no money coming in. I was poor and sick, and she didn’t love me enough to walk the path with me.” He shrugs, but I can tell he’s serious. “She cheated with my best friend.” He shrugs again. “And that’s the end of that sad story.” “You still love her?” I ask. I don’t breathe, waiting for his answer. He shakes his head and looks up. “I did love her for a long time. And I haven’t been looking for a relationship. I haven’t dated anyone since her. But I’m not in love with her anymore. I know that now.” “Why now?” I ask. He looks directly into my eyes and says, “Because I met you, and I feel really hopeful that you’ll want to go after something real with me. I know we just met and all, but I was serious about making you fall in love with me.” He laughs. “Then you hit me in the nose tonight, and I knew it was meant to be.” “What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. “When my brother Logan met Emily, she punched him in the face. And when Pete and Reagan first started dating, she hit him in the nose.” He reaches up and touches his nose gently. “So, when you hit me tonight, I just knew it was meant to be.” He grins. “I hope you feel the same way, because I really want to see where this thing is going to go.” “So the women your brothers fell in love with, they committed bodily harm to them and that’s how you guys knew it was real?” “We kind of have a rule. If a woman punches you in the face, you have to marry her.” He laughs. “I didn’t punch you.” “Same difference,” he says. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this. --Poppy Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked… After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let it slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk. Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen. Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. “My God,” he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers. “Do you like my nightgown?” Beatrix asked. Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “Where’s the rest of it?” “This was all I could find.” Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. “I wonder if I put it on backward…” “Let me see.” As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath. Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn’t take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin.

A striking blonde had just come through the front doors. She was wearing a black pants suit and pumps. Practical, but classy. What you’d see on a traveler carrying a first-class ticket. She was tall, too, maybe five-nine, five-ten, with long legs that looked good even in pants, and a ripe, voluptuous body. A porter followed her in, gripping a pair of large Vuitton bags. He paused near her, and leaned forward to ask something. She raised a hand to indicate he should wait, then started her own visual sweep of the room. I hadn’t expected that, and quickly returned my attention to Keiko until the blonde’s gaze had passed over us. When I glanced over again, she was standing beside Belghazi, her arm linked through his. Something about her presence was as relaxed and, in its way, as commanding as his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair, her face, the curves beneath her clothes.

When I was three or four meters away, one of them stood. The others continued to squat, watching, alert for whatever distraction was promised. I had already noted the absence of any of the security cameras that were growing more pervasive in the streets and subways with every passing year. Sometimes I have to fight the feeling that those cameras are looking specifically for me. “Oi,” the one who had stood called out. Hey. I stole a quick glance behind me to ensure that we were alone. It wouldn’t pay to have anyone see what I would do if these idiots got in my way. Without altering my pace or direction, I looked into the chinpira’s eyes, my expression obsidian flat. I let him know with this look that I was neither afraid nor looking for trouble, that I’d done this kind of thing many times before, that if he was in search of some excitement tonight the smart thing would be to find it elsewhere. Most people, especially those even loosely acquainted with violence, understand these signals, and can be relied on to respond in ways that increase their survival prospects. But apparently this guy was too stupid, or too jacked on kakuseizai. Or he might have misinterpreted my initial backward glance as a sign of fear. Regardless, he ignored the warning I had given him and started edging into my path. I recognized the procedure: I was being interviewed for my suitability as a victim. Would I allow myself to be forced out into the street and the oncoming traffic? Would I cringe and flinch in the process? If so, he would know I was a safe target, and he would then escalate, probably to real violence. But I prefer my violence sudden. Keeping him to my right, I stepped past him with my left leg, shooting my right leg through on the same side immediately after and then sweeping it backward to reap his legs out from under him in osoto-gari, one of the most basic and powerful judo throws. Simultaneously I twisted counterclockwise and blasted my right arm into his neck, taking his upper body in the opposite direction of his legs. For a split instant he was suspended horizontally over the spot where he had been standing. Then I drilled him into the sidewalk, jerking his collar up at the last instant so the back of his head wouldn’t take excessive impact. I didn’t want a fatality. Too much attention.

