Swept Off Her Feet Quotes

We won't be seeing you,' Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick. 'Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,' said George, mounting his own. Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd. 'If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley — Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,' he said in a loud voice, 'Our new premises!' 'Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,' added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge. 'STOP THEM!' shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. 'Give her hell from us, Peeves.' And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.

Before I moved here, I never got the whole love-triangle thing. You know, in movies or romance novels or whatnot, where there’s one chick that all the guys are drooling over, even though you can’t see anything particularly special about her. But oh, no, they both must have her. And she’s like, oh dear, however will I choose? William is so sensitive, he understands me, he swept me off my feet, oh misery, blubber, blubber, but how can I go on living without Rafe and his devil-may-care ways and his dark and only-a-little-abusive love? Upchuck.

When did I turn into a needywhiny angsty idiot who needed to be swept off her feet? She snorted then started running again, forcing me into a brief sprint to catch up. We're conditioned from birth she said. I swear to god,if I ever have a daughter I'll ban all of the Disney princesses from the house. Except Mulan. She kicks ass.

Go out with me tomorow night," Perry went on. "Let me prove to you that I'm the guy you want." "I...I guess I coul go out tomorrow night," Miranda sounded shocked and a little swept off her feet. Then, from the corner of her eyes. Kylie saw something move at the office window. When she looked back, she spotted Burnett and Holiday standing there high-fiving each other. No doubt Burnett was listening to the coversation and sharing the details with Holiday. Perry nodded, stepped closer, and then pressed a quick kiss on Miranda's cheek. It had to be the most romantic thing Kylie had ever seen. ..."What?" Miranda asked. "You're happy my date [with Todd] wasn't exciting?" "No," Kylie said. "Let's just say we're more excited about tomorrow night's date." A bright smile lit up Miranda's face. "Me too. Can you believ Perry did that? I mean, he was so..." "Romantic," Kylie said. "Hot," Della added. "Sweet," Miranda whispered. "I couldn't stop thinkibng about him all night." And that was the best news Kylie had gotten all day.

Isn't that what every woman secretly yearns for?" she said lightly. "to be totally swept off her feet?

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.

At the beginning of the conversation he [Jesus] did not make himself known to her, but first she caught sight of a thirsty man, then a Jew, then a Rabbi, afterwards a prophet, last of all the Messiah. She tried to get the better of the thirsty man, she showed dislike of the Jew, she heckled the Rabbi, she was swept off her feet by the prophet, and she adored the Christ.

Rich loved taking care of women. He would swoop in like Tarzan swinging on a vine, rescue them from whatever situation they found themselves in, and be their hero. He would make all the decisions, and he would be strong and dependable. "What a catch!" they would feel. But they did not see his inability to allow them to disagree or have an opinion. He could not yield to another person. He could not show weakness or vulnerability. He would make up for that inflexibility by being a very attractive "strong man" to women who would want to be swept off their feet more than they wanted a real person. So, they would be a perfect match—until he would see the other side of a passive, compliant woman. She would be sneaky and not tell him exactly what was going on. Then, lo and behold, one day she would really "mess up" and have a wish contrary to somthing he wanted or valued. Then, from his perspective, she had "changed" and had become "selfish." "She used to be nice, and now look!" But in reality, this is not what had happened. She had not changed. When they first met, she showed only half of who she was, hiding the other half, which would come out in sneaky, indirect ways. After a while, it came out directly, such as when she disagreed with him. Then he would cry, "Foul." So they both got what they asked for. In her compliance, she attracted a controller. In his control he attracted an adaptive person who had a secret side and was indirect. They were co-conspirators, and it always blew up.

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My woman wants dates. She wants to be swept off her feet. She better fucking brace herself because I’m bringing out the big guns.

As P. J. O’Rourke once observed, no woman daydreams about being swept off her feet by a liberal.

You hold on to this notion of your angelic mother and the romantic comedy like her greatest wish in life was for her daughter to be swept off her feet in fucking high school.

He had swept her off her feet then, and was all charm and charisma but then the magic slowly diminished and finally died due to his secret betrayals over time. Thousands of little resentments had replaced the early warmth. But their hearts, although heavy with bitterness and anger at the failed expectations, had gotten used to the solace of each other’s company that often comes with years of living together, and they never stopped performing this morning ritual of their married life.

Tag was a tall man, towering well over six feet two if she had to hasten a guess. She’d seen him working out in boxing shorts many times, so didn’t have to speculate at his body type. It was fit and lean with muscles. Definition on every limb, not an ounce of body fat, many would drool over. Not her. She looked at him—not as a woman would—and saw how his jawline was sharp and curved into a strong chin. Dusted in fine wheat colored hair to match that on top of his head. He wore it in the style she’d seen a lot of men wearing here at the gym. Shaved around the sides with a step to the longer hair on top. He kept it neat and swept off to one side. Being in Tag’s presence always put an anxious gallop into her heart. It raced through her chest, and she forced her feet to hold before she skittered off like a lunatic. Lord, she was pathetic to get this worked up over a man who’d been nothing but kind.

Alex let out a sigh, pushing down a swell of jealousy. He didn’t want Michael to like Tessa so much. His brother’s affection would only complicate matters when Alex finally swept Tessa off her feet.

Blythe was Viktor's in. He'd arranged a casual meeting and swept her off her feet. He was good with women. He knew exactly how to read them and what they wanted and needed. He was good at providing.

Should’ve seen this clusterfuck coming. Because I love Akara. I love him too much to ever fuck him over. And Sull – she deserves to be swept off her feet. Probably by Akara. He’s driven like her. He has money. A business. He can offer her more than I can. All I have is love to give, and seeing as how Akara can give that if he gets his head out of his ass, I’m going to come up short in the horse race. I know that. I know that

If only he’d taken one look at her and seen that they were soul mates, swept her off her feet and taken her to Las Vegas to be married in the same little chapel where Britney Spears had been. She laughed to herself. It would probably have lasted just as long, once her mother found out.

There were twenty-three females on the Keltar estate--not counting Gwen, Chloe, herself, or the cat--Gabby knew, because shortly after Adam had become visible last night, she'd met each and every one, from tiniest tot to tottering ancient. It had begun with a plump, thirtyish maid popping in to pull the drapes for the evening and inquire if the MacKeltars "were wishing aught else?" The moment her bespectacled gaze had fallen on Adam, she'd begun stammering and tripping over her own feet. It had taken her a few moments to regain a semblance of coordination, but she'd managed to stumble from the library, nearly upsetting a lamp and a small end table in her haste. Apparently it had been haste to alert the forces, for a veritable parade had ensued: a blushing curvaceous maid had come offering a warm-up of tear (they'd not been having any), followed by a giggling maid seeking a forgotten dust cloth (which--was anyone surprised?--was nowhere to be found), then a third one looking for a waylaid broom (yeah, right--they swept castles at midnight in Scotland--who believed that?), then a fourth, fifth, and sixth inquiring if the Crystal Chamber would do for Mr. Black (no one seemed to care what chamber might do for her; she half-expected to end up in an outbuilding somewhere). A seventh, eighth, and ninth had come to announce that his chamber was ready would he like an escort? A bath drawn? Help undressing? (Well, okay, maybe they hadn't actually asked the last, but their eyes certainly had.) Then a half-dozen more had popped in at varying intervals to say the same things over again, and to stress that they were there to provide "aught, aught at all Mr. Black might desire." The sixteenth had come to extract two tiny girls from Adam's lap over their wailing protests (and had stayed out of his lap herself only because Adam had hastily stood), the twenty-third and final one had been old enough to be someone's great-great-grandmother, and even she'd flirted shamelessly with the "braw Mr. Black," batting nonexistent lashes above nests of wrinkles, smoothing thin white hair with a blue-veined, age-spotted hand. And if that hadn't been enough, the castle cat, obviously female and obviously in heat, had sashayed in, tail straight up and perkily curved at the tip, and would her furry little self sinuously around Adam's ankles, purring herself into a state of drooling, slanty-eyed bliss. Mr. Black, my ass, she'd wanted to snap (and she liked cats, really she did; she'd certainly never wanted to kick one before, but please--even cats?), he's a fairy and I found him, so that him my fairy. Back off.

