Sweeping Off Feet Quotes

There are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. And there is one of you, trying just the opposite. Making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest I fall.

Marina sighs. "Love's a tidal wave," she says. "Because it sweeps you off your feet?" I ask. "No. Because it sucks you under and you drown.

Hey girl," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "You must be the riptide, 'cause you sweep me off my feet." He'd be practicing that pickup line for years. He was glad he finally got yo use it.

Basic principles: no matter what, no matter when, no matter who... any man has a chance to sweep any woman off her feet. He just needs the right broom.

Love is a tidal wave--not because it sweeps you off your feet, but because it pulls you down and drowns you.

Love's a tidal wave," she says. "Because it sweeps you off your feet?" I ask. "No. Because it sucks you under and you drown." "But sometimes," I point out, "it's the only thing that keeps you afloat.

I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet. "You’re like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield." She froze in place. Then she spun on me, her face lit by a half-grown fruit. “A potato,” she said flatly. “That’s the best you can do? Seriously?” “It makes sense,” I said. “Listen. You’re strolling through a minefield, worried about getting blown up. And then you step on something, and you think, ‘I’m dead.’ But it’s just a potato. And you’re so relieved to find something so wonderful when you expected something so awful. That’s what you are. To me.” “A potato.” “Sure. French fries? Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like potatoes?” “Plenty of people. Why can’t I be something sweet, like a cake?” “Because cake wouldn’t grow in a minefield. Obviously.” She stared down the hallway at me for a few moments, then sat on an overgrown set of roots. Sparks. She seemed to be crying. Idiot! I thought at myself, scrambling through the foliage. Romantic. You were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren’t romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.

By the time I'm through sweeping you off your feet, you will be bursting at the seams, begging me to fuck you, never wanting another man inside you again.

One day, my sweet girl, some lucky man will come and help you understand the very meaning of love. He will sweep you off your feet and show you what it is to place your heart in someone else’s care to willingly offer them the gift of your soul.

In my experience, there never seems to be a man or woman who will walk in and literally sweep you off your feet, or away, when you're in the biggest distaster of your life. If it happens, it'll be guaranteed he or she won't be the one you've longed for. Yeah...we all still seem to be waiting for Mr. or Ms. Right.

I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet. "You're like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield.

I still hung onto the hope that my broken knight would gallop back into my life and sweep me off my feet.

Why now? Why not wait for a man to come along and…sweep you off your feet?” She gave a short laugh. “If the man you speak of had ever planned on coming, my lord, I’m afraid he has obviously lost his way. And, at twenty-eight, I find I have grown tired of waiting.

What kind of a modern woman was she, if she didn’t reach for her own dream? Maybe it was time to sweep the man off his feet, for a change.

She lifted one arm up, covering her forehead in a mock swoon. “You’re sweeping me off my feet.” He laughed, shocked by the sound after the shitty day they’d had. He bent his knees and cradled her in his arms, spinning her around while he drank in the magic of her giggles. Finally, he lowered her onto the bed and lay down beside her. “Now you’ve been swept.

I swear off dating until someone new and amazing sweeps me off my feet and makes me forget all the hard parts of falling in love.

If I were trying to sweep you off your feet, you'd be swept. Period. - Adam from Moonlight

I was waiting for someone that would sweep me off my feet and would be swept up by me in equal parts.

I heard you're campaigning on my behalf." He walked over to me. "That wouldn't be because you'd miss me too much if I were gone,would it?" "Don't be absurd," I scoffed. "I don't condone murder, even for people like you." "People like me,huh?" He cocked an eyebrow. "You mean devilishly handsome, debonair young men who come to sweep rebellious princesses of their feet?" "You came to kidnap me, not sweep me off my feet," I said,but he waved his hand at the idea. "Semantics.

I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.

They say a man's inspiration is visual, but for a woman, it's the narrative. Abandon both the narrative and the visual. Close your eyes, measure your breath. Dead weight is sloughed off, dust swept away, forms dissolve into one atmosphere. The rib cage opens, the lungs fill, the breast rises. Waves sweep up the body on their swell, rocking it rhythmically. Feet planted, the back arches, the pelvis reaches forward. Oxygen kindles a flame, sprawling through the belly, and gathering in a warm blaze. The hand reaches to meet the sensation. Calligraphy spills from the inkwell. Open your eyes, sharpen your focus, and exclaim: There are no separations.

No, It does. And if I left, you’d probably want to give me my jacket back. And if you did, I wouldn’t be able to put it on, because the whole time I’d be knowing how perfectly it fit on you. How even though the sleeves are ridiculously too long and the collar is all fucked up and for all I know some guy named Salvatore is going to come in this very club and say, ‘Hey, that’s my jacket’ and strike up a conversation and sweep you off your feet away from me- even though all those things are true or possibly true, I just can’t ruin the image of you sitting there across from me wearing my jacket better than I, or anyone else could. If I don’t owe it to you, and I don’t owe it to me, I at least owe it Salvatore.

Marina sighs, "Love's a tidal wave," she says. "Because it sweeps you off you feet?" I ask. "No. Because it sucks you under and you drown." "But sometimes," I point out, "It's the only thing that keeps you afloat.

If you can't please yourself some of the time, how do you expect to please people all the time? Not everyone is going to appreciate you for your efforts and deeds.

I was always reaching for love, but it turns out love doesn't involve reaching. I was always dreaming of the big love, the ultimate love, the love that would sweep me off my feet or 'break open the hard shell of my lesser self' (Daisaku Ikeda). The love that would bring on my surrender. The love that would inspire me to give everything. As I lay there, it occurred to me that while I had been dreaming of this big love, this ultimate love, I had, without realizing it, been giving and receiving love for most of my life. As with the trees that were right in front of me, I had been unable to value what sustained me, fed me, and gave me pleasure. And as with the trees, I was so busy waiting for and imagining and reaching and dreaming and preparing for this huge big love that I had totally missed the beauty and perfection of the soft-boiled eggs and Bolivian quinoa.

If you let someone sweep you off your feet, you better be prepared to land on your ass.

i must feel this emotion with my whole being and as it sweeps me off my feet enjoy the sensation of falling falling endlessly into the arms of no lover

I saw the autumn leaves peel up of the street, Take wing on the balmy breeze and sweep you off your feet

Me, sweep him off his feet? I know. The laws of the jungle and romance novels would have it the other way around, but I’m not going to wait one more second for that.

To everyone who has lost love and been lucky enough to find it again. To second chances and the epic romances that sweep us off our feet.

Marina sighs. “Love is like a tidal wave,” she says. “Because it sweeps you off your feet?” I ask. “No, because it sucks you under and you drown.” “But sometimes,” I point out, “it’s the only thing that keeps you afloat.

You trying to sweep me off my feet?" Kelly asked, a little breathless. Nick grinned. "No. But I am going to take you up on that sloppy blowjob you offered." Kelly cackled as Nick dragged him inside. "Who says romance is dead?

I could blame my lack of a happy ending on Edward all day long but the truth was that my own dissatisfaction with my life wasn't anybody's fault but mine. I'd been looking for a man to sweep me off my feet when I should have been looking for one who willing to pick up the pieces. Not some fictional hero, but a real flesh-and-blood man. Someone who would love me for the long haul.

These were dangerous thoughts, he knew. They were the kind that crept up on a Watchman when the chase was over and it was just you and him, facing one another in that breathless little pinch between the crime and the punishment. And maybe a Watchman had seen civilization with the skin ripped off one time too many and stopped acting like a Watchman and started acting like a normal human being and realized that the click of the crossbow or the sweep of the sword would make all the world so clean. And you couldn’t think like that, even about vampires. Even though they’d take the lives of other people because little lives don’t matter and what the hell can we take away from them? And, too, you couldn’t think like that because they gave you a sword and a badge and that turned you into something else and that had to mean there were some thoughts you couldn’t think. Only crimes could take place in darkness. Punishment had to be done in the light. That was the job of a good Watchman, Carrot always said. To light a candle in the dark.

Love is the only emotion strong enough to sweep us off our feet, but remain unmoved when we are knocked to our knees. And if I am willing to embrace the former but flee from the latter, I’ve confused love with infatuation.

It's an important part of knight training - sweeping maidens off their feet.

Amy, I know it hurts now, but don’t give up. Out there somewhere is a guy or girl that will treat you like the princess you are. My mom always says you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your handsome prince. Consider Nick as just another frog in your quest to find your prince. He’s out there, I know it, waiting to come rescue you and sweep you off your feet.

he’d wanted to do for years while we dated—the whole princely sweep-you-off-your-feet shit. I liked to keep my feet firmly on the ground unless sex was involved, and you can’t really have sex in a horse-drawn carriage; it scares the horses.

Variety is definitely the spice of life but I love writing office romances (I was a secretary before I became a writer), because it's every girl's dream to meet that gorgeous hunky boss who sweeps her off her feet and takes her out of her dull routine.

I'm not a princess This ain't a fairy tale I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet Lead her up a stairwell This ain't Hollywood This is a small town I was a dreamer before you went and let me down Now it's too late for you and your white horse to come around

Too often, the hopeless romantics among us are wishing and praying for the Right One to come along and sweep them off their feet. But have you ever wondered first if YOU could be a Right person whom another person is worthy of having?"-Elizabeth's Quotes on Love

You always keep me on my toes.” He surprises me by catching me around my waist. “Then I shall have to amend my strategy. My intent was to sweep you off your feet.

If a man loves a girl who is in the first place young and inexperienced; who in the second place is educated with a background of caveman tradition, a middle-ground of poetry and romance, and a foreground of unspoken hope and interest all centering upon the one Event; and who has, furthermore, absolutely no other hope or interest worthy of the name - why, it is a comparatively easy manner to sweep her off her feet with a dashing attack.

Listen to yourself. Poor martyred Louisa. I predict that Fellows will solve this murder and then sweep you off your feet." Daniel shrugged. "Well, the sweeping-you-off-your-feet part might take a little nudge. But he wants to do it. It's a beautiful thing to watch the way he looks at you. Fellows glared at Gil tonight as though he wanted to find a claymore, learn how to use it, and finish him off. Or just pull out a pistol and shoot him.

When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer's day. And so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different. One can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep 'heights that the soul is competent to gain.' We think in eternity, but we move slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one's cell, and into the cell of one's heart, with such strange insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one's house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be.

I have no idea. It’s not my problem. But I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Anyway, you aren’t what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a grand passion, someone who will sweep me off my feet and teach me all about love. And then I’m going to become a really great dancer.

You aren't exactly the type of woman to sit around and wait for a man to sweep her off her feet. But... is it selfish to wish that I had done that for you?

Ugh. I hated that word. Lovers. Made me feel like a damsel with a French-speaking, long-haired pirate sweeping me off my feet.

You can't sweep other people off their feet, if you can't be swept off your own.

Part of me wants a man to sweep me off my feet and take care of me, the other part wants to punch any man in the goolies who'd even dare to suggest such a thing.

Tears flood in you your eyes burning your heart scars with my name scratched deep My face is gone my heart betrayed by your lullabies I’m a shadow of a girl inside Hands are touching you nothing takes the place of you Heart wrench, weeps goodbye Lullabies, beautiful and trusting Barely breathing as they break into dust Lonely corners me Sweeps me off my feet Shows me it was better for me Fingertips holding close your grip not as soft Follows me to an empty bed I can’t stop the weakening of my soul my body is dying your tune is holding my mind Let me go see what I do No control No you You whisper your sweet goodbye If it is small it won’t interrupt my sleep But my heart you keep You say it’s for me But who would be happy? Alone left out in the cold

But a risk-free life wasn't much of a life, really, and if she was going to change, she might as well start now.” this book also had a lesson of taking risks for Lexi she was a middle aged women who was waiting for that one guy to sweep her off her feet. well one had come along (aka Jeremy Marsh) and she was about to let him go. but she got out of her comfort zone and loved him.

Just what do you want?” Her answer had been, My very own Mr. Darcy. And hadn’t she wished for a “darkly handsome man, heroic, upstanding, and moral, with a heart filled to overflowing with love to her rescue and sweep her off her feet?” She nodded to herself. Yes, I did. And didn’t that fit Alysandir, right down to the rescue and sweeping her off her feet and into his arms? – Isobella Douglas

I can’t tell you what I look like. I look in the mirror and see nothing but space. Space reflecting space, that’s what the mirror shows. It figures because Grandmamma said I was nothing but dirt. Dirt under her feet she’d say. Dirt she needed to keep kicking out of the way. Grandmamma said I wasn’t sweeping-up kind of dirt; I was the kind of dirt you needed to kick and scrape off the bottom of your shoes.

It’s quite a thing,” she said. “There are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. And there is one of you, trying just the opposite. Making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest I fall.

Hey,” the boy replied back, looking better than he had before. His eyes, although they still carried sadness, also carried happiness. Their first words weren’t the best of opening liners, not like in the fairytales the girl had read back when she was a princess. Stories that promised fantasies of princes sweeping a princess off their feet, wooing hearts with words and sometimes songs. But that was okay. She didn’t need wooing. She didn’t need songs. Because she wasn’t a princess. And the boy wasn’t a prince. She was just a girl. And he was just a guy. And this wasn’t a fairytale. But real life. And fairytales were overrated anyway.

Maybe I’m desensitized to real men. Maybe my expectations live between the pages of books involving heroes with ten-inch schlongs and magical tongues, performing grandeur gestures to sweep their heroines off their feet.