Held captive now by more than bonds and strength of arm, she turned her face to study his, fascinated by the sleepy innocence that clouded his half-closed eyes. The merciless killer was gone, replaced by a drowsy, mischievous boy who stroked her as if she were a newly acquired pet. A slow smile curved his mouth, a dreamy smile that told her he was more asleep than awake. He moved closer to whisper something unintelligible against her cheek. Her lips tingled, then parted. She found herself wondering how it might have felt if he had kissed her, then cringed at the wayward thought. Comanches didn’t kiss, they just took. And her time was running out. With the tip of his tongue, he outlined her ear. “Topsannah, tani-har-ro.” The words came out so slurred, she doubted he even knew he was saying them. “Prairie flower,” he muttered, “in springtime.” He fell silent. His arm around her waist went lifeless and heavy. His breathing changed, becoming measured and deep. The mahogany fringe of his eyelashes rested on his cheeks. Loretta stared, incredulity sweeping over her in waves. He was fast asleep. And she was pinned beneath his arm and leg. She wrinkled her nose. The fur of the buffalo robe tickled, and it smelled sharply of smoke and bear grease. Probably full of lice and fleas, too, she thought with disgust, then promptly began to itch, which was sheer torture because she couldn’t scratch. His hand rested on her ribs like an anchor. Though escape was impossible, bound as she was, being so close to him made her feel claustrophobic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she tried to ease out from under him, only to have him go tense again and pull her back into the crook of his body. “Sleep,” he murmured. “We will make war tomorrow, no?

Hunter?” She grasped his shoulders for support, digging her nails into his flesh. “Hunter?” “I am here. Be easy.” He slid a hand to the nape of her neck and turned her face back to him. “Be easy.” Loretta’s legs felt like wet clay. As his mouth again claimed hers, a hundred possibilities ran through her mind, all frightening. Then sensation wiped out everything. There was only Hunter, solid and warm and gentle, holding her in rock-hard arms, his body bracing hers. Even in her inexperience, she sensed that kissing was new to him, that he was doing it only to please her. But after a few experimental nibbles, he mastered the art, claiming her mouth with a shattering thoroughness, his tongue thrusting deep, the sensuous rhythm he struck as old as time. Loretta leaned into him, sliding her hands into his hair, forgetting for a moment to be afraid. Looping an arm under her bottom, he lifted her against him. She could feel his heart slamming. Or was it hers? It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the feelings sweeping through her. When at last Hunter drew back for air, his dark eyes were cloudy with tenderness. He smiled a slow, thoughtful smile and, sliding her down his thighs, let her feet touch the floor. With infinite slowness he grasped the tails of her overblouse and skimmed the leather lightly up her ribs, grazing her sensitized breasts. Loretta glued her gaze to his, bracing herself. “I’m frightened,” she said shakily. “I am frightened beside you,” he murmured. “You? But why are you--” “Because you are sunshine. Because you make a glad song inside me. I have great fear that you will go away from me.” He drew the blouse over her head and tossed it aside. Smiling, he smoothed her hair, then lifted its heavy length to resettle it around her white shoulders so it covered her breasts. Skimming his palms down her slender arms, he found the drawstring that held up her skirt and made fast work of untying the knot. “Nei com-mar-pe ein.” She clutched her skirt. “What does that mean?” “I love you.” “Oh, Hunter.

It should be noted that several times throughout giving his statement, JONSSON became very upset, to the point where he began crying while recounting the incident. He had to stop and take several deep breaths before being able to resume giving me his statement. He said it was a very disturbing event for him to witness and be involved in, but he just reacted to the situation at hand without really thinking. What we needed to raise in others was this instinct. The ability to recognize, in an instant, right from wrong. The clarity of mind to face it rather than ignore it. I learned that before they had chased Brock, they had checked on me. Masculinity is often defined by physicality, but that initial kneeling is as powerful as the leg sweep, the tackling. Masculinity is found in the vulnerability, the crying.

Charlie had the chance to become any sort of thing he wanted. Nan looked at her own skinny legs and stained fingers and thought about how she might change herself, if she could. But she didn’t want to change.