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I know you,” he added, helping to arrange the blanket over my shoulders. “You won’t drop the subject until I agree to check on your cousin, so I’ll do it. But only under one condition.” “John,” I said, whirling around to clutch his arm again. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “You haven’t heard the condition.” “Oh,” I said, eagerly. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Thank you. Alex has never had a very good life-his mother ran away when he was a baby, and his dad spent most of his life in jail…But, John, what is all this?” I swept my free hand out to indicate the people remaining on the dock, waiting for the boat John had said was arriving soon. I’d noticed some of them had blankets like the one he’d wrapped around me. “A new customer service initiative?” John looked surprised at my change of topic…then uncomfortable. He stooped to reach for the driftwood Typhon had dashed up to drop at his feet. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “You’re giving blankets away to keep them warm while they wait. When did this start happening?” “You mentioned some things when you were here the last time….” He avoided meeting my gaze by tossing the stick for his dog. “They stayed with me.” My eyes widened. “Things I said?” “About how I should treat the people who end up here.” He paused at the approach of a wave-though it was yards off-and made quite a production of moving me, and my delicate slippers, out of its path. “So I decided to make a few changes.” It felt as if one of the kind of flowers I liked-a wild daisy, perhaps-had suddenly blossomed inside my heart. “Oh, John,” I said, and rose onto my toes to kiss his cheek. He looked more than a little surprised by the kiss. I thought I might actually have seen some color come into his cheeks. “What was that for?” he asked. “Henry said nothing was the same after I left. I assumed he meant everything was much worse. I couldn’t imagine it was the opposite, that things were better.” John’s discomfort at having been caught doing something kind-instead of reckless or violet-was sweet. “Henry talks too much,” he muttered. “But I’m glad you like it. Not that it hasn’t been a lot of added work. I’ll admit it’s cut down on the complaints, though, and even the fighting amongst our rowdier passengers. So you were right. Your suggestions helped.” I beamed up at him. Keeper of the dead. That’s how Mr. Smith, the cemetery sexton, had referred to John once, and that’s what he was. Although the title “protector of the dead” seemed more applicable. It was totally silly how much hope I was filled with by the fact that he’d remembered something I’d said so long ago-like maybe this whole consort thing might work out after all. I gasped a moment later when there was a sudden rush of white feathers, and the bird he’d given me emerged from the grizzly gray fog seeming to engulf the whole beach, plopping down onto the sand beside us with a disgruntled little humph. “Oh, Hope,” I said, dashing tears of laughter from my eyes. Apparently I had only to feel the emotion, and she showed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you behind. It was his fault, you know.” I pointed at John. The bird ignored us both, poking around in the flotsam washed ashore by the waves, looking, as always, for something to eat. “Her name is Hope?” John asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to tug upwards. “No.” I bristled, thinking he was making fun of me. Then I realized I’d been caught. “Well, all right…so what if it is? I’m not going to name her after some depressing aspect of the Underworld like you do all your pets. I looked up the name Alastor. That was the name of one of the death horses that drew Hades’s chariot. And Typhon?” I glanced at the dog, cavorting in and out of the waves, seemingly oblivious of the cold. “I can only imagine, but I’m sure it means something equally unpleasant.

With Betsy already famous for feelings, Nabby took pride in her independent spirit and level head. She declared that because love was founded in self-interest she would never be swept off her feet by a cad, and she shocked her friends by leaving a Harvard commencement party early. She shared her father's skepticism about human nature: in her opinion one was more likely to be good because one was happy than happy because one was good. "I believe our happiness is in great measure dependent upon external circumstances," Nabby wrote to Betsy, disagreeing with her cousin's view that we take an active role in our well-being. If success could be attained by effort or merit, why, she reasoned, should she be showered by "ten thousand sources of happiness" while others, who were equally devastating, were starved of the most basic needs?

She asked, “Are you well?” “Yes.” His voice was a deep rasp. “Are you?” She nodded, expecting him to release her at the confirmation. When he showed no signs of moving, she puzzled at it. Either he was gravely injured or seriously impertinent. “Sir, you’re…er, you’re rather heavy.” Surely he could not fail to miss that hint. He replied, “You’re soft.” Good Lord. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And how was he still atop her? “You have a small wound.” With trembling fingers, she brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his hairline. “Here.” She pressed her hand to his throat, feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and steady against her gloved fingertips. “Ah. That’s nice.” Her face blazed with heat. “Are you seeing double?” “Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks…a thousand freckles.” She stared at him. “Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing.” His gaze darkened with some mysterious intent. “Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.” And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed his lips to hers. A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm, and then…it was over. Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and it was finished in a heartbeat. Just a memory now, save for the faint bite of whiskey on her lips. And the heat. She still tasted his scorching, masculine heat. Belatedly, she closed her eyes. “There, now,” he murmured. “All better.” Better? Worse? The darkness behind her eyelids held no answers, so she opened them again. Different. This strange, strong man held her in his protective embrace, and she was lost in his intriguing green stare, and his kiss reverberated in her bones with more force than a powder blast. And now she felt different. The heat and weight of him…they were like an answer. The answer to a question Susanna hadn’t even been aware her body was asking. So this was how it would be, to lie beneath a man. To feel shaped by him, her flesh giving in some places and resisting in others. Heat building between two bodies; dueling heartbeats pounding both sides of the same drum. Maybe…just maybe…this was what she’d been waiting to feel all her life. Not swept her off her feet-but flung across the lane and sent tumbling head over heels while the world exploded around her. He rolled onto his side, giving her room to breathe. “Where did you come from?” “I think I should ask you that.” She struggled up on one elbow. “Who are you? What on earth are you doing here?” “Isn’t it obvious?” His tone was grave. “We’re bombing the sheep.” “Oh. Oh dear. Of course you are.” Inside her, empathy twined with despair. Of course, he was cracked in the head. One of those poor soldiers addled by war. She ought to have known it. No sane man had ever looked at her this way. She pushed aside her disappointment. At least he had come to the right place. And landed on the right woman. She was far more skilled in treating head wounds than fielding gentlemen’s advances. The key here was to stop thinking of him as an immense, virile man and simply regard him as a person who needed her help. An unattractive, poxy, eunuch sort of person. Reaching out to him, she traced one fingertip over his brow. “Don’t be frightened,” she said in a calm, even tone. “All is well. You’re going to be just fine.” She cupped his cheek and met his gaze directly. “The sheep can’t hurt you here.