He had second thoughts because I didn’t own a tiara I didn’t wear gowns I wore ripped jeans and kicks I slurped my soup and let my hair hang loosely, wildly off my shoulders I wasn’t a damsel in distress and didn’t need a prince to sweep me off my feet

Talk about the freedom of the Spirit, about the grace which sweeps us off our feet and heals and transforms our lives, has been taken over surreptitiously by a kind of low-grade romanticism, colluding with an anti-intellectual streak in our culture, generating the assumption that the more spiritual you are, the less you need to think. I cannot stress too strongly that this is a mistake. The more genuinely spiritual you are, according to Romans 12 and Philippians 1, the more clearly and accurately and carefully you will think.

Every woman wants to meet her Prince Charming. She wants a man who will sweep her off of her feet. She wants a man who will love her above everyone else. She wants a man who will love her as if he couldn’t live without her. She wants a man who can think of no one but her.

An asteroid or comet traveling at cosmic velocities would enter the Earth’s atmosphere at such a speed that the air beneath it couldn’t get out of the way and would be compressed, as in a bicycle pump. As anyone who has used such a pump knows, compressed air grows swiftly hot, and the temperature below it would rise to some 60,000 Kelvin, or ten times the surface temperature of the Sun. In this instant of its arrival in our atmosphere, everything in the meteor’s path—people, houses, factories, cars—would crinkle and vanish like cellophane in a flame. One second after entering the atmosphere, the meteorite would slam into the Earth’s surface, where the people of Manson had a moment before been going about their business. The meteorite itself would vaporize instantly, but the blast would blow out a thousand cubic kilometers of rock, earth, and superheated gases. Every living thing within 150 miles that hadn’t been killed by the heat of entry would now be killed by the blast. Radiating outward at almost the speed of light would be the initial shock wave, sweeping everything before it. For those outside the zone of immediate devastation, the first inkling of catastrophe would be a flash of blinding light—the brightest ever seen by human eyes—followed an instant to a minute or two later by an apocalyptic sight of unimaginable grandeur: a roiling wall of darkness reaching high into the heavens, filling an entire field of view and traveling at thousands of miles an hour. Its approach would be eerily silent since it would be moving far beyond the speed of sound. Anyone in a tall building in Omaha or Des Moines, say, who chanced to look in the right direction would see a bewildering veil of turmoil followed by instantaneous oblivion. Within minutes, over an area stretching from Denver to Detroit and encompassing what had once been Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, the Twin Cities—the whole of the Midwest, in short—nearly every standing thing would be flattened or on fire, and nearly every living thing would be dead. People up to a thousand miles away would be knocked off their feet and sliced or clobbered by a blizzard of flying projectiles. Beyond a thousand miles the devastation from the blast would gradually diminish. But that’s just the initial shockwave. No one can do more than guess what the associated damage would be, other than that it would be brisk and global. The impact would almost certainly set off a chain of devastating earthquakes. Volcanoes across the globe would begin to rumble and spew. Tsunamis would rise up and head devastatingly for distant shores. Within an hour, a cloud of blackness would cover the planet, and burning rock and other debris would be pelting down everywhere, setting much of the planet ablaze. It has been estimated that at least a billion and a half people would be dead by the end of the first day. The massive disturbances to the ionosphere would knock out communications systems everywhere, so survivors would have no idea what was happening elsewhere or where to turn. It would hardly matter. As one commentator has put it, fleeing would mean “selecting a slow death over a quick one. The death toll would be very little affected by any plausible relocation effort, since Earth’s ability to support life would be universally diminished.

As you approach a woman you are interested in, your very desire for her is reason enough to do so. Your desire for her is nothing to be ashamed of, and she actually appreciates such a man more than anything. You do not need an excuse to talk to women and women do not want you to use one either, so why bother? When you stop using excuses, you will be direct, and women will absolutely love it. They will tell you how straightforward you are with a big smile on their faces. You will be able to take their breath away, to sweep them off their feet, and to stun them in amazement.

The narrow hallway was lined with framed photographs while the far end was dominated by a faux movie poster for Gone with the Wind starring Ronald Reagan sweeping Margaret Thatcher off her feet while a mushroom cloud bloomed behind them. She promised to follow him to the end of the world. He promised to organise it.

Back then, I was looking for the big love story, the charismatic stranger. I didn’t learn until it was way too late, until long after my failed marriage to Johnny, that love doesn’t ride into town and sweep you off your feet, but sometimes looks at you in a certain way and you realize it was there all the time, right under your nose.

There is no one in the world I would rather be stuck with in this snake pit of a Pack than you.” Another smile crept up on me as I leaned in. “You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.” His lips curved as he came closer, stealing my breath. “You’re the only girl I care to sweep.” “Lucky me…” My words faded as his mouth met mine.

She climbed down the cliffs after tying her sweater loosely around her waist. Down below she could see nothing but jagged rocks and waves. She was creful, but I watched her feet more than the view she saw- I worried about her slipping. My mother's desire to reach those waves, touch her feet to another ocean on the other side of the country, was all she was thinking of- the pure baptismal goal of it. Whoosh and you can start over again. Or was life more like the horrible game in gym that has you running from one side of an enclosed space to another, picking up and setting down wooden blocks without end? She was thinking reach the waves, the waves, the waves, and I was watching her navigate the rocks, and when we heard her we did so together- looking up in shock. It was a baby on the beach. In among the rocks was a sandy cove, my mother now saw, and crawling across the sand on a blanket was a baby in knitted pink cap and singlet and boots. She was alone on the blanket with a stuffed white toy- my mother thought a lamb. With their backs to my mother as she descended were a group of adults-very official and frantic-looking- wearing black and navy with cool slants to their hats and boots. Then my wildlife photographer's eye saw the tripods and silver circles rimmed by wire, which, when a young man moved them left or right, bounced light off or on the baby on her blanket. My mother started laughing, but only one assistant turned to notice her up among the rocks; everyone else was too busy. This was an ad for something. I imagined, but what? New fresh infant girls to replace your own? As my mother laughed and I watched her face light up, I also saw it fall into strange lines. She saw the waves behind the girl child and how both beautiful and intoxicating they were- they could sweep up so softly and remove this gril from the beach. All the stylish people could chase after her, but she would drown in a moment- no one, not even a mother who had every nerve attuned to anticipate disaster, could have saved her if the waves leapt up, if life went on as usual and freak accidents peppered a calm shore.

To Polyakov it was as though a fierce wind from downstream was sweeping up the Volga. Several times he was knocked off his feet; he fell to the ground no longer knowing what world he lived in, whether he was old or young, what was up and what was down. But Klimov dragged him along and finally they slid to the bottom of a huge crater. Here the darkness was threefold: the darkness of night, the darkness of dust and smoke, the darkness of a deep pit. They lay there beside one another; the same soft light, the same prayer for life filled both their heads. It was the same light, the same touching hope that glows in all heads and all hearts – in those of birds and animals as well as in those of human beings.

That wintry night, a child was born, swaddled with light and hay to adorn, through divine intervention, and a woman pure. And Heaven Rejoiced! He lived as a man to die for His creation, to shed His Blood as an offering and render us clean, to claim us back unto Himself as One in God our Creator, One God in all men, and to all men their God. At this, Heaven cried ' Accomplished'! He resurrected and ascended for which Heaven trumpeted 'Restored'! And now Heaven plans this banquet called 'Many Called-Few Chosen' for the time ripe for Him to come again to sweep His bride off her feet, sealed with His Blood and garment divine, for her to live and reign with Him forever. So this is the Christmas Story, the story of Jesus Divine!

More than anything, I wanted this book to highlight a neurodiverse heroine who happens to be on medication and in therapy falling in love and thriving. I wanted to show the messy, heavy parts of her life alongside the moments that sweep her off her feet. And I wanted a hero who'd love her through her dark days, not despite them, because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.

The girl moved from throwing weapons to hand-to-hand combat: a punch of power, a sweeping kick of flame. Her flames had become gloriously varied—golds and reds and oranges. And her technique—not the magic, but the way she moved … Her master had been a monster, there was no doubt of that. But he had trained her thoroughly. She ducked and flipped and twisted, relentless, raging, and— She swore with her usual color as the wall sent the punch of ruby flame back at her. She managed to shield, but still got knocked on her ass. Yet none of the sentries laughed. Rowan didn’t know if it was because of his presence or because of her. He got his answer a heartbeat later, as he waited for her to shout or shriek or walk away. But the princess just slowly got to her feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt and leaves, and kept practicing.

Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red hair. "Ginny!" Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees. "Ginny- don't be dead- please don't be dead-" He flung his wand aside, grabbed Ginny's shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn't Petrified. But then she must be- "Ginny, please wake up," Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny's head lolled hopelessly from side to side. "She won't wake," said a soft voice. Harry jumped and spun around on his knees. A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him- "Tom- Tom Riddle?" Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry's face. "What d'you mean, she won't wake?" Harry said desperately. "She's not- she's not-?" "She's still alive," said Riddle. "But only just.

Shanti picked up her glass of red wine. “For now, we let Adele go back to Sydney, where she will no doubt find someone who sees exactly how beautiful and wonderful she is, sweeps her off her feet, and makes her forget that our Peter ever even existed. Why, he’ll be nothing but a dim, sad memory to her in no time. Meanwhile, Peter can go back to having meaningless relationships based on almost casual sex with women he barely even likes.

My eyes drift back to Peter, and he looks up and sees me looking at him, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. I just smile and shake my head. “So don’t get bangs?” My phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter. Do you want to go? No. Then why were you staring at me? Because I felt like it. Lucas is reading over my shoulder. I push him away, and he shakes his head and says, “Are you guys really texting each other when you’re only twenty feet away?” Pammy crinkles up her nose and says, “So adorable.” I’m about to answer them when I look up and see Peter sweeping across the room toward me with purpose. “Time to get my girl home,” he says. “What time is it?” I say. “Is it that late already?” Peter’s hoisting me off the couch and helping me into my jacket. Then he pulls me by the hand and leads me through Gabe’s living room. Looking over my shoulder, I wave and call out, “Bye, Lucas! Bye, Pammy! For the record, I think you would look great with bangs!” “Why are you walking so fast?” I ask as Peter marches me through the front yard to the curb where his car is parked. He stops in front of the car, pulls me toward him, and kisses me, all in one fast motion. “I can’t concentrate on my cards when you stare at me like that, Covey.” “Sorry,” I start to say, but he is kissing me again, his hands firm on my back.

Under the seeming disorder of the old city, wherever the old city is working successfully, is a marvelous order for maintaining the safety of the streets and the freedom of the city. It is a complex order. Its essence is intricacy of sidewalk use, bringing with it a constant succession of eyes. This order is all composed of movement and change, and although it is life, not art, we may fancifully call it the art form of the city and liken it to the dance — not to a simple-minded precision dance with everyone kicking up at the same time, twirling in unison and bowing off en masse, but to an intricate ballet in which the individual dancers and ensembles all have distinctive parts which miraculously reinforce each other and compose an orderly whole. The ballet of the good city sidewalk never repeats itself from place to place, and in any once place is always replete with new improvisations. The stretch of Hudson Street where I live is each day the scene of an intricate sidewalk ballet. I make my own first entrance into it a little after eight when I put out my garbage gcan, surely a prosaic occupation, but I enjoy my part, my little clang, as the junior droves of junior high school students walk by the center of the stage dropping candy wrapper. (How do they eat so much candy so early in the morning?) While I sweep up the wrappers I watch the other rituals of the morning: Mr Halpert unlocking the laundry's handcart from its mooring to a cellar door, Joe Cornacchia's son-in-law stacking out the empty crates from the delicatessen, the barber bringing out his sidewalk folding chair, Mr. Goldstein arranging the coils of wire which proclaim the hardware store is open, the wife of the tenement's super intendent depositing her chunky three-year-old with a toy mandolin on the stoop, the vantage point from which he is learning English his mother cannot speak. Now the primary childrren, heading for St. Luke's, dribble through the south; the children from St. Veronica\s cross, heading to the west, and the children from P.S 41, heading toward the east. Two new entrances are made from the wings: well-dressed and even elegant women and men with brief cases emerge from doorways and side streets. Most of these are heading for the bus and subways, but some hover on the curbs, stopping taxis which have miraculously appeared at the right moment, for the taxis are part of a wider morning ritual: having dropped passengers from midtown in the downtown financial district, they are now bringing downtowners up tow midtown. Simultaneously, numbers of women in housedresses have emerged and as they crisscross with one another they pause for quick conversations that sound with laughter or joint indignation, never, it seems, anything in between. It is time for me to hurry to work too, and I exchange my ritual farewell with Mr. Lofaro, the short, thick bodied, white-aproned fruit man who stands outside his doorway a little up the street, his arms folded, his feet planted, looking solid as the earth itself. We nod; we each glance quickly up and down the street, then look back at eachother and smile. We have done this many a morning for more than ten years, and we both know what it means: all is well. The heart of the day ballet I seldom see, because part off the nature of it is that working people who live there, like me, are mostly gone, filling the roles of strangers on other sidewalks. But from days off, I know enough to know that it becomes more and more intricate. Longshoremen who are not working that day gather at the White Horse or the Ideal or the International for beer and conversation. The executives and business lunchers from the industries just to the west throng the Dorgene restaurant and the Lion's Head coffee house; meat market workers and communication scientists fill the bakery lunchroom.

chardonnay later, and my drunken rant has gone viral. I’m the most famous person NOT having sex since the Jonas Brothers put on their purity rings. A men’s magazine has even put a bounty on my (ahem) maidenhead: fifty Gs to whoever makes me break the drought. Be careful what you wish for... Now my office looks like an explosion in a Hallmark factory, I’ve got guys lining up to sweep me off my feet-and the one man I want is most definitely off-limits. Jake Weston is a player through and