Pale lights illuminate The Seven’s inner chamber. Once bright, the lamps are overgrown, dimmed by a sheet of stone. The room is octagonal, one side for the supplicant, unadorned. Six others each house a figure, statue-like, covered from head to toe in a thick layer of rock. All appear human shaped, with discernible wings, their postures neutral, dead. The seventh alcove lies empty. The Vagrant holds the sword up, letting it hum, calling, calling. As if returning from a dream, The Seven respond, slowly, sonorously. Splitting the shells that cover them, yawning into life. One by one, they catch the call and return it, till the harmony swells, reverberating from the walls and leaping up, vanishing into the fathomless, ceilingless dark above. Beautiful sounds mature, becoming words, musical, passed from one to the other, filling the chamber and the Vagrant’s ears. ‘Mourning has become morning, and we rejoice …’ ‘We rejoice in the proximity of your flame once more …’ ‘Once more we are Seven …’ ‘Are Seven together, come …’ ‘Come and join with us …’ ‘Join with us your light, diminished but still bright.’ Six arms drift out, gesturing to the last alcove, inviting. Neither Vagrant nor sword move. An eye studies the chamber, pausing at each alcove, noting the blades housed there, buried beneath layers of stone, useless. Rage simmers between sword and Vagrant. He takes a lock of hair from an inner pocket, throws it down on the floor between them. The sword lowers to point at it, then sweeps across the figures, then makes a hard stab towards the doors. Six faces freeze as the joyous echoes of song die out. The Vagrant swallows in a throat suddenly dry. Vesper dares a quick peek from behind the Vagrant’s coat. Alpha, of The Seven, sings out. The note begins wondrous but imperfect, the others soon match him. ‘We see now your pain, most furious …’ ‘Most furious you are and desperate to fight …’ ‘To fight once more, your desire …’ ‘Your desire we grant, go forth, take a second flame to our enemies …’ Voices come together, their force rocking the Vagrant backwards until he is pinned to the wall. Vesper holds his hand tightly, little feet rising from the floor. ‘Do not stop …’ ‘Stop when the cancer …’ ‘Cancer is cut …’ ‘Cut from the bones …’ ‘Bones and flesh …’ ‘Flesh of the land …’ ‘Land is clean!’ The Vagrant closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. He braces himself against the sound, pulling Vesper behind him raising the sword in front. Silvered wings unfurl protectively, shielding his face. An eye widens, blazing with indignation. ‘Then …’ ‘Then, then and only then …’ ‘Only then will you be free …’ ‘Be free to return to us …’ ‘Return to us and rejoice …’ ‘Rejoice for true, complete again. Immaculate.’ Six go quiet, demands echoing after. Vesper’s feet touch floor again and she wraps herself around a comforting leg. In the Vagrant’s hand, the sword trembles, humming dangerously. He takes a deep breath. From the depths of his stomach something is forged, travelling inevitably, gaining force as it goes, following tubes behind ribs, up through the chest, into the throat, teeth parting, allowing it outside. The Vagrant opens his eyes, they are full of weariness, disgust, conviction. ‘No.

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

In the distance, steel-blue mountains loomed heavy on the horizon, their shoulders burdened with the same accursed snow the gods were currently depositing upon the lowlands. Between us and the mountains, the vast expanse of one of the innumerable caravan sites littering the Welsh shores was dimly visible, and at the far edges of the sands, grey waves tipped a mulch of brown foam up on to the beach, a sudden deposition of wishy-washy creatures that seemed to spider-leg over each other in their haste to reach the shore and see what all the fuss was about. But even these creatures comprised of sea-foam were freaked out by the death-stare, for the little critters swiftly dissipated under the force of a skeletal glower. A skull lay in the sand, its empty sockets staring down the beach at the retreating surge. Their fear wouldn’t last long. Soon they’d realise the skeleton had not engaged in pursuit, their confidence would grow, and they’d encroach, further and further up the bank. Eventually, they’d be close enough to see it was completely inert, and would overrun our position, victoriously sweeping up their fallen foe and dragging it back out with them into the dreary waves.

I was sitting here for, like, an hour before you even sat down.” “Why?” he asks, observing our surroundings with a sweep from left to right. “I mean, there are better views than this one.” I slouch, defeated. “Don’t laugh. I sort of hurt my ankle.” Even though his eyes are concerned, he bites his lip, dimples in full force. “I’d consider that laughing,” I say with a hand on my chest, pretending to be offended. “I’m not laughing! It’s just--” He looks down at my feet. “How were you planning on getting back?” “Well, I didn’t plan on twisting my ankle!” I stand but keep the bum leg bent. “Walking. Walking is my plan.” Adrenaline pumping, I take a step forward, putting all my weight on my left leg. I let out a shriek as pain worse than before tears through me and I stumble. Darren jumps up to steady me, one hand at my elbow, the other at my waist. A sharp breath sneaks through my teeth. “You need a crutch,” he says, wedging himself alongside of me, our hips touching. He pulls my right arm over his shoulder and keeps his other hand loosely on my side. “If you weren’t so tall, this would be really awkward.” I want to ask how this isn’t awkward anyway, but I can’t really concentrate enough to speak. The throbbing is gone for this instant, but someone let loose a flutter of butterflies in my chest and that’s all I can feel.