From east to west, in fact, her gaze swept slowly, without encountering a single obstacle, along a perfect curve. Beneath her, the blue-and-white terraces of the Arab town overlapped one another, splattered with the dark-red spots of the peppers drying in the sun. Not a soul could be seen, but from the inner courts, together with the aroma of roasting coffee, there rose laughing voices or incomprehensible stamping of feet. Father off, the palm grove, divided into uneven squares by clay walls, rustled its upper foliage in a wind that could not be felt up on the terace. Still farther off and all the way to the horizon extended the ocher-and-gray realm of stones, in which no life was visible. At some distance from the oasis, however, near the wadi that bordered the palm grove on the west could be seen broad black tents. All around them a flock of motionless dromedaries, tiny at the distance, formed against the gray ground the black signs of a strange handwriting, the meaning of which had to be deciphered. Above the desert, the silence was as vast as the space. Janine, leaning her whole body against the parapet, was speechless, unable to tear herself away from the void opening before her. Beside her, Marcel was getting restless. He was cold; he wanted to go back down. What was there to see here, after all? But she could not take her gaze from the horizon. Over yonder, still farther south, at that point where sky and earth met in a pure line - over yonder it suddenly seemed there was awaiting her something of which, though it had always been lacking, she had never been aware until now. In the advancing afternoon the light relaxed and softened; it was passing from the crystalline to the liquid. Simultaneously, in the heart of a woman brought there by pure chance a knot tightened by the years, habit, and boredom was slowly loosening. She was looking at the nomads' encampment. She had not even seen the men living in it' nothing was stirring among the black tents, and yet she could think only of them whose existence she had barely known until this day. Homeless, cut off from the world, they were a handful wandering over the vast territory she could see, which however was but a paltry part of an even greater expanse whose dizzying course stopped only thousands of miles farther south, where the first river finally waters the forest. Since the beginning of time, on the dry earth of this limitless land scraped to bone, a few men had been ceaselessly trudging, possessing nothing but serving no one, poverty-stricken but free lords of a strange kingdom. Janine did not know why this thought filled her with such a sweet, vast melancholy that it closed her eyes. She knew that this kingdom had been eternally promised her and yet that it would never be hers, never again, except in this fleeting moment perhaps when she opened her eyes again on the suddenly motionless sky and on its waves of steady light, while the voices rising from the Arab town suddenly fell silent. It seemed to her that the world's course had just stopped and that, from that moment on, no one would ever age any more or die. Everywhere, henceforth, life was suspended - except in her heart, where, at the same moment, someone was weeping with affliction and wonder.

My kin would sooner have a badger in their house than a Campbell." Alan saw his mother open hermouth and shook his head to silence her. He not only knew Shelby could hold her own but wanted to see her do it. "Most MacGregors were comfortable enough with badgers in the parlor." "Barbarians!" Daniel sucked in his breath. "The Campbells were barbarians, each and every one of them." Shelby tilted her head as if to study him from a new angle. "The MacGregors have a reputation for being sore losers." Instantly Daniel's face went nearly as red as his hair. "Losers? Hah! There's never been a Campbell born who could stand up to a MacGregor in a fair fight. Backstabbers." "We'll have Rob Roy's biography again in a minute," Shelby heard Caine mutter. "You don't have a drink, Dad," he said, hoping to distract him. "Shelby?" "Yes." She shifted her gaze to him, noting he was doing his best to maintain sobriety. "Scotch," she told him, with a quick irrepressible wink. "Straight up.If the MacGregors had been wiser," she continued without missing a beat, "perhaps they wouldn't have lost their land and their kilts and the name.Kings," she went on mildly as Daniel began to huff and puff, "have a habit of getting testy when someone's trying to overthrow them." "Kings!" Daniel exploded. "An English king, by God! No true Scotsman needed an English king to tell him how to live on his land." Shelby's lips curved as Caine handed her a glass. "That's a truth I can drink to." "Hah!" Daniel lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow before he thumped it onto the table at his side. Cocking a brow,Shelby eyed the Scotch in her glass,then proceeded to follow Daniel's example. For a moment,he frowned at the empty glass beside his. Slowly,with the room deadly silent,he shifted his gaze back to Shelby.His eyes were fierce, hers insolent. Heaving himself out of his chair, he towered over here, a great bear of a man with fiery hair.She put both hands on her hips, a willow-slim woman with curls equally dramtic. Alan wished fleetingly he could paint. Daniel's laugh, when he threw back his head and let it loose,was rich and loud and long. "Aye,by God,here's a lass!" Shelby found herself swept off her feet in a crushing hug that held welcome.

Stop it,” came Eustace’s voice, squeaky with fright and bad temper. “It’s some silly trick you two are playing. Stop it. I’ll tell Alberta--Ow!” The other two were much more accustomed to adventures, but, just exactly as Eustace Clarence said “Ow,” they both said “Ow” too. The reason was that a great cold, salt splash had broken right out of the frame and they were breathless from the smack of it, besides being wet through. “I’ll smash the rotten thing,” cried Eustace; and then several things happened at the same time. Eustace rushed toward the picture. Edmund, who knew something about magic, sprang after him, warning him to look out and not to be a fool. Lucy grabbed at him from the other side and was dragged forward. And by this time either they had grown much smaller or the picture had grown bigger. Eustace jumped to try to pull it off the wall and found himself standing on the frame; in front of him was not glass but real sea, and wind and waves rushing up to the frame as they might to a rock. He lost his head and clutched at the other two who had jumped up beside him. There was a second of struggling and shouting, and just as they thought they had got their balance a great blue roller surged up round them, swept them off their feet, and drew them down into the sea. Eustace’s despairing cry suddenly ended as the water got into his mouth. Lucy thanked her stars that she had worked hard at her swimming last summer term. It is true that she would have got on much better if she had used a slower stroke, and also that the water felt a great deal colder than it had looked while it was only a picture. Still, she kept her head and kicked her shoes off, as everyone ought to do who falls into deep water in their clothes. She even kept her mouth shut and her eyes open. They were still quite near the ship; she saw its green side towering high above them, and people looking at her from the deck. Then, as one might have expected, Eustace clutched at her in a panic and down they both went.

His smile, a little mischievous around the edges, had her melting into the sand. Then his lips brushed hers, and the stars collided. She cupped his face in her hands and shut her eyes. Kissing had always ranked high on her list of favorite things to do, but Bryce took it to a whole new level. Forget about his mouth on her fingertips, this linked to all her happy zones and more. He'd literally swept her off her feet and his kiss quickened the beat of her heart. His lips were soft and warm and hungry. His kiss moved through her like warm honey, filling all the places inside her that had been cold for so long. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, licking her before he pressed further. She willingly opened to him, stroked his tongue, kissed him harder. He groaned. He tasted like champagne and everything good as he delved deeper and committed a full-on assault inside her mouth. His hand gripped her waist. They sank further into the sand. She clutched his shoulders, smoothed her palms down his back. He pulled gruffly away, nipped at her ear. "You have no idea how much I want you," he said.