His hands came to her wrists, squeezed reflexively, before he got quickly to his feet. "You're mixing things up." Panic arrowed straight into his heart. "I told you sex complicates things." "Yes,you did.And of course since you're the only man I've been with, how could I knew the difference between sex and love? Then again, that doesn't take into account that I'm a smart and self-aware woman, and I know the reason you're the only man I've been with is that you're the only man I've loved.Brian..." She stepped toward him, humor flashing into her eyes when he stepped back. "I've made up my mind.You know how stubborn I am." "I train your father's horses." "So what? My mother groomed them." "That's a different matter." "Why? Oh, because she's a woman.How foolish of me not to realize we can't possibly love each other, build a life with each other.Now if you owned Royal Meadows and I worked here, then it would be all right." "Stop making me sound ridiculous." "I can't." She spread her hands. "You are ridiculous.I love you anyway. Really, I tried to approach it sensibly.I like doing things in a structured order that makes a beeline for the goal.But..." She shrugged, smiled. "It just doesn't want to work that way with you.I look at you and my heart,well, it just insists on taking over.I love you so much,Brian. Can't you tell me? Can't you look at me and tell me?" He skimmed his fingertips over the bruise high on her temple. He wanted to tend to it, to her. "If I did there'd be no going back." "Coward." She watched the heat flash into his eyes,and thought how lovely it was to know him so well. "You won't push me into a corner." Now she laughed. "Watch me," she invited and proceeded to back him up against the steps. "I've figured a lot of things out today,Brian.You're scared of me-of what you feel for me. You were the one always pulling back when we were in public, shifting aside when I'd reach for you.It hurt me." The idea quite simply appalled him. "I never meant to hurt you." "No,you couldn't.How could I help but fall for you? A hard head and a soft heart.It's irresistable. Still, it did hurt. But I thought it was just the snob in you.I didn't realize it was nerves." "I'm not a snob, or a coward." "Put your arms around me.Kiss me. Tell me." "Damn it." he grabbed her shoulders, then simply held on, unable to push her back or draw her in. "It was the first time I saw you, the first instant. You walked in the room and my heart stopped. Like it had been struck by lightning.I was fine until you walked into the room." Her knees wanted to buckle.Hard head, soft heart, and here, suddenly, a staggering sweep of romance. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you make me wait?" "I thought I'd get over it." "Get over it?" Her brow arched up. "Like a head cold?" "Maybe." He set her aside, paced away to stare out at the hills. Keeley closed her eyes, let the breeze ruffle her hair, cool her cheeks. When the calm descended, she opened her eyes and smiled. "A good strong head cold's tough to shake off.

It was different from how she imagined it would be. Instead of sweeping her off her feet in a glorious and romantic progression, her feelings for Fritz had slowly snuck up behind her and essentially walloped her upside the head. It was not all-consuming like fire, but more similar to the sudden thaw of winter into spring. She hadn’t noticed it all that much, and now—suddenly—she was dimly aware that Fritz had become so important to her, she would do anything just to stay by his side. (She had come this far for Faina. In her heart, Snow White dimly realized she’d go just as far for Fritz.)

I can almost see it now, in red and yellow lettering; as if the events of the past eight years have been neatly and prettily folded away, leaving no rough edges, no blanks, just the gloss of recovered time. And it smells of the Americas; the court of Montezuma; spiced, in golden goblets and mixed with wine and pomegranate juice. And it smells of cream and cardamom; of sacrificial bonfires; of temples and of palaces; of vanilla and tonka and mocha and rose. The scent is overwhelming; it rushes through me like the wind; it sweeps me off my feet like love- Will you stay, Vianne? Will you stay?

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe I vow, I cannot seem to walk past a window without seeing my great-nephew carrying Miss Balfour somewhere. All great romantic poems have such scenes where the hero, in a fit of passion, sweeps the heroine off her feet. Sadly, it appears that Sin’s technique is questionable. I’m surprised that, with all of his supposed experience with the gentler sex, he doesn’t realize that women do not like to be carried in a way that musses their hair and leaves them with unattractively red faces. Sadly, yet another conversation I shall have to have with that boy.

She nearly slipped on an icy rock, but he caught her, his shoepacks sure on the frozen ground. He led her up a shaded path to a limestone wall, where they squeezed through an opening like a loophole. On the other side, the earth fell away, and it seemed they stepped into open sky. She gave a little gasp, not of fear, but of awe. He turned to take her in, pressing his back against the cold cliff and drawing her in front of him. She looked down and found the toes of her boots in midair with only her heels on the ledge. But he had one hard arm around her, grounding her. His breath was warm against her cold cheek. “I wanted to show you Cherokee territory, not just tell you about it.” She followed the sweep of his arm south, his finger pointing to distant snow-dusted mountains and a wide opal river. Small puffs of smoke revealed few campfires or cabins. The land lay before them like a disheveled white coverlet, uninhabited and without end, broken by more mountains and wending waterways. The unspoiled beauty of it took her breath. For a moment he relaxed his hold on her. With a cry, she reached for him again, fearing she might fall into nothingness. “Careful,” he murmured, steadying her. “Trust me.” She shut her eyes tight as his arms settled around her, anchoring her to the side of the cliff. Frightened as she was, she felt a tingling from her bare head to her feet. ’Twas altogether bewildering and frightening . . . yet pleasing. Gingerly, as if doing a slow dance, he led her off the ledge onto safe ground, where he released her and turned toward the stallion grazing on a tuft of grass. His smile was tight. “We should return—soon, before your father thinks I took you captive.” Reluctantly she walked behind him, framing every part of him in her mind in those few, unguarded moments before he mounted.

On your left you can see the Stationary Circus in all its splendor! Not far nor wide will you find dancing bears more nimble than ours, ringmasters more masterful, Lunaphants more buoyant!” September looked down and leftward as best she could. She could see the dancing bears, the ringmaster blowing peonies out of her mouth like fire, an elephant floating in the air, her trunk raised, her feet in mid-foxtrot—and all of them paper. The skin of the bears was all folded envelopes; they stared out of sealing-wax eyes. The ringmaster wore a suit of birthday invitations dazzling with balloons and cakes and purple-foil presents; her face was a telegram. Even the elephant seemed to be made up of cast-off letterheads from some far-off office, thick and creamy and stamped with sure, bold letters. A long, sweeping trapeze swung out before them. Two acrobats held on, one made of grocery lists, the other of legal opinions. September could see Latin on the one and lemons, ice, bread (not rye!), and lamb chops on the other in a cursive hand. When they let go of the trapeze-bar, they turned identical flips in the air and folded out into paper airplanes, gliding in circles all the way back down to the peony-littered ring. September gasped and clapped her hands—but the acrobats were already long behind them, bowing and catching paper roses in their paper teeth.

few years later, Demeter took a vacation to the beach. She was walking along, enjoying the solitude and the fresh sea air, when Poseidon happened to spot her. Being a sea god, he tended to notice pretty ladies walking along the beach. He appeared out of the waves in his best green robes, with his trident in his hand and a crown of seashells on his head. (He was sure that the crown made him look irresistible.) “Hey, girl,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You must be the riptide, ’cause you sweep me off my feet.” He’d been practicing that pickup line for years. He was glad he finally got to use it. Demeter was not impressed. “Go away, Poseidon.” “Sometimes the sea goes away,” Poseidon agreed, “but it always comes back. What do you say you and me have a romantic dinner at my undersea palace?” Demeter made a mental note not to park her chariot so far away. She really could’ve used her two dragons for backup. She decided to change form and get away, but she knew better than to turn into a snake this time. I need something faster, she thought. Then she glanced down the beach and saw a herd of wild horses galloping through the surf. That’s perfect! Demeter thought. A horse! Instantly she became a white mare and raced down the beach. She joined the herd and blended in with the other horses. Her plan had serious flaws. First, Poseidon could also turn into a horse, and he did—a strong white stallion. He raced after her. Second, Poseidon had created horses. He knew all about them and could control them. Why would a sea god create a land animal like the horse? We’ll get to that later. Anyway, Poseidon reached the herd and started pushing his way through, looking for Demeter—or rather sniffing for her sweet, distinctive perfume. She was easy to find. Demeter’s seemingly perfect camouflage in the herd turned out to be a perfect trap. The other horses made way for Poseidon, but they hemmed in Demeter and wouldn’t let her move. She got so panicky, afraid of getting trampled, that she couldn’t even change shape into something else. Poseidon sidled up to her and whinnied something like Hey, beautiful. Galloping my way? Much to Demeter’s horror, Poseidon got a lot cuddlier than she wanted. These days, Poseidon would be arrested for that kind of behavior. I mean…assuming he wasn’t in horse form. I don’t think you can arrest a horse. Anyway, back in those days, the world was a rougher, ruder place. Demeter couldn’t exactly report Poseidon to King Zeus, because Zeus was just as bad. Months later, a very embarrassed and angry Demeter gave birth to twins. The weirdest thing? One of the babies was a goddess; the other one was a stallion. I’m not going to even try to figure that out. The baby girl was named Despoine, but you don’t hear much about her in the myths. When she grew up, her job was looking after Demeter’s temple, like the high priestess of corn magic or something. Her baby brother, the stallion, was named Arion. He grew up to be a super-fast immortal steed who helped out Hercules and some other heroes, too. He was a pretty awesome horse, though I’m not sure that Demeter was real proud of having a son who needed new horseshoes every few months and was constantly nuzzling her for apples. At this point, you’d think Demeter would have sworn off those gross, disgusting men forever and joined Hestia in the Permanently Single Club. Strangely, a couple of months later, she fell in love with a human prince named Iasion (pronounced EYE-son, I think). Just shows you how far humans had come since Prometheus gave them fire. Now they could speak and write. They could brush their teeth and comb their hair. They wore clothes and occasionally took baths. Some of them were even handsome enough to flirt with goddesses.

I grab one of the lanterns we’ve left in the mudroom and head toward my parents’ room, expecting Ryder to follow. But he pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess I should…you know. The guestroom. Should be safe upstairs now.” I just stare at him, trying to decide if he’s serious. But then he reaches for the banister, and I realize he is. “You don’t have to,” I say, my cheeks flushing hotly. “I mean…I’m fine with you down here. With me.” I can’t believe I just said that. But, jeez, everything’s so awkward now. “You sure?” he asks, taking a step toward me. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I’m…you know, getting used to having you around. Anyway,” I say breezily, “we might get some more severe stuff tonight. Probably shouldn’t take any chances.” Oh my God, I’m practically begging him to stay with me. What is wrong with me? “You’re probably right,” Ryder says, relenting. I try to think of something clever to say, but come up blank. So I turn and stalk off to my parents’ room instead. Ryder finds me in the bathroom, brushing my teeth with bottled water. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching me. Our gazes meet in the mirror--which, of course, makes gooseflesh rise on my skin. I spit in the sink and take a swig of water to rinse. “Jem?” I turn, the marble countertop digging into my back. He moves toward me, closing the distance between us. I sway slightly on my feet as he reaches for me, his dark eyes filled with heat. His gaze sweeps across my face, warming my skin, making my breath catch in my throat. Oh man.

What does a freelance researcher do?” “Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.” More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?” “Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.” “Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in-between—well, maybe I care a little. Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.

The rain eased. A single drop, here then there, shook a leaf like the flick of a cat’s ear. Kya hopped up, cleaned out the Frigidaire-cupboard, mopped the stained plywood kitchen floor, and scraped off months of caked-on grits from the woodstove burners. Early the next morning, she scrubbed Pa’s sheets, reeking of sweat and whiskey, and draped them over the palmettos. She went through her brothers’ room, not much bigger than a closet, dusting and sweeping. Dirty socks were piled in the back of the closet and yellowed comic books strewn next to the two soiled mattresses on the floor. She tried to see the boys’ faces, the feet that went with the socks, but the details blurred. Even Jodie’s face was fading; she’d see his eyes for an instant, then they’d slip away, closing. The next morning, carrying a gallon can, she walked the sandy tracks to the Piggly and bought matches, backbone, and salt. Saved out two dimes. “Can’t get milk, gotta get gas.

Samwell Tarly looked at him for a long moment, and his round face seemed to cave in on itself. He sat down on the frost-covered ground and began to cry, huge choking sobs that made his whole body shake. Jon Snow could only stand and watch. Like the snowfall on the barrowlands, it seemed the tears would never end. It was Ghost who knew what to do. Silent as shadow, the pale direwolf moved closer and began to lick the warm tears off Samwell Tarly's face. The fat boy cried out, startled... and somehow, in a heartbeat, his sobs turned to laughter. Jon Snow laughed with him. Afterward they sat on the frozen ground, huddled in their cloaks with Ghost between them. Jon told the story of how he and Robb had found the pups newborn in the late summer snows. It seemed a thousand years ago now. Before long he found himself talking of Winterfell. "Sometimes I dream about it," he said. "I'm walking down this long empty hall. My voice echoes all around, but no one answers, so I walk faster, opening doors, shouting names. I don't even know who I'm looking for. Most nights it's my father, but sometimes it's Robb instead, or my little sister Arya, or my uncle." The thought of Benjen Stark saddened him; his uncle was still missing. The Old Bear had sent out rangers in search of him. Ser Jaremy Rykker had led two sweeps, and Quorin Halfhand had gone forth from the Shadow Tower, but they'd found nothing aside from a few blazes in the trees that his uncle had left to mark his way. In the stony highlands to the northwest, the marks stopped abruptly and all trace of Ben Stark vanished. "Do you ever find anyone in your dream?" Sam asked. Jon shook his head. "No one. The castle is always empty." He had never told anyone of the dream, and he did not understand why he was telling Sam now, yet somehow it felt good to talk of it. "Even the ravens are gone from the rookery, and the stables are full of bones. That always scares me. I start to run then, throwing open doors, climbing the tower three steps at a time, screaming for someone, for anyone. And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." His skin cold and clammy, shivering in the darkness of his cell. Ghost would leap up beside him, his warmth as comforting as daybreak. He would go back to sleep with his face pressed into the direwolf s shaggy white fur.