Yarrow sat, paralyzed. He didn’t register the luxurious red velvet interior of the carriage or the sweeping grasslands outside the window. He barely noticed the girl sitting cross-legged on the bench opposite him. But after some time—whether twenty minutes or two hours, he could not have said—the numbness faded. It was rapidly replaced with, first, a sense of being utterly dislodged in the world, and shortly after that, a deep wretchedness that started at the tip of his head and ran down his spine, pooling in his boots.

I’m surprised you’re here.” Her mouth curved upward. “I warned you I’d be joining you.” He ignored the heat that spread inside him at the sight of her smile. “That’s just it.” Her smile grew wider. “A politician who keeps his word—what a remarkable aberration in the species.” “How could I have forgotten that keen wit of yours?” he marveled. “Yeah, I’m full of surprises. Might want to remember that.” Then, throwing caution to the wind, he let his eyes roam slowly over her, lingering. She’d have to be blind not to see the hunger in them. Which she clearly wasn’t. She retreated a step. He followed, his longer legs closing the distance, until his body almost brushed hers. That cool composer of Lily’s was unraveling, no matter how hard she struggled to pretend otherwise. The signs were there, in the fine trembling of her limbs, in the flush that stole over her porcelain smooth cheeks. Fierce satisfaction filled Sean at her involuntary reaction. He dipped his head until his lips hovered, a soft whisper away. “Lily?” “Yes?” There was a husky catch to her voice. Sean’s fingers reached up and traced the rosy bloom on her cheek. Was it the sweet flush of desire that made her skin so soft? he wondered, his eyes and fingers memorizing every detail, every sensation. God, he’d die for a taste of her. But Sean denied himself the pleasure. He raised his head, putting distance between himself and his greatest temptation, and forced himself to lower his hand. At the loss of contact, Lily’s head jerked, as if coming out of a trance. Sean stepped back before she could flay him alive. “You’re looking a little pink, Lily. I’ve got some zinc oxide in my bag. I’d be happy to put some on you. Especially on those hard to reach places.” He gave her a casual smile and pulled his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his T-shirt, ignoring the violent thudding of his heart against the cotton fabric. His hands shook, too, racked with tremors of need. Somehow, he managed to settle his shades across the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, before shoving them deep into his pocket, out of sight. Damn Sean and his effect on me, Lily swore silently. He had only to bestow the paltriest of caresses and she nearly swooned. Even more galling was the fact that she was equally helpless before Sean’s verbal taunts. The thought of Sean’s hands, slick with lotion, gliding over her body in long, sweeping caresses had her pulse racing. Lily’s voice was filled with contempt—never mind that it was self-directed—as she spoke. “You know, you and John Granger should get to know each other. You could compare notes on really great pickup lines. By the way, Sean, your nose? Does it trouble you still? I hope so.

Opening the lid, Beatrix found her neatly folded clothes and a drawstring muslin bag containing a brush and a rack of hairpins, and other small necessities. There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read: A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this. -Poppy Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked... After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let a slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk. Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen. Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. "My God," he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers. "Do you like my nightgown?" Beatrix asked. Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. "Where's the rest of it?" "This was all I could find." Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. "I wonder if I put it on backward..." "Let me see." As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath. Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn't take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin. She went to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, relishing the billowy softness of its quilts and linens. Reclining on her side, she made no attempt to cover her exposed leg as the gossamer fabric fell open to her hip. Christopher came to her, stripping off his shirt along the way. The sight of him, all that flexing muscle and sun-glazed skin, was breathtaking. He was a beautiful man, a scarred Apollo, a dream lover. And he was hers.

Then the devil—Baeddan Sayer—smiles wickedly. “And also this.” He spreads his hands, standing in a cross, and his coat opens over his bloody, strong chest. He leans his head back, and at the tips of his clawed fingers tiny flowers of light bloom. Mair gasps. The lights bob in the air, blinking in a heartbeat rhythm. More appear, all around them. Mairwen turns slowly, amazed. When she’s made a full revolution, Baeddan is right before her, and he takes her hands. Lifting one eyebrow in charming invitation, he sweeps back and pulls her into a dance. No music plays; there is only moonlight and vines and a gentle wind shaking the bare trees. There is only their footsteps and the brush of her heavy blue dress against his legs. It is as beautiful as she’d hoped.