He seemed to be standing in a lighted room where seven people sat round a table. It looked as if they had just finished their meal. Two of these people were very old, an old man with a white beard and an old woman with wise, merry, twinkling eyes. He who sat at the right hand of the old man was hardly full grown, certainly younger than Tirian himself, but his face had already the look of a king and a warrior. And you could almost say the same of the other youth who sat at the right hand of the old woman. Facing Tirian across the table sat a fair-haired girl younger than either of these, and on either side of her, a boy and girl who were younger still. They were all dressed in what seemed to Tirian the oddest kind of clothes. But he had no time to think about details like that, for instantly the youngest boy and both the girls started to their feet, and one of them gave a little scream. The old woman started and drew in her breath sharply. The old man must have made some sudden movement too for the wine glass which stood at his right hand was swept off the table: Tirian could hear the tinkling noise as it broke on the floor.

The two strangers got to the waffle station at exactly the same time. (I swear I’m like an award-winning orchestra conductor sometimes.) Cara poured a ladleful of regular batter onto her machine, while Sammy poured her own ladle and grabbed the container of chocolate chips. Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . “Shit!” Sammy stared at the mountain of chocolate now piled up on the batter. The cap of the container had come off completely and rolled along the floor right into Cara’s feet. “Oh my god, let me help you!” Cara sprung to action, as I knew she would, grabbing a broom and dustpan that I’d placed nearby and cleaning up the chips on the floor. “Oh, you don’t have to,” Sammy stammered. “I’m sorry—I don’t know how that happened.” Cara swept the chips into the dustpan and surveyed Sammy’s half-cooked waffle, which was now completely coated in messy, gooey chocolate. “I mean, I love chocolate as much as the next girl, but even that’s a little much for me.” Sammy laughed, then fiddled with the container in her hand. “I think some dick unscrewed the top so they’d all fall out.” She rolled her eyes. “College boys.” (Or metaphysical entities. Either one.) “Wow, what an asshole,” Cara said. “People are such idiots.

She clambered to the shoreline. Numb and shaken, she began to dress. It wasn’t easy as she fumbled with slick fingers to put dry clothes over wet skin. She instantly regretted her naked swim. She pulled on her long-sleeved white chemise first. She faced the forest, away from her rescuer. He quietly splashed to shore. His lifeblood burned into her back. He wasn’t far behind, but he stopped. She refused to look at him until she was fully clothed, not out of embarrassment of her nudity, but for what had just happened. He released a groan and mumbled under his breath about wet boots. His voice was not one of her father’s soldiers. When she put the last garment on, her brown wool work kirtle, she squeezed out her sopping hair and swept her hands through the knotty mess. She fastened her belt and tied the lacings up the front of the kirtle. Blood returned to her fingertips, and she regained her composure. Belated awareness struck her, and she leaned down and searched through her bag for her dagger. She spun around. She gasped as she saw the man sitting on the stone-covered shoreline, his wet boots off. Confusion and the hint of a scowl filled his strong-featured face. She staggered back, caught her heel on a stone, and fell, dropping the dagger. Dirt and pebbles stuck to her wet hands and feet, and she instinctively scrambled away from him. His glower, iridescent dark blue eyes, and disheveled black hair were not unfamiliar. Staring at her was the man she had seen in her dream – it was the man from the wood.

Lydia the Tattooed Lady" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia, the Tattooed Lady She has eyes that folks adore so And a torso even more so Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo On her back is the Battle of Waterloo Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La When her robe is unfurled, she will show you the world If you step up and tell her where For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paris Or Washington crossing the Delaware La, La, La La, La, La Oh Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Oh Lydia the Tattooed Lady When her muscles start relaxin' Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the queen of them all For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz With a view of Niagara that nobody has And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La Come along and see Buff'lo Bill with his lasso Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon Here's Godiva but with her pajamas on La, La, La La, La, La Here is Grover Whalen unveilin' the Trilon Over on the West Coast we have Treasure Island Here's Najinsky a-doin' the rhumba Here's her social security numba Oh Lydia, oh Lydia that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the champ of them all She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat And now the old boy's in command of the fleet For he went and married Lydia I said Lydia (He said Lydia) They said said Lydia (We said Lydia) Groucho Marx, At the Circus (1939) Written by Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen

Chatting to the gossip of flames waking from the slumber of our flesh-drunk night together— it’s only when I step out to pee do I notice— how far, burgundy-dark, the moon has risen…. On four paws the shepherd- dogs bound, lightly though the trees they hardly touch on earth— we saw it from far sunk here in an always-ache…. Dyeing paling twilight woods— a pair of wasps, spiraling, writhe…. Wetted lips of hers and mine, just-parted, move over each other with tongues just-coming but refuse— like mists of evening they've no place to settle…. Just-here though she's singing she’s in some song from long ago— poised on the brink of twilight longing three thousand miles rush through my heart…. Under undulating curtains— I hover above her the tips of me brushing the tips of her— breathing back and forth a column of air we share our breath slowly asphyxiating…. From burning wood campfire sparks dart off extinguishing in the wet blue dark… how you blow your long wind across my embers, through my soul, she pleads me, take away the pain— I dip a branch in blue water and plunge it into coals…. *** In pre-dawn dark, against a leaping inferno of flames black monolith of wood in the cast iron compartment softens, and—gradually— fractures to cells, warping upward, until from the top a shard splinters: pearls of flame string a fiber and leap in little tongues while the log, glowing, engulfed, is consumed by the inferno contained…. A shadow daunts me, haunts and taunts me now reaching far, now recoiling, now growing bold…. I once sang eruptions and the wind— then appeared you it took my whole life singing only the songs of you and still I sing for you what other refuge can stay me from this torment? So— my doppelganger has arrived no one said it would happen this way but the way his hands fold like mine, the style of his humor, broadness of his smile— even the way he walks…. Licking and lapping these lashings of grasses are in tongues at my feet smoldering's the fury within me— I have seen my fields of daylight warp to noxious-air infernos but still to the clean blue of the flame I take rest in her breast…. His songs I mouth, and in my head is his voice— I cannot hear my own…. in my mind I see myself— thin, stupid— my arms too weak, my own chest too frail— and besides I prefer him more…. Along spiral lines, seed-heads decay— swept away they whirl and writhe in the hot blue fire of evening…. Stuck in a mural of sticky flesh— the family… I am locked-in-arms with brothers and sisters, drooping at the thighs with nieces and nephews, grafted to parents at the scalp, and pasted with toddlers all over… hived, sapped, black I sit, subject to the flavors and aromas of your abuse…. Then— be wrapped in his presence… crescendo to his warmth the cascade of your laughter search in his wrinkles for the boy inside him… I’m just biding here, bragless, trying to admit these rival-streams that flow in one latticework of blood…. Halves of flesh and bosomy hips, lips like dark ripe fruits they're chasing— I chased them… full-feathered was their hair like floss in the sunshine fine-fingered was their style like laces cut to curves: and then there was you, returning one, just there like the midnight moon in my sky at noontime….