Long-term, loving, erotic relationships take a lot of work, willingness, patience, compromise, deep listening and humility. Many people struggle in long-term erotic relationships, especially after the fleeting ‘falling in love’ phase has passed. Very often during the first year in a romantic relationship, euphoric and intense emotions, together with high levels of lust, sweep both parties involved off their feet. Excitement, a boost in confidence, and a carefree mood are felt by the couple. This is often described as ‘falling in love’. The couple will very often disclose sensitive secrets about themselves, yearning to feel closer to each other. They are high on life and engaged in intense, sexual romance. This can last up to 18 months depending on the couple, but more than likely it will fizzle out after just one year. All too often after 18 months, when hormone levels and feelings of lust having reverted back to normal levels, couples come crashing back down to reality. This can be very disheartening for both parties.

Two men enter the room, one old and mustached and the other young and tawny-headed, wearing sweats and a worn T-shirt. He looks like Silas, actually—god, what am I, obsessed? But there really is something of the woodsman in the younger man’s face, with his full lips, his slightly curled hair that turns like tendrils around his ears . . . I look away before studying him too closely. “All right, ladies, are we ready?” the older man says enthusiastically. There’s a loud rustling of paper as well flip the enormous sketchbooks on our easels until we find blank sheets. I draw a few soft lines on my page, unsure what— Non-Silas rips off his T-shirt, revealing lightly defined muscles on his pale chest. I raise an eyebrow just as he tugs at the waist of the sweatpants. They drop to the floor in a fluid, sweeping motion. There’s nothing underneath them. At all. My charcoal slips through my suddenly sweaty fingers. Non-Silas steps out of the puddle of his clothes and moves to the center of the room, fluorescent lights reflecting off his slick abdomen. He’s smiling as though he isn’t naked, smiling as though I didn’t somehow manage to get the seat closest to him. As if I can’t see . . . um . . . everything only a few feet from my face, making my mind clumsily spiral. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; he looks like Silas in the face, and because of that I keep wondering if he looks akin to Silas everywhere else. “All right, ladies, this will be a seven-minute pose. Ready?” the older man says, positioning himself behind the other empty easel. The roomful of housewives nod in one hungry motion. I quiver. “Go!” the older man says, starting the stopwatch. Non-Silas poses, something reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David, only instead of marble eyes looking into nothingness, non-Silas is staring almost straight at me. Draw. I’m supposed to be drawing. I grab a new piece of charcoal from the bottom of the easel and begin hastily making lines in my sketchbook. I can’t not look at him, or he’ll think I’m not drawing him. I glance hurriedly, trying to avoid the region my eyes continuously return to. I start to feel fluttery. How long has it been? Surely it’s been seven minutes. I try to add some tone to my drawing’s chest. I wonder what Silas’s chest looks like . . . Stop! Stop stop stop stop stop—” “Right, then!” the older man says as his stopwatch beeps loudly and the scratchy sound of charcoal on paper ends. Thank you, sir, thank you—” “Annnnd next pose!” Non-Silas turns his head away, till all I can see is his wren-colored hair and his side, including a side view of . . . how many times am I going to have to draw this man’s area? What’s worse is that he looks even more like Silas now that I can’t see his eyes. Just like Silas, I bet. My eyes linger longer than necessary now that non-Silas isn’t staring straight at me. By the end of class, I’ve drawn eight mediocre pictures of him, each one with a large white void in the crotch area. The housewives compare drawings with ravenous looks in their eyes as non-Silas tugs his pants back on and leaves the room, nodding politely. I picture him naked again. I sprint from the class, abandoning my sketches—how could I explain them to Scarlett or Silas? Stop thinking of Silas, stop thinking of Silas.

I still have no choice but to bring out Minerva instead.” “But Minerva doesn’t care about men,” young Charlotte said helpfully. “She prefers dirt and rocks.” “It’s called geology,” Minerva said. “It’s a science.” “It’s certain spinsterhood, is what it is! Unnatural girl. Do sit straight in your chair, at least.” Mrs. Highwood sighed and fanned harder. To Susanna, she said, “I despair of her, truly. This is why Diana must get well, you see. Can you imagine Minerva in Society?” Susanna bit back a smile, all too easily imagining the scene. It would probably resemble her own debut. Like Minerva, she had been absorbed in unladylike pursuits, and the object of her female relations’ oft-voiced despair. At balls, she’d been that freckled Amazon in the corner, who would have been all too happy to blend into the wallpaper, if only her hair color would have allowed it. As for the gentlemen she’d met…not a one of them had managed to sweep her off her feet. To be fair, none of them had tried very hard. She shrugged off the awkward memories. That time was behind her now. Mrs. Highwood’s gaze fell on a book at the corner of the table. “I am gratified to see you keep Mrs. Worthington close at hand.” “Oh yes,” Susanna replied, reaching for the blue, leatherbound tome. “You’ll find copies of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom scattered everywhere throughout the village. We find it a very useful book.” “Hear that, Minerva? You would do well to learn it by heart.” When Minerva rolled her eyes, Mrs. Highwood said, “Charlotte, open it now. Read aloud the beginning of Chapter Twelve.” Charlotte reached for the book and opened it, then cleared her throat and read aloud in a dramatic voice. “’Chapter Twelve. The perils of excessive education. A young lady’s intellect should be in all ways like her undergarments. Present, pristine, and imperceptible to the casual observer.’” Mrs. Highwood harrumphed. “Yes. Just so. Hear and believe it, Minerva. Hear and believe every word. As Miss Finch says, you will find that book very useful.” Susanna took a leisurely sip of tea, swallowing with it a bitter lump of indignation. She wasn’t an angry or resentful person, as a matter of course. But once provoked, her passions required formidable effort to conceal. That book provoked her, no end. Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies was the bane of sensible girls the world over, crammed with insipid, damaging advice on every page. Susanna could have gleefully crushed its pages to powder with a mortar and pestle, labeled the vial with a skull and crossbones, and placed it on the highest shelf in her stillroom, right beside the dried foxglove leaves and deadly nightshade berries. Instead, she’d made it her mission to remove as many copies as possible from circulation. A sort of quarantine. Former residents of the Queen’s Ruby sent the books from all corners of England. One couldn’t enter a room in Spindle Cove without finding a copy or three of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom. And just as Susanna had told Mrs. Highwood, they found the book very useful indeed. It was the perfect size for propping a window open. It also made an excellent doorstop or paperweight. Susanna used her personal copies for pressing herbs. Or occasionally, for target practice. She motioned to Charlotte. “May I?” Taking the volume from the girl’s grip, she raised the book high. Then, with a brisk thwack, she used it to crush a bothersome gnat. With a calm smile, she placed the book on a side table. “Very useful indeed.

It's taken me no time to see, just how much you really mean to me. [Name], it's taken less than a week to realize i want you in my life, And not just as a friend, I don't want to watch as another guys wanders into your life and sweeps you off your feet,Call me selfish, but I'm the only boy I want to see you with, I don't want another boy to hold you in his arms, and push your hair behind your ear, and call you beautiful, I don't want another boy to kiss you gently on the forhead and tell you his feelings about you are indescribable through words. I don't want another boy to hold your hand. I want to be the boy who gets to do all of those things. I want to be the boy who gets to call you his, more than anything. I'm not perfect, I'm far from it. but i know that im going to treat you as perfect as possible, and i knowi'm never once going to let you down. I'm going to give you everything you deserve, and im going to make you the happiest girl in the world, Because, to me you're so much more than just every other girl. You're perfect. There's many girls in the world but none of them are you, And you're the only one I've fallen for so fast, and you're the only one i know for a fact i want to call mine. There's just so much about you that has pushed me off the edge, and made me fall harder than I have before. Your eyes for example those beautiful eys of yours, I have never seen anthing as beautiful in my life as your eyes. That gorgeous,color that just makes illuminates beauty, and makes my heart stop, And youre smile, I have no idea why you dont show it off to everyone. You told me you don't like your smile, but i have no idea how you couldn't, It's pefect. I could look at that smile all day long, and i mean it. I never want to see your face without it, because that smile is absolutely beautiful. There's so much about you, that's unique to you, that makes you who you are, and makes you so perfect. There's no other girl on this entire planet that has the same eyes, and smile, you do, And that's reason enough for me to want you, and no toher girl, And that's why defines you from every other girl, how beautiful you really are.I understand, any guy could tell you you're beautiful, but I'm not any guy. I'm me, and im not just telling you you're beautiful, [Name], I'm telling you you're the most beautiful girl in the whole world, and I want you to believe me when i tell you that, I want you to see youself as beautiful as I see you, I want to look you in the eyes, face to face, and tell you you're the most beautiful girl in the whole world, then hold you close to me, and never let you go, I don't want you to think I'm another guy who's going to lie to you, and break your heart. I want you to believe I really do mean all of this, because I do, with all of my heart, I want to spend nights with you in my arms, i want to kiss you on the forhead every night before bed, I want to try and put my feelings for you into words, just to see that beautiful smile of yours, I want to call you mine, and no one else's, I want you, and no one else, and I can't stress how much i really mean that. Imagine laying in the snow, on a calm winter night, looking up at a clear, starry, full moon night, holding hands, not speaking a word, just laying beside one another, listening, to a gentle breeze, taking in how beautiful stars, and the moon are, Feeling completely at peace with everything, like we're in a land far away from everything, and nothing could possibly take that away that feeling of safety , and complete inner happiness. That's howw I'd describe my feelings for you are. Absolutely perfect in every way. If I am lucky enough to see you tomorrow, I'm going to take your breath away, and prove to you I really am the boy who you deserve. I'm going to make you the happiest girl in the entire world. I feel like I may be falling for you way to fast, and way to soon, but I don't care. not one bit, I've never been so sure of anything.

For five hours, he doesn't shower or change his clothes or laugh or smile or cry. It's eight in the morning when he's finally released and told to stay in the Residence and standy for further instructions. He's handed his phone, at last, but there's no answer when he calls Henry, and no response when he texts. Nothing at all. Amy walks him through the colonnade sand up the stairs, saying nothing, and when they reach the hallway between the East and West Bedrooms, he sees them. June, her hair in a haphazard knot on the top of her head and a pink bathrobe, her eyes red-rimmed. His mom, in a sharp, no-nonsense black dress and pointed heels, jaw set. Leo, barefoot in his pajamas. And his dad, a leather duffel still hanging off one shoulder, looking harried and exhausted. They all turn to look at him, and Alex feels a wave of something so much bigger than himself sweep over him like when he was a child standing bowlegged in the Gulf of Mexico, riptide sucking at his feet. A sound escapes his throat uninvited, something that he barely even recognizes, and June has him first, then the rest of them, arms and arms and hands and hands, pullin him close and touching his face and moving him until he's on the floow, the goddamn terrible hideous antique rug that he hates, sitting on the floor and staring at the rug and the threads of the rug and hearing the Gulf rushing in his ears and thinking distantly that he's having a panic attack, and that's why he can't breathe, but he's just staring at the rug and he's having a panic attack and knowing why his lungs won't work doesn't make them work again.

Breathe. Pause. Move. Pause. Breathe. Pause. Move. Pause. It is unending. I heave myself over the final lip and strain to pull myself clear of the edge. I clear the deep powder snow from in front of my face. I lie there hyperventilating. Then I clear my mask of the ice that my breath has formed in the freezing air. I unclip off the rope while still crouching. The line is now clear for Neil to follow up. I get to my feet and start staggering onward. I can see this distant cluster of prayer flags semisubmerged in the snow. Gently flapping in the wind, I know that these flags mark the true summit--the place of dreams. I feel this sudden surge of energy beginning to rise within me. It is adrenaline coursing around my veins and muscles. I have never felt so strong--and yet so weak--all at the same time. Intermittent waves of adrenaline and fatigue come and go as my body struggles to sustain the intensity of these final moments. I find it strangely ironic that the very last part of this immense climb is so gentle a slope. A sweeping curve--curling along the crest of the ridge toward the summit. Thank God. It feels like the mountain is beckoning me up. For the first time, willing me to climb up onto the roof of the world. I try to count the steps as I move, but my counting becomes confused. I am now breathing and gasping like a wild animal in an attempt to devour the oxygen that seeps into my mask. However many of these pathetically slow shuffles I take, this place never seems to get any closer. But it is. Slowly the summit is looming a little nearer. I can feel my eyes welling up with tears. I start to cry and cry inside my mask. Emotions held in for so long. I can’t hold them back any longer. I stagger on.

It was the morning when she went confront my father's killer. I asked her why she wouldn't let one of the soldiers or gerents handle his rescue. And she said to me that all little girls, regardless of what they say, dream of a prince to come in and sweep them off their feet and save the day. But what no one ever mentions is that all little boys dream of a princess to do the same thing for them. But the problem with princes and princesses is that they're spoiled and self-absorbed. They act in their own best interest. They don't go after their loved ones to rescue them so much as they do it for their own vainglory, and to serve themselves. While she'd had many princes try for her hand, it was a king who had claimed her heart. Unlike princes, kings take responsibility. they think of others instead of themselves and they will risk everything, even their very lives , for those they love. It is never about them, but rather about the ones they cherish most. they love to such depth that they would sacrifice all just to see their family smile. For every thousand princes, there is only one king. And such rare men do not deserve a useless princess who sits on her duff and orders others to worship her and do her bidding. Kings deserve queens- rare women who never flinch to do whatever it takes to keep their king safe. Women who have the courage to face any attacker and to rally to whatever challenge life throws at them. I will not sit here, she said to me, and let your father suffer while I hide in comfort. He risked his life to keep us safe and I will do no less for him. If it means my life, so be it. After all, he is my life and I don't want to live without him. He deserves only my best and that's exactly what he's going to get, no matter the personal cost.