Then how did he come to learn that I was back in town?” Buster said. “It’s a small town, Buster,” Mrs. Fang answered. “When you got here, you had a grotesquely swollen face. It attracted attention.” When they first arrived back home, Buster, still adjusting to the high dosage of the medication he had given himself, woke in the van and demanded that they stop for fried chicken. “Buster, I don’t think solid food is a great idea yet,” his mother had told him, but Buster had leaned into the front of the van and reached for the steering wheel, saying, over and over in a strange monotone, “Fer-ide chick-hen.” The Fangs pulled into a Kentucky Fried Chicken ten minutes later and walked inside the restaurant. Buster swayed unsteadily as his parents directed him to a table. “What do you want?” they asked him. “Fer-ide chick-hen,” he said, “all-you-can-eat.” They left the table and returned a few minutes later with a breast, wing, thigh, and leg, a mound of gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, and a biscuit. Everyone in a five-table radius was staring at the Fangs by this point. Buster, oblivious, unpacked some bloodstained gauze from his mouth, picked up the chicken leg, extra crispy, and took a ravenous bite. He felt something come loose inside his mouth, his muscles stretched beyond comfort after so much time in atrophy, and he began to moan, a funeral dirge, dropping the leg back onto the tray. The barely chewed scrap of chicken fell from his mouth, stained a foamy red with Buster’s blood. “Okay,” Mr. Fang said, sweeping the tray off of the table, dumping it into the trash. “This little experiment is over. Let’s go home.” Buster tried to pack the gauze back into his mouth, but his mother and father were already carrying him into the parking lot. “I’m a monster,” Buster bellowed, and his parents did nothing to dissuade him of this belief. “Well, I’m not going to do it,” Buster said. “I think you should,” Annie said. Mr. and Mrs. Fang agreed. Buster did not want to talk about writing. It had been years since his last novel had been published, a spectacular failure at that.

Her body was Yvonne’s too, her legs, her breasts, her pounding passionate heart, electricity crackled under his fingers running over her, though the sentimental illusion was going, it was sinking into a sea, as though it had not been there, it had become the sea, a desolate horizon with one huge black sailing ship, hull down, sweeping into the sunset; or her body was nothing, an abstraction merely, a calamity, a fiendish apparatus for calamitous sickening sensation; it was disaster.

That’s nice.”  Nicole’s hands are trembling.  She grips her coffee mug hard to make them stop. “That they’d do that for strangers.” “Yes.  Maybe.  I mean, I don’t see it as people helping strangers.” “What do you see it as?” “I see it as people helping people who can’t help themselves at a particular moment in their lives.  We all have times that we fall down and hit the dirt.  Sometimes it’s just harder to get up than others.  That’s where they come in.  Helping hands I guess you could call it.” Nicole nods, thinking about that.  Agnes makes it sound so normal, to check out of life and give up, to stay in John’s house and suffer the abuse for another week, another month, another year.  Just like falling down and having a hard time getting up.  Yeah, right.  Wouldn’t you like to believe that. Nicole snorts in disgust at herself. “What?  You don’t agree?”  Agnes turns to face her. “No.”  Nicole stares into her cup.  “It’s one thing to fall down in the dirt.  It’s another to lie down in it and refuse to get up.” “The point is, you do get up.  You got up.  You’re up.”  She smiles and nudges Nicole’s leg.  “Right?” Nicole wants to smile. She really does.  But her face will only twitch.  “I got up because someone picked me up, not because I did it on my own.” “Pish posh.  Up is up.  Doesn’t matter how you got there.  Besides, doesn’t it feel glorious to know that someone cares enough to do the heavy lifting?”  She sighs loudly and dramatically.  “Oh to be young again and have a strong, handsome Galahad to come by and sweep me off my feet.”  She looks at Nicole and smiles.  “You’re such a lucky girl.” Lucky is the very last word in the English language Nicole would have used to describe herself a month ago, but now that Agnes mentions it, it’s impossible to deny how much it applies today.  “Are you talking about Brian?” “Of course I’m talking about Brian.  Do you see any other Galahads around these parts?”  She sweeps her arm out towards the yard. The smile won’t stay away now.  Nicole feels her face turning pink with it.  “It’s not like that with him.” “Fiddlesticks. That boy is ripe for the picking. What’s stopping you?” Nicole’s smile fades.  “I would think that’s fairly obvious.” Agnes stands.  “You know, there’s a reason why certain expressions never go away and endure the test of time.  It’s because they’re as real today as they were a hundred years ago.” “What expressions?” Nicole asks, confused. “Love is blind.” Agnes reaches out a hand and strokes Nicole’s cheek.  “Love sees inside the person.  It doesn’t stop at the surface.  That stuff is all just window dressing, anyway.  It says nothing about what you’re really getting.  If a man loves you when you look your worst, you know he’s a keeper.  They’re a rare breed, too, so I don’t recommend walking away from it easily.”  