He and Powell would be celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary a few days later, and he admitted that at times he had not been as appreciative of her as she deserved. “I’m very lucky, because you just don’t know what you’re getting into when you get married,” he said. “You have an intuitive feeling about things. I couldn’t have done better, because not only is Laurene smart and beautiful, she’s turned out to be a really good person.” For a moment he teared up. He talked about his other girlfriends, particularly Tina Redse, but said he ended up in the right place. He also reflected on how selfish and demanding he could be. “Laurene had to deal with that, and also with me being sick,” he said. “I know that living with me is not a bowl of cherries.” Among his selfish traits was that he tended not to remember anniversaries or birthdays. But in this case, he decided to plan a surprise. They had gotten married at the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite, and he decided to take Powell back there on their anniversary. But when Jobs called, the place was fully booked. So he had the hotel approach the people who had reserved the suite where he and Powell had stayed and ask if they would relinquish it. “I offered to pay for another weekend,” Jobs recalled, “and the man was very nice and said, ‘Twenty years, please take it, it’s yours.’” He found the photographs of the wedding, taken by a friend, and had large prints made on thick paper boards and placed in an elegant box. Scrolling through his iPhone, he found the note that he had composed to be included in the box and read it aloud: "We didn’t know much about each other twenty years ago. We were guided by our intuition; you swept me off my feet. It was snowing when we got married at the Ahwahnee. Years passed, kids came, good times, hard times, but never bad times. Our love and respect has endured and grown. We’ve been through so much together and here we are right back where we started 20 years ago—older, wiser—with wrinkles on our faces and hearts. We now know many of life’s joys, sufferings, secrets and wonders and we’re still here together. My feet have never returned to the ground."  By the end of the recitation he was crying uncontrollably. When he composed himself, he noted that he had also made a set of the pictures for each of his kids. “I thought they might like to see that I was young once.

Dunyasha lunged. Inej stayed close, using every opportunity to keep inside the mercenary’s guard and deny her the advantage of her longer reach. She was stronger than she’d been when they’d faced each other on the wire, well rested, well fed. But she was still a girl trained on the streets, not in the towers of some Shu monastery. Inej’s first mistake was a slow recoil. She paid for it in a deep slash to her left bicep. It cut through the padding and made it hard to keep a good grip on the blade in her left hand. Her second error was putting too much force into an upward jab. She leaned in too far and felt Dunyasha’s knife skim her ribs. A shallow cut that time, but it had been a close thing. She ignored the pain and focused on her opponent, remembering what Kaz had told her. Find her tells. Everyone has them. But Dunyasha’s movements seemed unpredictable. She was equally comfortable with her left and right hands, she favored neither foot, and waited until the last moment to strike, giving no early indication of her intent. She was extraordinary. “Growing weary, Wraith?” Inej said nothing, conserving her energy. Though Dunyasha’s breathing seemed clear and even, Inej could feel herself dragging slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give the mercenary the advantage. Then she saw it—the slightest hitch of Dunyasha’s chest, followed by a lunge. A hitch, then another lunge. The tell was in her breathing. She took in a deep breath before an attack. There. Inej dodged left, struck quickly, a rapid jab of her blade to Dunyasha’s side. There. Inej attacked again, and blood flowered on Dunyasha’s arm. Inej drew back, waited as the girl advanced. The mercenary liked to hide her direct assaults with other movement, the whirl of her blades, an unnecessary flourish. It made her hard to read, but there. The quick burst of breath. Inej sank low and swept her left leg wide, knocking the mercenary off balance. This was her chance. Inej shot to her feet, using her upward momentum and Dunyasha’s descent to shove her blade under the leather guard protecting the girl’s sternum. Inej felt blood on her hand as she wrenched the knife free and Dunyasha released a shocked grunt. The girl stared at her now, clutching her chest with one hand. Her eyes narrowed. There was still no fear there, only a hard, bright resentment, as if Inej had ruined an important party. “The blood you spill is the blood of kings,” seethed Dunyasha. “You are not fit for such a gift.” Inej almost felt sorry for her. Dunyasha

I would rather face the devil himself than that man,” Elizabeth said with a repressed shudder. “I daresay,” Lucinda agreed, clutching her umbrella with one hand and the side of the cart with her other. The nearer the time came, the more angry and confused Elizabeth became about this meeting. For the first four days of their journey, her tension had been greatly allayed by the scenic grandeur of Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne. Now, however, as the hour of confronting him drew near, not even the sight of the mountains decked out in spring flowers or the bright blue lakes below could calm her mounting tension. “Furthermore, I cannot believe he has the slightest desire to see me.” “We shall soon find out.” In the hills above the high, winding track that passed for a road, a shepherd paused to gape at an old wooden wagon making its laborious way along the road below. “Lookee there, Will,” he told his brother. “Do you see what I see?” The brother looked down and gaped, his lips parting in a toothless grin of glee at the comical sight of two ladies-bonnets, gloves, and all-who were perched primly and precariously on the back of Sean MacLaesh’s haywagon, their backs ramrod-stiff, their feet sticking straight out beyond the wagon. “Don’t that beat all,” Will laughed, and high above the haywagon he swept off his cap in a mocking salute to the ladies. “I heered in the village Ian Thornton was acomin’ home. I’ll wager ‘e’s arrived, and them two are his fancy pieces, come to warm ‘is bed an’ see to ‘is needs.” Blessedly unaware of the conjecture taking place between the two spectators up in the hills, Miss Throckmorton-Jones brushed angrily and ineffectually at the coating of dust clinging to her black skirts. “I have never in all my life been subjected to such treatment!” she hissed furiously as the wagon they were riding in gave another violet, creaking lurch and her shoulder banged into Elizabeth’s. “You may depend on this-I shall give Mr. Ian Thornton a piece of my mind for inviting two gentlewomen to this godforsaken wilderness, and never even mentioning that a traveling baroche is too wide for the roads!” Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something soothing, but just then the wagon gave another teeth-jarring lurch, and she clutched at the wooden side. “From what little I know of him, Lucy,” she managed finally when the wagon righted, “he wouldn’t care in the least what we’ve been through. He’s rude and inconsiderate-and those are his good points-“ “Whoa there, whoa,” the farmer called out, sawing back on the swayback nags reins and bringing the wagon to a groaning stop. “That’s the Thornton place up there atop yon hill,” the farmer said, pointing.