The riders fanned out, but my immediate escort rode straight to the overhanging rusty roof that formed a rudimentary barn. The Marquis dismounted and stretched out his hand to grip the bridle of my horse. “Inside,” he said to me. I dismounted. Again the ground seemed to heave beneath my feet, but I leaned against the shoulders of my mount until the world steadied, and then I straightened up. The Marquis walked toward the open doorway. In a kind of blank daze, I followed the sweeping black cloak inside and down a tiny hall, to a door made of old, rickety twigs bound together. The Marquis opened this and waved me into a little room. I took two steps inside it, looked-- And there, lying on a narrow bed, with books and papers strewn about him, was my brother, Branaric. “Mel!” he exclaimed. “Burn it, you were right,” he said past me. “Ran her to ground at Vesingrui, eh?” A voice spoke behind me. “They were just about to drop on us.” I turned, saw the Marquis leaning in the doorway, a growing puddle of rainwater at his feet. For a long moment I could do nothing except stand as if rooted. The world seemed about to dissolve for a sickening moment, but I sucked in a ragged breath and it righted again, and I threw myself down on my knees next to the bed, knocking my soggy, shapeless hat off, and hugged Branaric fiercely. “Mel, Mel,” Bran said, laughing, then he groaned and fell back on his pillows. “Softly, girl. Curse it! I’m weak as a newborn kitten.” “And will be for a time,” came the voice from the doorway. “Once your explanations have been made, I exhort you to remember Mistress Kylar’s warning.” “Aye, I’ve it well in mine,” Bran said. And as the door closed, he looked up at me from fever-bright eyes. “He was right! Said you’d go straight after ‘em, sword and knife. What’s with you?” “You said, ‘A trap.’ I thought it was them,” I muttered through suddenly numb lips. “Wasn’t it?” “Didn’t you see the riding of greeners?” Bran retorted. “It was Debegri, right enough. He had paid informants in those inns, for he was on the watch for your return. Why d’you think Vidanric sent the escort?” “Vidanric?” “His name,” Branaric said, still staring at me with that odd gaze. “You could try to use it--only polite. After all, Shevraeth is just a title, and he doesn’t go about calling either of us Tlanth.” I’d rather cut out my tongue, I thought, but I said nothing.

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.

Nevaeh- I believe I am never going to go around with little dreams anymore, I will not have a contained mind; I am always going to be positive if I can, and dream big. Knowing that it all can, and will be coming true if only I believe that it will. I know that I should never get stuck in a rut, for the reason that I do not know the whole plan that has been set for me. When you think like this, you can, and will break forth; this is when you will see an increase and praise. I hope that all our dreams come true, and we can all start anew. I hope that we can think, all our choices. Now I am hoping that I can let you know that, you have an angel too. I hope that everything is going to work out for you. The angels will save you and me, in times that we are on our knees. I hope the tower and its clans will forever let me be. I hope that everything will be understood so all of you can see. (About six months back) Nevaeh- The night that I was saved differently, I am only sixteen but the time is right. I could not stand living here another day or night, in ‘The Land of Many Steeples’ in the house of lost and lonely dreams, it was time for me to spread my wings and fly away from this land of misery. The day finally came and he saved me from the hell that is part of my existence. The boxy chariot with its small oblong taillights arrived near my doorstep. He greeted me with the presence of compassion. For I was looking down from the window, yes it was supposed to just be another date night. Yes, he arrived to sweep me off my feet once again and take me away. Hope was not very pleased with the onset of him being in my life… But there was nothing she could do. At last, I was content, and that is all that mattered. She would not let me go on my dates, so I waited around until it was night outside, and she was asleep! That is when I would sneak out, and get away for a while, with him. Yet I think I got pregnant on date number one, yet I am not sure. (Looking back) I remember all the dates; we would drive through the town at night, and do all kinds of wild things. Besides, look at the stars in the back of his ford bronco truck with a blanket at our spot, as the baby was asleep inside of me, this was about four months ago, or so. (The first days together as a couple.) Some of our dates started right after my school day, he would come and get me, and I would not come home until my curfew or not at all. We did not have much money, yet we always had fun just being together. Like this one time, we went kayaking in our swimsuits on the gently flowing river, and then afterward we had a picnic lunch, simple dates, but always fun. Yeah, that is right, we only had three normal dates before; I know I was indeed going to have a baby. Our craziness slowed down a lot after that fact, yet we still went out.

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.

If romance is ever going to find me, it will have to sweep me off my feet and carry me away, because I’m done being in love alone.

More than anything, I wanted this book to highlight a neurodiverse heroine who happens to be on medication and in therapy falling in love and thriving. I wanted to show the messy, heavy parts of her life alongside the moments that sweep her off her feet. And I wanted a hero who’d love her through her dark days, not despite them—because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.

Did he sweep you off your feet?' Kurara pulled a face. Himura seemed more the type to toss her over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

wanted this book to highlight a neurodiverse heroine who happens to be on medication and in therapy falling in love and thriving. I wanted to show the messy, heavy parts of her life alongside the moments that sweep her off her feet. And I wanted a hero who’d love her through her dark days, not despite them—because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.

It was like he was standing in the desert, dispassionately watching the flash of a distant explosion, waiting for the shock wave to trundle across the flats and reach him, to sweep him off his feet and carry him away.

I only meant, shall I go away or would you rather I didn't" Because, you see, you can be a trifle confusing sometimes. For a simple man. And I made up my mind I wouldn't give you any more cause to be unhappy. Or to despise yourself. I was going away to give you time without me here, looming over you constantly and trying to sweep you off your feet. And to give me time as well, to think...about my life. And also in the hopes that absence would make the heart grow fonder. Not my heart, because if it were any fonder it would explode or melt or disintegrate in some fashion.

I definitely need to love a man. But a real man. A man who could sweep me off my feet without resorting to brute strength. Without asking anything of me, without controlling me, or degrading me, a man who could love me and walk by my side. In other words, a truly powerful man, a real man.

Ahead of us, cleared and revealed by the same vast sweep of the wind lay twisted valleys, hundreds of feet below, full of ice and boulders. Across those valleys a great wall stood, a wall of ice, and raising our eyes up and still up to the rim of the wall we saw the Ice itself, the Gobrin Glacier, blinding and horizonless to the utmost north, a white, a white the eyes could not look on. Here and there out of the valleys full of rubble and out of the cliffs and bends and masses of the great ice-field's edge, black ridges rose; one great mass loomed up out of the plateau to the height of the gateway peaks we stood between, and from its side drifted heavily a mile-long wisp of smoke. Farther off there were others: peaks, pinnacles, black cindercones on the glacier. Smoke panted from fiery mouths that opened out of the ice. Estraven stood there in harness beside me looking at that magnificent and unspeakable desolation. "I'm glad I have lived to see this," he said. I felt as he did. It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end. It had not rained. here on these north-facing slopes. Snow-fields stretched down from the pass into the valleys of moraine. We stowed the wheels, uncapped the sledge-runners, put on our skis, and took off- down, north, onward, into that silent vastness of fire and ice that said in enormous letters of black and white DEATH, DEATH, written right across a continent. The sledge pulled like a feather, and we laughed with joy.

Brandon’s furious desire to care for Taylor surprised him, but it also invigorated him. He’d been waiting all his adult life to have a prince come sweep him off his feet. Imagine his shock to find that he was the prince, and he had a job to do.

Papa asked me to make a good-faith effort to let a man sweep me off my feet and I’ve agreed. But I don’t know why he thinks I’ll weigh contributing factors differently when I’m off my feet. Sometimes I feel I must conclude that Papa doesn’t know me at all.

we

I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet. "You’re like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield." .... Romantic. Your were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren't romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.

Gabrielle, my dear, my sweet, my flower, I, the King of Romance, have come for you!” The person who had appeared was wearing a white tuxedo that was different from everyone else’s plaid pants and blazer combination. He had bright blond hair that was slicked back. His eyes were blue. Gabrielle had seen him numerous times already, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The blond man walked up the stairs toward her, his hand extended in a grand gesture. “My love, you are the only one whose beauty can captivate me so. Please, allow me, the King of Love, the sweep you off your feet!” The blond knelt before Gabrielle and took her hand in his. He stared into her eyes. Why was he staring into her eyes so hard? It looked like he was trying to drill holes through her with his gaze. Creepy. Gabrielle responded to this man the same way she had done every time he appeared. “Who are you again?

A knight in shining armor got a little old when you couldn’t walk two feet without him riding in to sweep you off your feet. At that point, it was more like hijacking than rescuing. Luckily

There is a type of woman I'd like to tell you about. This is a woman who a lot see as abrasive, standoffish, rbf, sarcasm is a first language. Also one, that if you're paying attention, is the one who is following up, checking in on people. Ya know, the kind of thing most people don't think to do. If you ask her out and you didn't do your homework, you're going to get an automatic no. If you didn't approach her in a way that had nothing to do with you wanting to date, because she has been hurt, trauma in her past. She's absolutely not broken. She doesn't want somebody to sweep her off her feet. She doesn't need to be rescued. She needs somebody who will sweep under her feet with her. Knowing you're willing to sweep that same floor. And then she'll be excited to do it for you if she knows you're willing to do it for her. She wants to let the kindness out and the walls down. It's not because she isn't able to, but She took control. She's not going to give it away to anybody else. But, she's willing to have somebody beside her--equally and independent. Living life. This is the kind of woman you build a future with. No matter what it takes, it's worth it.

The upside is that every rejection you face will ultimately redirect you to someone better. If a man stops pursuing you after the first couple of dates, he’s saved you from more hurt and anger if you had made an investment. When the shame of rejection passes, you will realize that being ignored was a lucky break. A Girl with Game doesn’t settle. She waits for a man to pursue her and sweep her off her feet.

Oh, look at me, Gild. You can’t possibly think I have a bevy of suitors waiting for their chance to sweep me off my feet. I’d gotten rather used to the idea of spinsterhood.

Simon

And hosts of other memories would have followed, crowding: a thousand skyscapes, day and night, the gay or sombre garments of the blue; the way the earth looked, falling; the wonder at first coming out above the clouds; the rush of engines starting; swallowing to stop deafness in a dive; the scream of wires; shadows of clouds on hills; rain, sweeping like veils over the sea, far off; sunlight; stars between wings; friends, close in formation, swaying, hand on throttle, as they rode ten feet away a mile above the earth. And many others: grass blown down when engines were run up; the smell of dope, and castor oil, and varnish in new cockpits; moonlight shining on struts; sunset clouds, gold-braided; the gasp before the dive; machine-guns; chasing wild duck; the feel of bumps, and all the mastery over movement, pride in skill.

We must discover the glorious, completing love of God. If you are single, you do not have to find a mate to discover love. If you are in a difficult, unfulfilled marriage, you do not have to go outside the boundaries to discover love. If you are a known sinner who has struggled with disgraceful habits and thoughts– there is a love waiting for you that will sweep you off your feet. It comes to us like a kiss from heaven. There are places in your heart that will only be healed by Divine romance. So run into Abba’s arms today and abandon your self to Him!

I was at the same time impressed with the falsity of the general idea that Frenchmen are excitable and emotional, and that Germans are calm and phlegmatic. Frenchmen are merely gay and never overwhelmed by their emotions. When they talk loud and fast, it is merely talk, while Germans get worked up and red in the face when sustaining an opinion, and in heated discussions are likely to allow their emotions to sweep them off their feet.

Well?" "Is that — a proposal?" "It is trying to be a proposal.  I can rephrase it, if you wish." She could only stare at him.  "Oh, Damon!" "Shall I rephrase it?  I can bow over your hand like a gallant young buck and say, 'My dear Lady Simms, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?'  That is the traditional approach. Or — " She giggled, drinking him up with her eyes, loving every inch of him. " — I can do it as a pirate might, by sweeping you off your feet and carrying you straight to the nearest clergyman without giving you a chance to deny me —" She laughed, and reached out to swat playfully at his shoulder.  "And how might the Black Wolf do it?" He stared at her, momentarily taken aback.  Then, swiftly recovering, he smiled and murmured, "I suppose he would kidnap you and wrap you in his black cape, and adopt much the same method as would our pirate." "And how do you know he has a black cape?" "Well, if I were the Black Wolf, I'd certainly wear a black cape." "Oh, Damon.  I do so wish you'd ravish me." "Consent to be my marchioness, and I shall consider it.

Because women were just stupid enough to believe we could have it all—the knight in shining armor and all that bullshit. I’d spent a lot of nights with knights, and when I finally woke up, when there was enough light to see who he truly was, he was already on his way out the door. Off to sweep the next idiot off her feet, to promise her everything and leave her with nothing.