She is about to close the book and return it to the desk when she catches sight of a face passing on the flickering pages. She leafs her way back until she finds it again- not an entire face, but a section; an eye, the sweep of a cheekbone, the curved line of a neck observed from side-on; all illustrated as if seen in the reflection of a small, oval mirror. A car-wing mirror. She peers at the page more closely, breath held in her chest as the moment returns to her: sitting in Charles's new car, Jack scrunched in the back and Lillian in the front, a peacock barring their path. It is exactly how he would have seen her reflected back at him in the wing-mirror. As with the other drawings, the accuracy is remarkable. She is amazed at his ability to recall the smallest details. There is the pearl stud at her earlobe and the almost indiscernible beauty spot above her lip. Yet the more closely she studies the sketch, the more she is discomforted. It isn't just the precision of the pencil lines conjuring her on the paper- butt more the expression he has captured- a certain wistfulness she hadn't known she wore so plainly. The portrait feels so intimate; almost as if he had laid her bare on the page. She continues to leaf through the sketches and finds a second portrait. This time she is seated in the drawing room, her face turned to the window, the skirt of her dress falling in a fan to to the floor. A third reveals her standing on the terrace, leaning against the balustrade, a long evening dress sweeping about her legs. The night of the party. The next page shows just her arm, identifiable by a favorite diamond bracelet dangling at the wrist. The last is of her head and shoulders, viewed from behind, the curves of her neck rising up to a twisted knot of hair. Looking at the images she isn't sure how she feels; flattered to be seen, to be deemed worthy of his time and attention, though at the same time a little uncomfortable at the intimacy of his gaze and at the thought of having been so scrutinized when she hadn't even known he was watching her.

She made her easy way down the outside steps. "Are you trying to catch flies?" she asked, a laugh in her voice. "You must have seen a woman all made up before." I closed my mouth. I felt like I'd never seen her before. Silky violet fabric hugged her body like it never wanted to let her go, dipping in at her waist and sweeping out at her hip. It ended just above her knees and made her curvy legs look like they went on forever before they got to her gold flats. When her raspberry-pink mouth curled in a warm smile, she glowed, and it was like a light bulb suddenly lit up in my head. I wasn't horny and restless because I hadn't gotten any in almost ten months. It was because I wanted her. Only her. I wanted to bite her lush lower lip, suck the sweet curve where her shoulder met her neck. I wanted to bury my face where her neckline curved down. I wanted to bury my face in a lot of other places, too.

She came at him with her two hands, though she didn’t quite know what her intent was. Perhaps she was to throttle him, or pluck out his eyes, or go for the gun he had in his pocket, but Roma was faster even in his inebriated state. He caught her by the wrists and pushed, until she was on her back again and Roma was hovering over her, smug. “You were saying?” Roma asked. He didn’t move away once he had proved his point. He remained—his hands holding her wrists down over her head, his body hovering over hers, his eyes strange and dark and on fire. Something had changed in Roma’s expression. Juliette inhaled sharply, a small, quick breath. It might have gone unnoticed, if Roma hadn’t been so close. He noticed. He always noticed. “Why do you flinch?” Roma asked. His voice dropped to a conspiring, merciless whisper. “Do you fear me?” A hot fury swept into Juliette’s stilled veins. Such an insolent question reawakened all of her dulled senses, sweeping back the numbness of the alcohol. “I have never feared you.” Juliette reversed their bodies in one deft push. Bitter and resentful and aggrieved, she hooked her legs around his and twisted her hips until Roma was the one flat on his back and she loomed over him, kneeling on the sheets.

Another popular saga tells of the Wild Hunt, Furious Host, or Raging Host—the Asgardsreien. It starts on October 31, and spectral horsemen and horsewomen led by Frigga and Odin on Sleipnir, his great eight-legged steed, can be seen racing across the winter sky in company with the Valkyrie and the fallen warriors in training from Valhalla. The sounds are earth-shattering: blaring horns calling the howling hounds, thundering hooves, and raging winds sweeping through the still, cold night.