Jak’ri nodded toward the cliff’s edge. “Shall we?” “Not if you give me time to think about it.” He flashed his teeth in a boyish grin. “One-two-three, jump!” he called and took off running, pulling her after him. Ava’s eyes widened and her heart thudded hard in her chest as she ran alongside him. Their feet hit the edge at the same time, and together they leapt off. Jak’ri whooped as they plummeted toward the ocean, the sound so wonderfully carefree and appealing that Ava found herself grinning big even as she shrieked and squeezed the hell out of his hand. He hit the water a split second before her. Cool liquid closed over their heads. Bubbles surrounded them as if they’d just jumped into a vat of club soda. Then he looped an arm around her waist and propelled them both to the surface. “That was crazy!” she blurted, unable to stop smiling as she swiped water from her face. “Crazy but fun?” he quipped, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Maybe,” she hedged. “But not as fun at this.” Propelling her upper body out of the water, she planted her hands atop his head and dunked him. As soon as she released him, she began a lazy backstroke. Jak’ri surfaced with a sputter and a laugh. When his silver eyes found her a few yards away, they acquired a devilish glint. “Oh, you’re going to regret that, little Earthling.” Ava shrieked when he dove for her. Rolling onto her stomach, she took off, swimming in earnest. Jak’ri’s fingers closed around one of her ankles. “Caught you!” She swam harder, getting absolutely nowhere, breaking into giggles as he issued dire threats in a villainous voice. When was the last time she had honest-to-goodness giggled? She yelped when he gave her ankle a yank. Then she was in his arms and he was grinning wickedly at her. “Think you can get the best of me, do you?” he taunted. Tucking his hands under her arms, he kicked his feet. Ava laughed as he tossed her up out of the water. Through the air she flew, landing on her back several yards away. The water again closed over her head. When she surfaced, she quickly bent her head to hide her smile and rubbed her eyes. “Hang on a sec,” she mumbled. Jak’ri immediately stopped laughing and swam toward her. “I’m sorry. Did you get something in your eye?” “No.” She grinned at him. “I just needed to lure you closer.” Then she swept her arm through the water in front of him, sending a cascade over his head. Sputtering, Jak’ri dove for her. Laughter abounded as they played, even more so when he started sharing tales of his exploits with his brother. Clunk. Ava jerked awake. Damn it! She really hated to wake up. She and Jak’ri had been romping and playing like children. Having to come back to the reality of this cell and the assholes who’d put her in it sucked.

If you’d convinced Nancy to marry you, you might not have had to go off to be a Bow Street runner. You could have had an easier life, a better life in high society than you could have had with me if you’d married me. Without being able to access my fortune, I could only have dragged you down.” “You don’t really believe that I wanted to marry her for her money,” he gritted out. “It’s either that or assume that you fell madly in love with her in the few weeks we were apart.” They were nearly to the inn now, so she added a plaintive note to her voice. “Or perhaps it was her you wanted all along. You knew my uncle would never accept a second son as a husband for his rich heiress of a daughter, so you courted me to get close to her. Nancy was always so beautiful, so--” “Enough!” Without warning, he dragged her into one of the many alleyways that crisscrossed York. This one was deeply shadowed, the houses leaning into each other overhead, and as he pulled her around to face him, the brilliance of his eyes shone starkly in the dim light. “I never cared one whit about Nancy.” She tamped down her triumph--he hadn’t admitted the whole truth yet. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. It looked like you had already forgotten me, forgotten what we meant to each--” “The hell I had.” He shoved his face close to hers. “I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you--always you. Everything I did was for you, damn it. No one else.” The passionate profession threw her off course. Dom had never been the sort to say such sweet things. But the fervent look in his eyes roused memories of how he used to look at her. And his hands gripping her arms, his body angling in closer, were so painfully familiar... “I don’t…believe you,” she lied, her blood running wild through her veins. His gleaming gaze impaled her. “Then believe this.” And suddenly his mouth was on hers. This was not what she’d set out to get from him. But oh, the joy of it. The heat of it. His mouth covered hers, seeking, coaxing. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed her back against the wall, and she grabbed for his shoulders, his surprisingly broad and muscular shoulders. As he sent her plummeting into unfamiliar territory, she held on for dear life. Time rewound to when they were in her uncle’s garden, sneaking a moment alone. But this time there was no hesitation, no fear of being caught. Glorying in that, she slid her hands about his neck to bring him closer. He groaned, and his kiss turned intimate. He used lips and tongue, delving inside her mouth in a tender exploration that stunned her. Enchanted her. Confused her. Something both sweet and alien pooled in her belly, a kind of yearning she’d never felt with Edwin. With any man but Dom. As if he sensed it, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, full of surprise. “My God, Jane,” he said hoarsely, turning her name into a prayer. Or a curse? She had no time to figure out which before he clasped her head to hold her for another darkly ravishing kiss. Only this one was greedier, needier. His mouth consumed hers with all the boldness of Viking raiders of yore. His tongue drove repeatedly inside in a rhythm that made her feel all trembly and hot, and his thumbs caressed her throat, rousing the pulse there. Thank heaven there was a wall to hold her up, or she was quite sure she would dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Because after all these years apart, he was riding roughshod over her life again. And she was letting him. How could she not? His scent of leather and bergamot engulfed her, made her dizzy with the pleasure of it. He roused urges she’d never known she had, sparked fires in places she’d thought were frozen. Then his hands swept down her possessively as if to memorize her body…or mark it as belonging to him. Belonging to him.

He arched a mocking eyebrow. “Do you plan to stay and watch me dress?” Her blush intensified as she stumbled off the bed. “You’re a devil.” She planted her feet on the floor and struggled to do up her dress. While she fiddled, he wrenched the shirt over his head. Hearing a frustrated hiss, he bit back a smile and the impulse to tell her she was adorable. He stepped up to her. “Let me help.” To his surprise, she presented her back and swept the curtain of hair aside to reveal the graceful line of nape and shoulders. For a forbidden moment, he didn’t move, but inhaled until her flowery scent flooded his senses. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked, turning her head to give him a glimpse of her profile. Her features weren’t delicate. There was too much character in her nose and defiance in her chin. But he dared anyone who saw her ever to forget her. “Considering artistic matters,” he said gently. He set to doing up her gown. Much against his deepest inclinations. Her lips tightened. “Oh?” “You know, I’d never cast you as Cinderella.” He fastened the top hook and lowered his hands to her slim hips. He tempted fate—and self-control—but he couldn’t resist stringing out the physical contact. “You’re more queen than ingénue.” “Well, you’re no Prince Charming.” She wriggled free and faced him. To his regret, her dress once more covered her to the collarbones. “Tch, tch, no need to take your bad temper out on me.” And received a killing glance for his trouble. “It’s a cursed ill wind that landed you on my doorstep,” she muttered, just loudly enough for him to hear. His lips twitched. She wasn’t much good at deception — an appealing quality in a wife. She kept forgetting that she was meant to be a humble housemaid. Humility, like deceit, wasn’t easy for this imperious creature. Any man who took her on would never have the docile wife touted as ideal. But then, Lyle had never settled for the general run of things. If he married Charlotte Warren—and every moment inclined him more toward the outlandish idea—there would be fireworks. Luckily he loved fireworks. “On

As he turned her face to study her, he said, “You have more courage than you have strength, Yellow Hair. It is not wise to fight when you cannot win.” Looking up at his carved features and the arrogant set of his mouth, she longed for the strength to jerk him off his horse. He wasn’t just taunting her, he was challenging her, mocking her. “You will yield. Look at me and know the face of your master. Remember it well.” Riding high on humiliation, Loretta forgot Amy, Aunt Rachel, everything. An image of her mother’s face flashed before her. Never, as long as she had life in her body, would she yield to him. She worked her parched mouth and spat. Nothing came out, but the message rang clear. “Nei mah-heepicut!” Releasing her, he struck her lightly on the arm. Wheeling his horse, he glanced toward the windows of the house and thumped his chest with a broad fist. “I claim her!” Loretta staggered, watching in numb disbelief as Hunter pranced his stallion in a circle around her. I claim her? Warily she turned, keeping him in sight, unsure of what he might do. He rode erect, his eyes touching on her dress, her face, her hair, as if everything about her were a curiosity. A taunting smile curved his mouth. His attention centered on her full skirt, and she could almost see the questions churning in his head. He repositioned his hand on the lance. The determination in his expression filled her with foreboding. He rode directly toward her, and she sidestepped. He turned his mount to come at her again. As he swept by he leaned forward, catching the hem of her skirt with his lance. Loretta whirled, striking out with her forearms, but the Indian moved expertly, his aim swift and sure, his horse precision-trained to the pressure of his legs. He was as bent on seeing her undergarments as she was on keeping them hidden. 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.