She brushes a lock of hair back from her face and winces when she tugs through a snag. “Oh, my gosh. I must look like I’ve been tumbled in a dryer, right? Is it bad?” She starts to sweep through her hair and her hand sticks in another knot. “You wouldn’t happen to have a brush, would you? Crap,” she swears as she encounters a huge snarl. “Wait,” I say. “I’ll get it.” I start to work through the tangle with my fingers and she sits still while I work out every last one. When I’m done, her hair is silky and smooth and I am not ready to stop running my fingers through it, but I probably should. “Don’t stop,” she says quietly. “That feels really good.” She pulls her feet from the water. “Wait,” she says, and she adjusts so that she’s lying over my lap. “You don’t mind, do you?” Hell, at this point, I’d be sad if she made me stop. “It’s fine,” I tell her. She relaxes against me and says, “Talk to me, will you?” Her eyes close and I’m pretty sure if she got any more relaxed, she’d fall asleep. My insides settle in a way they never have before. Usually, I have a roiling, boiling sensation in my chest, like something is fighting to get out of me and I must work to contain it at all times. But now… Now I am at peace. My soul and my heart connect like tumblers lining up in a lock. Snap! It opens up. And it scares the hell out of me. I pull my hands from her hair, thinking that her proximity is the problem. But the tumblers don’t realign. They don’t lock her out. They let her in. They invite her in and offer her a fucking apple pie so she’ll sit and stay for a while. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You stopped rubbing my hair.” I lift her off my lap and set her beside me. “All the tangles are out.” “Oh.” She sighs. “That’s good.” She suddenly looks uncomfortable and it kills me that I caused it. “Thank you for fixing my hair,” she says quietly.

It’s not like some stranger is going to show up to rescue me, then sweep me off of my feet and carry me out into the sunshine where we get a happily ever after. If I wasn’t so fucking exhausted, I’d snort at the ridiculousness of it all.               “Ayva,

Dear Mr Disney,   You can't go telling little girls their whole lives that a handsome prince will sweep them off their feet if it's not going to happen.

I walked to the fridge and slipped the desserts and whipped cream inside, taking a deep breath. "What is that?" I asked, not able to place the smell that still somehow made my stomach growl. "Tacos?" I asked, brows drawn together. "Don't insult me," he said with a smile. "Not an insult. I like tacos." "Okay, next time. This time, we're having wet burritos." "What is a wet burrito?" I asked, propping myself up on the counter and watching as he scooped rice and then a supply of cooked veggies and beans onto the tortilla. "Depends on your taste. But in general, a tortilla filled with rice, veggies, meat, beans, and cheese. Then you roll it up, melt some more cheese on top then add some Pica de Gallo, salsa verde, rojo, or habanero- depending on what heat-level you can take." "That sounds too good to be true," I said, meaning it. "It is. And it goes great with the beer I have cooling in the fridge," he told me, rolling up one burrito and putting a mix of shredded cheeses on top before nuking it for a couple seconds and handing me the plate, gesturing toward the supply of salsas. He wasn't trying to sweep me off my feet with some three-course meal, but he cooked me something that made that frappe foodgasm moan sound tame when I had my first bite. "Oh my God." "I know," he agreed, smiling big at my enjoyment. And I realized with a sort of blinding clarity that I literally couldn't remember the last time I felt quite so content. It wasn't that kind of 'high' you get when something goes right or you achieve something after a long time trying; it was deeper. It was soul deep. I felt it into my marrow. "What's that look for?" he asked as he took my plate and put it beside his on the coffee table. Not sure how to explain it and thinking it was perhaps too soon to even if I could, I took a long swig of my beer and shrugged. "What look?" To that, his lips tipped up devilishly. "You really want to do this again?" "Do what?" I asked as he stood suddenly and walked toward the kitchen. He didn't answer me though as I heard some shuffling before he came walking back with the whipped cream. "Do the 'I am going to get what I want out of you by using sex to do it' thing," he explained as he slammed the can down on the coffee table and moved to stand between it and the couch, reaching down and pulling me onto my feet. "Brant..." I said as his fingers teased up under the material of my tee, running across my lower back and inching it off my skin. "Know what?" he asked as his fingers paused to unclasp my bra. "No, what?" I asked, feeling my chest get heavier as desire started to course through my system. "I'm still hungry," he told me, pulling my shirt until I had no choice but to raise up my hands as he pulled off both my shirt and my bra. "Brant, please..'' "Begging won't help you this time," he informed me as his hands whispered down my belly and unfastened my button and zip before yanking the thick material over my butt then down my thighs. I stepped out of the material as his hands pressed into my hips and pushed me back toward the couch. I had barely sat down before he was grabbing for the whipped cream and shaking the can, eyes devilish, smirk downright sinful. "Lay back," he commanded and I automatically moved to do just that. "Unless you want to end it without all the torture and tell me." Tell him what? I had no idea what I was even supposed to tell him anymore and, honestly, even if I did know what... I was pretty sure I wanted every second of a torment that involved him licking things off my body. I jumped slightly as he circled my nipple with the cold whipped cream, an unexpectedly erotic sensation. He covered both nipples and created a line down the center of my belly and completely covered the skin above my sex. I waited for him to move over me, to kiss me, then move down to my chest.

We go back to our silent fishing, but I'm smiling the whole time. The tension has dimmed. Well, until Blake shoves Graham into the river. A gasp leaves me, my mouth hanging open as I watch my roommate sputter to the surface of the dirty water. I drop my fishing pole, frozen in place. My dad mutters, “What the hell?” Blake throws his head back and laughs like I have never seen nor heard him laugh before. The loud and hearty sound is cut off short when Graham comes barreling out of the water, his body aimed straight for him, his eyes daggers of retribution. He lunges for his brother, wrapping his arms around his stomach and heaving him toward the water. Blake stumbles back, landing on his rear just inside the water. The sound of jeans smacking into water is sharp. He swipes water out of his eyes as Graham smirks at him. “What is wrong with you two?” I demand, more annoyed than worried. They seem to be getting along, even if they are being brutish about it. Suddenly I have the attention of two wet men, twin calculating gleams in their eyes. Graham is closest, his steps slow and purposeful as he approaches me. “Don't even think about it.” I put my hands out in front of me to ward him off. His grin deepens as he reaches me. Water drips from his hair down his face to become one with his soggy clothes. “Don't think about what?” A glance over my shoulder tells me a tree, the first form of cover I think of, is too far away. Not one to give up, I move for it anyway, but a wet, strong hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me away from where I want to go until I am flush with a cold chest. Cold clothes; warm body, I should say. His skin is burning through the dampness of his shirt. “Graham, I swear, if you throw me in that water, I will never speak to you again.” His voice is low and close as he says, “You make it sound like that wouldn't be a good thing.” I haven't even finished my sound of incredulity before I am gathered into his arms, my arms unconsciously going around his neck to anchor me to him. His touch is gentle, his eyes are smiling. “I mean it. This won't be good for you.” “Oh, I don't know about that.” His arms swing out, and I tighten my hold on him, threatening him even as he is laughing at me. He does it again as we move closer to the water and I glare all my irk at him. “If I go, you go.” He tilts his head as he studies me. His voice is unnaturally sober as he tells me, “That's fine with me.” I don't have time to process that before he lets go of me. I hit the water, refusing to let go of his neck, and we both go under. Lucky for me, the water is only a couple feet deep. Unlucky for Graham, I twist around until I am straddling him, keeping him down with my weight so the only thing above water is his head. I give him a sweet smile. He doesn't return it. “Hi,” I purr. He grunts in response. “Fancy meeting you here.” “What can I say? Where you go, I follow.” I pat his cheek. “That's so sweet.” “I'm a sweet guy.” “So sweet,” I agree. “Hey! You're scaring the fish away.” This from Blake, who is now standing near my father. “The fish love me!” I declare, sweeping my arms out wide and losing my balance. I splash into the water, first laughing, and then choking as water goes down my throat. Graham lifts me out of the water by my shirt. “The weight of your arrogance obviously tipped you over.” “It was more like the air couldn't handle all my splendor.” Half of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.” “Fishing with the three of you is impossible,” Dad grumbles and stomps to the cooler, opening a can of soda and gulping it down

My little girl was no longer a little girl. She’d grown—blossomed into the most beautiful woman, one I never thought I’d end up raising. By me, the man who was once a fuck-up and a loner. Me, the man that had once broken her heart by sweeping her best friend right off her feet and not giving a damn about it.

Before she could say more, she looked up to find Cade towering over her. "Do you think they could do one song without us so I might have the pleasure of the next dance?" he asked formally. Lily looked startled and Whitaker frowned, but Anna had just arrived and offered shyly, "I'll play for you, Mrs. Brown. What would you like to hear?" It was settled. Feeling a quiver of excitement, Lily took Cade's hand and rose from the bench. "Do you know 'Molly Cotton-tail'?" It was an easy song, one every child learned, but great fun for dancing. Lily smiled at the child's eager nod. She would finally have a chance to try dancing. Lily's excitement was irresistible. Ignoring the fact that he would most likely get his head blown off for daring to lay a hand to a white woman, Cade led her out to join the dancers. Langton and his wife were there, and they joined the circle beside them. Cade hid his surprise as Maria haughtily joined them, towing one of Lily's farmhands behind her. Maria was a whore at heart, but she hadn't denied him her bed as many another had done before. Cade wouldn't begrudge this offer of friendship now. Unaware that a small cadre of friends and neighbors were forming a protective circle around them, Lily laughed and took Cade's hand as the music began. She had waited for this moment all her life, and she expected to enjoy it to the fullest. She no longer pictured a dream man to sweep her off her feet. She merely wanted to enjoy the music. Cade watched in amazement as Lily spread her wings and flew. She didn't need anyone's protection. The sheer delight on her face as she swung from arm to arm around the circle, her feet scarcely touching the floor, was enough to stop even the hardest heart from treading on her happiness. Cade almost half-believed that life had some meaning beyond mere existence as he watched her. He wouldn't need liquor if he could always feel that kind of joy, even secondhand. Lily collapsed, laughing, into his arms as the music ended. For a moment, Cade was supporting her slenderness against him while she recovered her breath. He had no right being aroused by innocence incarnate, but while Lily laughed, Cade burned. The

As I’m walking back out to the living room, my bedroom door opens, and Logan steps out. I have to catch my breath at the sight of him. He’s wearing black trousers, a black turtleneck, and he has on a royal-blue button-down shirt with long sleeves that’s open at the throat. He’s not wearing a tie, and he doesn’t need one. Goodness, he looks like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine. He has a jacket thrown over his shoulder, hooked by his index finger. He lifts the edge of his pants for me. “Are these socks too much?” he asks. He has on socks with multi-colored stripes. He grins. I shake my head. “None of it’s too much.” I sweep my eyes from his head to his feet and back again. God, he’s handsome. “You look amazing.” “I guess I clean up okay, huh?” he asks. He looks unsure of himself. “Logan, you look fabulous,” my mom says. She claps her hands together like she’s at the theater.

It really has been good to see you Carter. I’ve missed you.” “I’ve missed you too Blaze. These last couple years have gone,” he took another swig and sighed deeply, “a lot different than I thought they were going to.” “For me too.” I leaned onto the island and shook my head, laughing softly, “I didn’t think I would be married or have a baby, that’s for sure.” “I did, but I definitely thought it would be with me. I had it all planned out, I was gonna sweep you off your feet, you were going to drop out of college and marry me immediately.” He puffed a small laugh and ran a hand through his short hair. “Well, obviously that didn’t happen.” I smirked at him. “Obviously. What did you see yourself doing?” “Continuing school, trying to enjoy the ‘college experience’, I guess. I don’t really know Carter, I just wanted to get away, be me, or find out who I was.” “And then you met Brandon, and your whole world changed?” He looked sad, even through his smile, “I’ve gotta admit, I thought getting you to marry me anytime soon was a long shot, but I couldn’t believe the girl I knew was already head over heels for some guy she’d just met. You were so different when I got here, confident, feminine and outgoing. I had to keep reminding myself that you were my Blaze. I’d already lost you to everyone here though. It was painfully obvious after those first few minutes on the beach. And seeing you with him, I just – I don’t know. It shocked the hell out of me and killed me.” “To be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about dating when I left home. I mean, I figured I would, but never thought I’d meet someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with after just two weeks of being here, ya know?” I laughed softly and the corners of my mouth tilted up, “Definitely thought marriage and babies would happen sometime after graduation. Like you said though, life doesn’t always go as planned, does it? It caused me to grow up, too soon probably, but I’m fine with that because it was the result of my actions. I just hate that those actions forced the people closest to me to grow up too.

By afternoon Jack found her down on her hands and knees scouring the bathroom floor around the toilet and tub. “For the love of God,” he said. “What?” “What the hell are you doing? If you want the bathroom cleaned, why don’t you just tell me? I know how to clean a goddamn bathroom.” “It wasn’t all that dirty, but since I’m in the cleaning mood, I thought I’d whip it into shape.” “David is ready for his nap. Why don’t you join him.” “I don’t feel like a nap. I’m going to vacuum the area rugs.” “No, you’re not,” he said. “I’ll do that if it has to be done right now.” “Okay,” Mel said, smiling. “I’ve been tricked.” “Only by yourself, darling,” she said, whirling away to get the Pledge and Windex. After that was done—and there was a lot of wood and glass and stainless steel to occupy her—she was sweeping off the porch and back steps. Not long after that, she was caught dragging the cradle into the master bedroom. “Melinda!” he shouted, startling her and making her jump. “Jack! Don’t do that!” “Let go of that thing!” He brushed her out of the way and grabbed the cradle. “Where do you want it?” “Right there,” she said. He put it beside the bed. “No,” she said. “Over there, kind of out of the way.” He put it there. “No,” she said. “Against that wall—we’ll put it where we need it when she comes.” He moved it again. “Thank you,” she said. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said. He picked up a pencil and put it in her face. “If you lift anything heavier than this, I’m going to beat you.” Then he turned and left the room. He has cabin fever, she thought. Spending too much time at home with me, making sure I don’t pick up anything heavier than a pencil. He should get out more, and out of my hair. When Jack was done with the phone, she was on her knees in front of the hearth, brushing out the barely used fireplace. “Aw, Jesus Christ,” he said in frustration. “Can that not wait until at least frickin’ winter?” She sat back on her heels. “You are really getting on my last nerve. Don’t you have somewhere you can go?” “No, but we do. Go shower and get beautiful. Paul and Vanessa are back and after they view the prom couple, they’re going to the bar for dinner. We’ll all meet there, look at some pictures.” “Great,” she said. “I’m in the mood for a beer.” “Whatever you want, Melinda,” he said tiredly. “Just stop this frickin’ cleaning.” “You know I’m not going to be able to do much of this after the baby comes, so it’s good to have it all done. And the way I like it.” “You’ve always been good at cleaning. Why couldn’t you just cook?” he asked. “You don’t cook anything.” “You cook.” She smiled. “How many cooks does one house need?” “Just go shower. You have fireplace ash on your nose.” “Pain in the ass,” she said to him, getting clumsily to her feet. “Ditto,” he said. An

verybody has an imagination. There’s the construction worker who can close his eyes and imagine a Hawaiian vacation. There’s the corporate executive with visions of that next big promotion. There’s the stay-at-home mother and her perfectly built “cabana boy” who will sweep her off her feet. For a small group of us, we’ve been fortunate enough to be able to use our imaginations to make a living.

That night in her office back at the museum, she’d made a tongue-in-cheek wish for a sexy Highlander to sweep her off her feet. She’d gotten her wish and then some. She’d gotten a treasured friend, a passionate lover, and best of all, a wonderful father to her child—their child. She had her heart’s desire. Everything was perfect.

Chanel wanted someone to sweep her off of her feet, not take her heart and run. She

In the Langhe hills it’s the aromas—of truffles, mushrooms, hazelnuts, coffee, and above all else, Barolo and Barbaresco wine—that sweep people off their feet. Although

If you sweep a woman off of her feet, make sure your character is strong enough to keep her in the air.

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.”  

It takes a sterner stuff for a person in love to think straight. Most people fall head over heel in love leaving their minds behind. Love sweeps them off their feet and they stand lopsided, and so is their thinking. They accept the unacceptable in the guise that love is blind. When the reality of matrimony opens their eyes, they are pregnant with regrets.

She started to turn her face to me, then stopped and looked down again. “It’s quite a thing,” she said. “There are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. And there is one of you, trying just the opposite. Making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest I fall.

What happened?” I croaked, and she came to my side, offering me a cool drink. “You’re fine,” she soothed. “Both of you are fine. Just lie still.” “But…how did I come to be here?” “You and my son passed out. No one knows how or why, but a lot of people lost consciousness. The Cokyrian commander summoned physicians to treat everyone, then my Lord Landru found you and brought you both here.” “I need to go home. My mother must be frantic.” I struggled to sit upright, then fell back, my head pounding, nausea sweeping through me that was so debilitating I would have gladly traded it for a hangover. “Shaselle, are you all right?” It was Grayden, his voice weak and confused. His mother replaced the damp cloth on my brow, then went to offer him something to drink. “I think I will be,” I managed in response. I heard voices in the foyer, then Lord Landru strode into the parlor. “She’s there, Cannan,” he said, and my uncle approached, his atypical worry lines relaxing when he realized I was conscious. “How are you, Shaselle?” “Never better.” He laughed in pure relief. “I’m going to let you rest here for a while yet. Then I’ll return and take you home. But you’re going to be just fine.” “What went wrong, Uncle? Everyone was so happy, and then…it was chaos.” “I know. There was a disturbance--Hytanican caused, I’m afraid. But the Cokyrians were only too eager to respond. Feebly armed Hytanicans in various stages of inebriation were no match for sober, well-armed and well-trained Cokyrian soldiers. It would have been a bloodbath had it not been for Commander Narian.” Cannan shook his head, as if trying to figure something out. “I’m not sure what he did, but he must have been anticipating trouble. He released some type of poison--no, not a poison. But some type of airborne substance that knocked everybody off their feet. Shut the fighting down at once.” He placed a hand on my cheek, brushing away a few wisps of my hair. “You no doubt feel poorly right now, but I’ve been told the effects wear off in a few hours. You’ll be back to normal after that.” “Captain, sir?” It was Grayden. My uncle gazed over at him in surprise. “Yes?” “This may not be the ideal time to ask, but, would you please permit me to court Shaselle?” There was stunned silence in the room, then loud laughter. “I’d be a fool to deny you a chance with my niece. Assuming Shaselle favors the idea.” “I do, Uncle,” I assured him, easily slipping back toward sleep, images of Grayden and Saadi drifting through my head. Then a remembrance of Queen Alera and Commander Narian came to the forefront--how deferential he had been with her when I had been caught with that dagger, how she had looked at him. And I knew two things with absolute certainty. She was in love with him, and he had to be a good man.

No matter what- no matter what Blood had done and no matter how much Damion was sweeping me off of my feet – I wasn’t ready to leave my stability.

Shit, Marcia,” Beatrice replied. “No guy is going to arrive every time just to sweep you off your feet and magically solve all your problems for you. Most of the time, you have to be the one to pick up the pieces and put yourself together again.” Her voice softened, “I’m sorry if it hurts you to hear this right now, but that’s life.

Just wanted to introduce myself,” Stuart continued, “and let you know that if you need any help—with anything at all—I’m the man for the job.” Her rich brown eyes were framed by lashes that were long and thick enough to sweep a man off his feet. And when she turned her attention upon Stuart, she seemed to do just that—sweep him off his feet and up into the air. “Well now, that’s mighty nice of you, Mr. Golden—” “Stu.” He regarded her like a puppy its master. Connell wished he were standing next to Stuart and could sock him in the arm. Of course, he couldn’t begrudge Stuart the attention of a woman, not after having lost his wife during the diphtheria epidemic that had ravaged Michigan back in ’80. Stuart had lost his son too, and for all practical purposes had given up on the baby daughter he’d handed to the care of his parents who lived down in Saginaw. If anyone deserved the company of a good woman, it was Stuart. Why, then, did the sight of him going soft over Lily irritate him?

Daniel isn’t some white knight who’s going to sweep me off my feet. He’s too busy spending every weekend with whatever floozy decides to blink her fake eyelashes at him. Sure, Daniel’s great at committment. He commits to the Falcons every game. He commits to cooking his mom dinner every night she works late. He just doesn’t commit when it comes to girls.

Wealth, beauty and fame (..) Those three intoxicate a young man, sweep a young man off of his feet and take his shame out from his heart. -Red White Love: The Love of Liverpool FC

The front door flew open.   His gaze went there and he saw Margot swan in, Dave at her back carrying a pie.   She stopped, did a sweep of the place with her eyes, it halted on Izzy in his kitchen and her expression shifted straight to sheer bliss.   “Eliza!” she cried. “My darling girl! Could you be more adorable in that dress?”   As Johnny rolled up to his feet holding Brooks to him, Margot swept in, latched onto Izzy and hugged her like she was her favorite daughter who’d married a Russian who’d whisked her off to the cold of Siberia and she hadn’t seen her in a decade.   “Totally . . . dig . . . this chick,” Addie murmured.   Johnny moved their way as Margot let go of Izzy, assessed Addie, and Dave moved into Iz and gave her a hug, muttering, “Great to see you again, child.”   “You too, Dave,” she said back.   “You must be the sister,” Margot decreed.   “That I am,” Addie replied. “And you must be the awesome Margot.”   Margot arched a brow. “Awesome?”   “Izzy thinks your da bomb.”   “Did she use that vernacular?”   “No, she said, ‘I can’t wait for you to meet Margot. She’s class on a stick.’”   Margot’s face grew smug and she aimed a look Izzy’s way, murmuring demurely, “Darlin’.”   Izzy was blushing.   Johnny waded in.   “Let’s finish this up. Dave, this is Addie, Izzy’s sister. And guys, this is Brooks.” He lifted the baby a couple of inches. “Addie’s boy.”   “Oh . . . my . . . word! Look at that handsome child!” Margot lifted both hands his way. “Give him to me immediately, Johnathon.

Gabrielle, my dear, my sweet, my flower, I, the King of Romance, have come for you!” The person who had appeared was wearing a white tuxedo that was different from everyone else’s plaid pants and blazer combination. He had bright blond hair that was slicked back. His eyes were blue. Gabrielle had seen him numerous times already, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The blond man walked up the stairs toward her, his hand extended in a grand gesture. “My love, you are the only one whose beauty can captivate me so. Please, allow me, the King of Love, the sweep you off your feet!” The blond knelt before Gabrielle and took her hand in his. He stared into her eyes. Why was he staring into her eyes so hard? It looked like he was trying to drill holes through her with his gaze. Creepy. Gabrielle responded to this man the same way she had done every time he appeared. “Who are you again?” The reaction around the room was instant. The whole class burst out laughing. Ryoko and Serah were the worst perpetrators, bent over the table and howling with laughter as they were, but even Kazekiri was snickering into her hand while trying to look stern. Gabrielle just smiled. She didn’t really know what was so funny. “W-why is it that you can never remember my name?” The blond cried out. “I’m Jameson de Truante, the most handsome man in this entire school. I am so handsome that people often call me the King of Good Looks.” “Hmm…” Gabrielle crossed her arms. That’s right. This boy was Jasmine’s older brother, wasn’t he? She remembered now. However… “I’m sorry, but you’re nowhere near as handsome as Alex.” “Hurk!” Jameson jerked backwards as though he’d been shot through the heart with something, though all this did was cause him to lose his balance. With a loud squawk that reminded her of an Angelisian parocetian (a lizard found on Angelisia that sounded like a parrot), he rolled down the stairs, bounced along the floor, and hit the stage with a harsh thud. And there he lay, insensate to the world around him. “Oh! That was rich!” Ryoko continued to laugh. “He keeps… keeps making passes at you… and you… you can’t even remember his name!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!” “Serves the jerk right,” Serah added. Kazekiri sighed. “I normally would not approve of such behavior, but Jameson has always been a problem child, so I will let this slide once.” “Um, thank you?” Gabrielle said, not quite sure if she should be grateful or not. “Don’t worry,” Selene said upon seeing her confused look. “You might not understand right now, but you did a very good thing.” “Oh.” Gabrielle paused, and then beamed brightly at her friend. “Okay!” Class eventually settled down, though Jameson remained lying on the floor. Students chatted about this and that. Gabrielle engaged in her own conversation with her friends, discussing the possibility of going to sing karaoke this weekend. Of course, she invited Kazekiri to come as well, to which the young woman replied that she would think about it. Gabrielle hoped that meant she would come. It wasn’t long before the students were forced to settle down as their teacher came in and barked at them. Their homeroom teacher, a stern-looking man with neatly combed gray hair named Mr. Sanchez, took one look at Jameson, sighed, and then said, “Does anyone want to explain why Mr. Truante is lying unconscious on the floor?

chicken, and cinnamon cookies with my name frosted on them. Sometimes you’re my therapist, sometimes you’re my tormentor, sometimes you’re my secret crush. But you’re never my dog. And right now, you’re my dance partner.” He lifts his chin. “Let me see if I can sweep you off your feet.

Truth can often be brutal and harsh, like life. Then there are moments, sublimely beautiful that snap you out of your malaise and offer the greatest of human traits...hope. Isn't that what love is? Blind hope that someone else gets you, that they always will. It's gratitude and forgiveness, it's exceptions, never the rules, it sweeps you off your feet then gives you a safe gentle place to land.

We arrived next day, wilting and worn, and were whisked off to Ellen’s home on Long Island. This was a beautiful house with sweeping views over Oyster Bay, but even in these luxurious surroundings, and cosseted by Ellen, it took days to recover a sense of reality. Daphne had been determined to stick to her routine of a long walk every afternoon, but this proved difficult since every car we passed stopped to offer us a lift, at which point she would promptly disappear, leaving me to explain to a bewildered driver our odd preference for using our own feet.

Now mind your manners around that young lady, and at least try to be charming. You might not think her showing up here was a sign, but I do! And if you're not careful, someone else is going to come along and sweep her off her feet--someone like Enzo Moretti! Now there's a gentleman!" I was so annoyed and hungry, I lost it. "Oh yeah? Well, Moretti was just telling us last night about a threesome he had recently. Is that the kind of gentleman you think I should be?" My mother was silent for a moment, and I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing her having a heart attack. And then. "That is exactly what I'm talking about! He charmed two women into being with him. All I'm asking you to do is work on one.