Nei mah-heepicut!” Releasing her, he struck her lightly on the arm. Wheeling his horse, he glanced toward the windows of the house and thumped his chest with a broad fist. “I claim her!” Loretta staggered, watching in numb disbelief as Hunter pranced his stallion in a circle around her. I claim her? Warily she turned, keeping him in sight, unsure of what he might do. He rode erect, his eyes touching on her dress, her face, her hair, as if everything about her were a curiosity. A taunting smile curved his mouth. His attention centered on her full skirt, and she could almost see the questions churning in his head. He repositioned his hand on the lance. The determination in his expression filled her with foreboding. He rode directly toward her, and she sidestepped. He turned his mount to come at her again. As he swept by he leaned forward, catching the hem of her skirt with his lance. Loretta whirled, striking out with her forearms, but the Indian moved expertly, his aim swift and sure, his horse precision-trained to the pressure of his legs. He was as bent on seeing her undergarments as she was on keeping them hidden. 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.

We will go to my lodge, yes? I will make you happy there where no one can see.” She slugged his shoulder. “You did that on purpose!” He laughed and tucked her under one arm to hold her close to his side as they walked. When they came within sight of the village, she drew away. A guilty flush dotted her cheeks. Hunter threw back his head and laughed. She retaliated by grabbing up a handful of pebbles to throw at him. Her aim was terrible, but Hunter ran out of throw’s reach anyway--until her ammunition was exhausted. Then he doubled back, charging, so he could reach her before she gathered more rocks. She shrieked and fled. His longer legs quickly closed the distance between them. He swept her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder, clamping one arm across the backs of her knees. Playfully she pummeled his back. Just as playfully he ran his free hand up her skirt and gave her bottom a light pinch. All in all, Hunter decided, it had been a good day.

The man I love gave me the life I always dreamed of, but it’s so much more than I ever could’ve pictured for myself.  He swept my romantic heart right off her feet, and little did I know the day I moved into his apartment, that my new roommate would be the center of my happily ever after.

A girl a few feet away suddenly gasped, jumping up and down. “Ohmagod it’s Caleb Altair.” I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she was pointing, pulling away from my friends. Caleb headed a line of Juniors as he strode down the corridor like he owned every ounce of oxygen in it. His friends pointed us out and my gut tightened as his stony gaze slid over us. His fan club were eyeing him hopefully and I knew in the depths of my heart he wasn’t going to pass us by without comment. He slowed his pace, breathing in deeply. “Do you smell that guys?” He sniffed the air and my scowl grew. “Smells like a bunch of Orderless Fae pretending they deserve a place in our prestigious Academy.” “Is it raining assholes today?” Tory commented, turning away from him and for a moment it almost looked like he was going to crack a smile. “I have an Order,” Sofia muttered under her breath but Caleb’s Vampire hearing didn’t let her get away with it. “I wouldn’t go around reminding people of that, blondie. Being a Pegasus is worse than not having an Order.” His friend fist bumped him, nodding his agreement as he laughed. He was a tall guy with red hair and cold eyes. “Yeah I dunno how there are so many of them on campus,” the redhead jibed. “Only a freak would want to screw a horse.” Caleb chuckled at that, nodding firmly. “I think I’d rather give up my claim first.” His shitbag friends laughed their heads off as Caleb swept off down the hall to a stream of excited hoots. “God he’s awful,” I growled. “Ignore him Sofia.” “If I ever bump into him as a Pegasus, I’ll introduce him to my left hoof,” Sofia hissed and I raised my brows at the fire in her eyes. “I would so love to see that,” Tory laughed, then lowered her voice as she looked to me. “I wonder if we can use his Pegasus hate against him?” “Yeah, you should spread a rumour that he likes Pegasus ass,” Sofia whispered, a manic gleam in her eyes. I kinda liked this crazy side to her and couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from my throat. Diego stared at her in shock, then nodded keenly. “That would be fantastico, Sofia. I doubt anyone would believe us freaks though.” He winked at her and she blushed at his insinuation. (Darcy)

STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. “Give her hell from us, Peeves.” And Peeves, whom Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.

She had stopped reading the romance novels since her wedding night. Dante had not swept her off her feet. This was worse than an arranged marriage. There was nothing arranged about this. Dante had been blackmailed into marrying her. At least with an arranged marriage there was a small chance of them falling in love. She would never love Dante.

It was the casual rudeness that spoke of a long, long British male friendship.

On the course of that chariot and those horses. A boy could not hope to control them. You are my son, but mortal. No mortal Could hope to manage those reins. Not even the gods are allowed to touch them. ... 'Our first stretch is almost vertical. Fresh as they are, first thing, It is all the horses can do to get up it. Then on to mid-heaven. Terrifying To look down through nothing At earth and sea, so tiny. My heart nearly struggles out of my body As the chariot sways. Then the plunge towards evening - There you need strength on the reins. Tethys, 'Who waits to receive me Into her waters, is always afraid I shall topple - And come tumbling Head over heels in a tangled mass. 'Remember, too, That the whole sky is revolving With its constellations, its planets. I have to force my course against that - Not to be swept backwards as all else is. 'What will you do, Your feet braced at the chariot, the reins in your hands, When you have to counter the pull Of the whistling Poles? When the momentum Of the whole reeling cosmos hauls you off sideways?

For God’s sake, Eve Windham, it was just a kiss under the mistletoe, probably inspired by your papa’s wassail more than anything else.” She had to put her hand on his arm while the feeling of the ground shifting beneath her feet swept over her. “My brothers said it was white rum.” “The occasional tot makes the holiday socializing less tedious. You really do not look well.” The last observation was grudging, almost worried. “I did not mean to swill from your glass, Deene. You should have stopped me.” They had to get to the coach. The night felt like it was closing in, and Deene’s voice—a perfect example of male aristocratic euphony—was swelling and shrinking in the oddest way. “I might have stopped you, except you downed the whole drink before I realized what was afoot, and then you were accosting me in the most passionate—” Eve clutched his arm and swayed into him, breathing shallowly through her mouth. “If you insist on arguing with me, my lord, I will be ill all over these bushes.” “Why didn’t you say so?” He slipped an arm around her waist and promenaded her down the steps. By the time they got to the garden gate, the nausea was subsiding, though Eve was leaning heavily on her escort. She had the notion that the scents of cedar and lavender coming from Deene’s jacket might have helped quiet her stomach. Deene ushered her through the gate, which put them on a quiet, mercifully dark side street. “How often do these headaches befall you?” “Too often. Sometimes I go for months between attacks, sometimes only days. The worst is when it hits on one side, subsides for a day, then strikes on the other.” Deene pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, then used two fingers to give a piercing, three-blast whistle. “Sorry.” All the while he kept his arm around Eve’s waist, a solid, warm—and quite unexpected—bulwark against complete disability. “The coach will here in moments. Is there anything that helps?” “Absolute quiet, absolute dark, time.” Though her mother used to rub her neck, and that had helped the most. He said nothing more—Deene wasn’t stupid—and Eve just leaned on him. Her grandmother had apparently suffered from these same headaches, though neither Eve’s parents nor her siblings were afflicted. The clip-clop of hooves sounded like so much gunfire in Eve’s head, but it was the sound of privacy, so Eve tried to welcome it. Deene gave the coachy directions to the Windham mansion and climbed in after Eve. “Shall I sit beside you, my lady?” An odd little courtesy, that he would even ask. “Please. The less I move, the less uncomfortable I am.” He settled beside her and looped an arm around her shoulders. Without a single thought for dignity, skirmishes, or propriety, Eve laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and was grateful. ***