The outcome of their battle was a foregone conclusion, and Loretta knew it. His friends encouraged him, whooping with ribald laughter each time her ruffles flashed. She snatched the dirty peace flag from the wooden shaft and threw it to the earth, grinding it beneath the heel of her shoe. After fending off several more passes, exhaustion claimed its victory, and Loretta realized the folly in fighting. She stood motionless, breasts heaving, her eyes staring fixedly at nothing, head lifted. The warrior circled her, guiding his stallion’s flashing hooves so close to her feet that her toes tingled. When she didn’t move, he reined the horse to a halt and studied her for several seconds before he leaned forward to finger the bodice of her dress. Her breath snagged when he slid a palm over her bosom to the indentation of her waist. “Ai-ee,” he whispered. “You learn quick.” Raising tear-filled eyes to his, she again spat in his face. This time he felt the spray and wiped his cheek, his lips quivering with something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter, friendly laughter this time. “Maybe not so quick. But I am a good teacher. You will learn not to fight me, Yellow Hair. It is a promise I make for you.” In that moment, what she felt for him went beyond hate, a black, churning ugliness that made her want to seize the lance he brandished and skewer him with it. I claim her. He planned to take her, then? Her gaze traveled from his woven wool belt of army blue to the muscular tracks that rippled in his belly. The hilt of his knife protruded from a leather scabbard on his hip. How many soldiers had he killed? One, a hundred, perhaps a thousand? Her hair hung from his belt, trailing in a spray of gold down the dark leather on his pants. She felt certain she had never seen him before. Yet he had her hair. The Indian down by the river must have given it to him, and he had come from God only knew where to get her. With a start, she noticed the warrior had stretched out a hand to her. A wide leather band encircled his wrist to protect him from his bowstring. Staring at his dark palm and strong fingers, she shook her head in denial. “Hi, tai,” he said in a low voice. Guiding his stallion closer, he bent to touch her chin. Her eyelid quivered when he brushed at a tear on her cheek. “Ka taikay, ka taikay, Tohobt Nabituh,” he whispered. The words made no sense. Puzzled, she met his gaze. “Tosa ehr-mahr.” Raising his hand, he showed her the glistening wetness on his fingertips. “Silver rain, tosa ehr-mahr.” He compared her tears to silver rain? She searched his eyes for some trace of humanity and found none. After a moment he straightened, raising his lance in what looked like a salute. “Suvate!” he yelled, his glittering eyes sweeping the line of encircling riders. A low rumble of answering voices replied, “Suvate!

He’s like that one extra slice of chocolate cake, another drink when you know you’ve already had too much, a hit—just a small bump, just something to tide you over until the next thing comes along and sweeps you off your feet. When his charm is on full blast and I’m wedged beside him in a happy alcoholic haze, he’s almost impossible to resist. I know I shouldn’t, he’s bad for me, but I can’t help it.

If an older man ever sweeps you off your feet, just get up and run away as fast as you can.” I

natural in the world. It feels so good and safe, and perfect. I love everything about this: listening to his rhythmic heartbeats, feeling the heat of his body seep into mine. "Victoria," he says in a low voice. "Up there, we had a moment." "We did." "While I'm gone, don't forget that." He talks as if he has plans for us. For the first time, I allow myself to entertain that thought, pushing away any worry. What would it be like to let this man sweep me off my feet? To indulge in his kisses and his touch? "Stop making me swoon, Bennett." He hugs me tighter and I bury my nose in his neck—or try to, as he towers over me despite my heels. I want us to stay like this forever. But of course, his phone starts ringing again, forcing us apart. I hate this pesky reality taking me away from this wonderful man. Glancing at the screen, Christopher sets his jaw. "Answer the phone," I encourage him. "My car is just around the corner. I'm heading there." "I'll talk to you soon." His features relax as one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. "And don't forget the moment."                               Chapter Fourteen Victoria

Over the course of the day, he revealed to her a boyish, mischievous side that she found enchanting. One moment he played the lover, sliding his fingers lightly across the nape of her neck or down her arm as they walked. The next he was a rascal, sweeping her off her feet and threatening to toss her in the water or jumping out at her from the brush, ferocious as a bear.

Over the course of the day, he revealed to her a boyish, mischievous side that she found enchanting. One moment he played the lover, sliding his fingers lightly across the nape of her neck or down her arm as they walked. The next he was a rascal, sweeping her off her feet and threatening to toss her in the water or jumping out at her from the brush, ferocious as a bear. Loretta’s pulse quickened at those times. She knew Hunter was only playing, but he was a little too convincing for comfort when he tried to look fierce. Beneath his gentle façade there lurked a dark side, and at those times she glimpsed it. Though he had become her friend and lover, he was also the epitome of all she had feared these last seven years. Making love with him hadn’t completely erased her memories. Sometimes she wondered if the past would haunt her forever. Hunter disappeared once, returning a few minutes later with a bouquet of wild flowers. When Swift Antelope and Amy weren’t watching, he dragged her behind bushes to kiss her. Several times, on toward evening, he pressed his palm against her belly and raised a questioning brow. Loretta blushed, well aware of what he was asking. She was still tender from his lovemaking, but not so much as the night before. Yet how could she tell him? Ladies didn’t speak of such things, not even to their husbands.

I sobbed out the story of the day thus far, too far gone in my relief to see Drake to care that I was watering his tux again. “Kincsem, I understand that it was difficult to be banished in that way. I do not understand why you believe your hands are possessed, but I am confident you will fill me in on that aspect of your day. We must leave now, however. I cannot protect this house, and I will not have you at further risk.” I sniffled and accepted the tissues that he had recently started carrying. “I know. And I want to go. I’m just so glad you’re here. Sometimes things get so overwhelming, and only when you’re around do I feel better.” Drake tipped my chin up, his eyes sparkling with a brilliant emerald light. “That has to be one of the nicest things you’ve said to me. You have made yourself necessary to me, as well.” I balled up my fingers and punched him in the stomach. He laughed as he rubbed his belly, then pulled me tightly against his chest. “All right, I will say it, but you must make note that this fulfills the requirement for the day.” “Too much talking and not enough kissing,” I said as I grabbed his head and pulled it down to me. His kiss was as hot as his dragon fire, scorching more than just my lips. His tongue danced along mine, driving me into squirming against him, wanting what only he could give me. “Give it,” I whispered into his mouth, and quivered to the tips of my toes when he opened his mouth and let his fire sweep through me. It blazed a trail along my veins, burning my blood, carrying me along in an inferno of desire, love, and need. “I love you more than all the treasures of the world, Aisling. Our love will burn for an eternity until we have taken our last breaths, and even then it will continue to shine as a testament to that which we are together, a beacon of passion for all to see like a glittering star in the darkness of the night sky.” “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” I said, kissing the corners of his delectable mouth as his dragon fire faded away. I felt empty inside without it, as if a part of me was missing, a sadness so profound it made my soul weep. “I love you, too.” “We must leave. I do not like this place.” “I know the feeling

Elle stood there a moment longer and realized her ephemeral lover was not going to profess true love and offer to sweep her off her feet and into his BMW-clad wheels. She stomped haughtily from the room and he breathed a sigh of relief. Oh well. She wasn’t the right type anyway. There would be others. In the meantime, he had time to catch a shower, load up the car, have a beer or two in the hotel bar, then make his way back to Nashville. *

Someone to sweep you off your feet?

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.

I want to insist gently, that love is not always what is, but also what remains. To be broken by it, to be sewn together, to be held by it, and to be healed. Somewhere, it is expected that it be brash and bold, to sweep you off your feet, somehow incurably the happiness pill. But what is, is muted, the very shadow of the emotion–a mellow antithesis, soft and tender and helpless. Young like an early sky. We expect to look into a looking glass, thinking that it is the reflection that is important, but what is necessary is what is liminal, what lives at the edge of the glass, a sharpness, a broken, numinous and brilliant suggestion that is jagged but holds the most light.

I want a guy who will sweep me off of my feet and fall head-over-heels in love with me. I want a guy who will look at me like I’m the only woman on earth.

He picks up the remote and turns his show back on. “This is the best part.” He points at the TV and grins. I lift my feet, but he grabs them and holds tight. “Stay a few minutes. I missed you when you were gone.” He grins at me again. My heart clenches. His fingers start that slow sweep up and down my foot again. I turn my head so I can watch the TV with him. He talks to the TV while the cook-off is going on, like Emilio does when he’s watching sports. It makes me laugh. He looks at me, his brows raised. “Are you laughing at me?” He grabs my foot tightly and holds it, his other hand holding my middle toe. He gives it a tug and I squeal. “Let me go!” He laughs and tugs my toe until it pops. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s damn aggravating. “That’s what you get when you mess with me,” he taunts. I

By a fortuitous coincidence—he hoped—Amelia Easton was spending the Christmas holiday at No. 3. That fit in perfectly with his plan to woo Amelia. Because starting tonight, he was turning over a new leaf. He would no longer be boring old Nigel but the dashing Mr. Dash. He realized now he’d been a fool to simply hope that Amelia would eventually take notice of him. If he was to prevail over her more flamboyant suitors he must, as Silverton had suggested, sweep her off her feet. And

Walt,” she said. “I’m in love with you. It feels like the first time I’ve ever been in love. I don’t want it to go away. I hate being here when you’re there. I can handle little bits, but not long separations. I’m happiest with you.” “I’m not going to let this happen to us again, honey. I’m not giving you up. And if any of those hotshot movie stars flirts with you, I’m going to shoot him dead.” She laughed. “Walt, you just sweep me off my feet when you get all tender and talk murder like that.” “No

Walt,” she said. “I’m in love with you. It feels like the first time I’ve ever been in love. I don’t want it to go away. I hate being here when you’re there. I can handle little bits, but not long separations. I’m happiest with you.” “I’m not going to let this happen to us again, honey. I’m not giving you up. And if any of those hotshot movie stars flirts with you, I’m going to shoot him dead.” She laughed. “Walt, you just sweep me off my feet when you get all tender and talk murder like that.” “No more crying, honey. I love your smile. I love your smart-ass remarks, your laugh, the way you don’t let me get away with anything. Now, come on, you dry me off and I’ll dry you off and then we’ll go at it like a couple of kids.” “You’re on.” *

I want to hear it.” “I swear to God, I didn’t cry over my last three husbands.” “Do you always have to bring them up?” he asked. She smiled at him as her hand wandered. “Maybe we should talk about the fact that even when I mention ex-husbands, you’re hard as a baseball bat.” “Are you done with your shower?” he asked. “I might have the erection of a twenty-year-old right now, but if I try to do it in this tub, I could break my sixty-two-year-old back. And then I’ll be no good to you.” “We can’t have that,” she laughed. “And really, to be completely honest, that’s not the erection of a twenty-year-old. At least as I recall. Go with forty-year-old.” She smiled and shrugged. “As I recall.” “Come on,” he said. He put her hand on him. “That’s solid steel, right there.” “Walt,” she said. “I’m in love with you. It feels like the first time I’ve ever been in love. I don’t want it to go away. I hate being here when you’re there. I can handle little bits, but not long separations. I’m happiest with you.” “I’m not going to let this happen to us again, honey. I’m not giving you up. And if any of those hotshot movie stars flirts with you, I’m going to shoot him dead.” She laughed. “Walt, you just sweep me off my feet when you get all tender and talk murder like that.” “No more crying, honey. I love your smile. I love your smart-ass remarks, your laugh, the way you don’t let me get away with anything. Now, come on, you dry me off and I’ll dry you off and then we’ll go at it like a couple of kids.” “You’re on.” *

I had a whole evening planned. I was hoping to sweep you off your feet. Like those guys in your stupid books.

That means none of them have actually captured your romantic interest yet." Zoe teased. "You just can't be impartial when love sweeps you off your feet as it removes all doubt and every grain of indifference.

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

Through you, through you, through you...  The magic works through you. Not beside you. Not around you. Not for you. Not despite you. But through you. You have to go there. You have to choose your stage. You have to do your dance. Putting yourself in place, to any degree that you can, even if it scares you, even when it's "hard," even if it's just your big toe. Stretch yourself, scoff at the odds, get the ball rolling so that the magic can then come alive and sweep you off your feet with its infinite grace and glory. You wouldn't just carry around the seeds for the garden of your dreams in your pocket, all the while asking where your flowers were? Nope, you'd have to brave the elements, you'd have to choose the location, and then you'd have to go there. Your life is your wand.

Through you, through you, through you...the magic works through you. Not beside you. Not around you. Not for you. Not despite you. But through you. You have to go there. You have to choose your stage. You have to do your dance. Putting yourself in place, to any degree that you can, even if it scares you, even when it's "hard," even if it's just your big toe. Stretch yourself, scoff at the odds, get the ball rolling so that the magic can then come alive and sweep you off your feet with its infinite grace and glory. You wouldn't just carry around the seeds for the garden of your dreams in your pocket, all the while asking where your flowers were? Nope, you'd have to brave the elements, you'd have to choose the location, and then you'd have to go there. Your life is your wand.

When Charles was there, telling me how wonderful I was, how he loved me, what a perfect Elaine, what an exquisite creature I was, how he would spend his whole life making me happy, and so on, his hands trembling and his voice shaking - oh yes, I was charmed like a bird off a tree. And yet - yet, when he was gone away, when I thought of him in absence, there was nothing there. I did not yearn to see him again. I just felt he was - very nice. The alteration between the two moods puzzled me. How can you tell if you are in love with a person? If in absence they mean nothing to you, and in presence they sweep you off your feet, what is your real reaction?

You don’t have to be a detective to detect real, genuine interest. So, if you find yourself having to use a microscope to search for his feelings for you, chances are, they’re not strong enough. What it boils down to is this: if someone genuinely wants to make an effort, they will. If they want to text you, call you, love you, and be with you, they’ll do those things. And if they don’t, they won’t. No amount of asking, begging, bargaining, chasing, hoping, or wishing will change a thing. You deserve someone who cannot wait to text you and talk to you and spend time with you and get to know you and fall in love with you and sweep you off your feet. Please stop settling for halfhearted and lukewarm textationships instead of actual relationships. You, quite simply, deserve more. And it’s sooooo much better to be alone than to be with someone who makes you FEEL alone.

It’s one thing knowing about the importance of self-love. It’s another thing feeling, owning and exercising it after an adolescence where society made you feel that you didn’t deserve to be loved. It’s easier to believe that one day someone is going to miraculously appear, sweep you off your feet and make everything better, than it is to see yourself as your own hero. But the easier strategy for coping with our trauma doesn’t always make for the most effective solution, when the reality is that nobody can heal your trauma except you.