He took his hat off and put it on top of the truck cab, his eyes never leaving hers. “Can I satisfy my curiosity about one last thing?” he asked, his voice gruff in a way she’d never heard it before. Then she noticed his attention, his focus, was on her mouth now. Heat flared through her so fast she couldn’t control it. Like a wildfire fueled by a raging wind, it consumed her, ravaging any hope she had of containing it. “What would that be?” she said on a choked whisper, though she had absolutely no doubt she knew the answer. She blamed a year of not having to manage her defenses around him for not being able to rally them now. Truth was, though, she wasn’t sure she would have, even if she could. “This.” He closed the whisper of a distance between his mouth and hers, only he didn’t go for the alpha-male, take-all, conquering kiss. That might have swept her off her feet, quite literally, for at least the time it took for it to begin and end. No, what he did decimated any chance she had of being simply swept away, able to write off the moment later as nothing more than a mindless, primal response. No, what he did was make love to her mouth. She hadn’t even known it was possible to do such a thing. His kiss wasn’t demanding, it wasn’t desperate, or, worse, a sad good-bye. It was a slow, deliberate, and confident wooing. That last part being the most heady, and the most dangerous. It was a kiss that didn’t ask for her complete and utter participation; it simply, by its most intimate nature, demanded it. He didn’t lay claim. He made love to her mouth with his, like he’d known this, all along, and just hadn’t had the chance to show her yet. He drew her in, sharing with her the experience of utter communion that was the two of them, together. He kissed her slowly, intently, and so utterly sensuously, that she was kissing him back, fully partnering him in this communion of so much more than mere lips, tongues, and breaths, without it even being a conscious decision on her part. His tongue slid in along hers as if it had found its mate and was simply happy to be home, curled up again, sated and content. But that beautiful sweetness was all mixed up with the pulse of something darkly sensual, making her crave the discovery of what every part of him communing in this way with every part of her would be like. So deeply satisfying and urgently primal. She was in trouble here. Real trouble. Because somewhere along the way she’d forgotten he wasn’t a man who called anything quits, and he surely hadn’t come all this way to turn around and head home without making damn sure she knew exactly what she was turning away from.

Jack scowled blackly as Nick came up behind her. He couldn’t see what was happening through the crowd, but he noted that a smile grew on Nick’s face just as Mel’s chin rose up, her eyes grew round and startled and she threw a panicked look in Jack’s direction. Jack pushed himself off the bar and was making fast tracks to the other side when Mel reacted. Mel felt a hand run over her bottom and inch between her legs. She was stunned for a moment, disbelieving. Then her instincts kicked in and shifted her beer to her other hand, threw an elbow back into his gut, brought that same elbow up under his chin, swept his legs out from under him with one booted foot, lifting him off his feet to send him crashing to the floor, flat on his back. She put her foot on his chest and glared into his eyes. “Don’t you ever try anything like that again!” All this without spilling a drop of her beer. Jack froze at the end of the bar. Whoa, he thought. Damn. A second passed. Then Mel looked around the now silent room in some embarrassment. Everyone was shocked and staring. “Oh!” she said, but her foot still held Nick on his back. Nick who, it seemed, couldn’t draw a breath, just lay there, stunned. She removed her foot. “Oh…” she said. A laugh broke out of the crowd. Someone clapped. A woman yelped approvingly. Mel backed away somewhat sheepishly. She ended up at the bar, right in front of Jack. Right where she felt safest. Jack put a hand on her shoulder and glared in Nick’s direction. *

Her relationship with Paul went back much further, of course. It wasn’t as though they became friends because of Matt’s death. In fact, that night long ago when she met Matt, it had been Paul across the room who’d first caught her eye. He was so tall, his legs so long and hands so big, it was hard for him not to stand out in a crowd. There was that willful, sandy hair that had to be kept short because it would defy any kind of styling. Not that Paul was the kind of man to fuss with his hair—it was obvious even from a distance that he stuck to basics. It was his masculinity she noticed; he looked like a lumberjack who’d cleaned up to go into town. He had an engaging smile; one tooth in front was just a little crooked and he had a dimple on the left cheek. Heavy brown brows, deep chocolate eyes—details she discovered a bit later, of course. She hadn’t even noticed Matt… But it was Matt who put the rush on her, swept her off her feet, made her laugh, made her blush. While Paul hung back, shy and silent, Matt charmed her to her very bones. And shortly after the charm, he made her desire him madly, love him deeply. He was hardly a consolation prize—he was one of the best men in the world. And a devoted husband, so in love with her. She loved Paul before Matt’s death, grew to love him more deeply afterward. When little Mattie was born, she said to Paul, “I will never love anyone but Matt.” But as the weeks passed she realized that she didn’t have to stop loving Matt any more than Paul should. Matt would be with them both forever. And it was like the natural order of things that Paul should step in now.

If the weather does remain fair, I would like to take Winnie with me into town soon.” Emmie nodded but pulled her feet up under her, making herself look smaller and even a little defensive. “Miss Farnum, nobody will treat her badly in my company.” “They would not dare,” she agreed, but her tone was off. A little flippant or bitter. “But?” He sipped his drink and tried not to focus on the way candlelight glinted off her hair, which was swept back into a soft, disheveled bun at her nape. “Winnie will parade around town with you,” she said, an edge to her voice, “and have a grand time as long as you are at her side. Emboldened by your escort and her happy experiences, she will wander there again on her own, and sooner or later, somebody will treat her like the pariah she is.” “Go on.” He was a bastard, but he hadn’t considered this. “I wonder, when I watch you and Lord Amery cosseting and fussing over Winnie, if I don’t do her a disservice by allowing such attentions. She is desperate for your regard and affection, your time, and yet she cannot grow to depend on it. Still, her instincts are right: She is deserving of just such care, and had her father been a decent man, she would have had at least some of that from him.” “But?” The earl watched the emotions play across the lady’s face and saw there was much she wasn’t saying. “But she cannot grow to rely on such from others,” Emmie said, setting her drink down with a definite clink. “Sooner or later, you will return to London or take a wife, and Winnie will be sent off, to school, to a poor relation, to somewhere. Her future is not that of the legitimate daughter of an earl, and she must learn to rely on herself.” “As you have?” He watched as she rose and started pacing the room. She crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, her expression troubled. “Of course as I have.” She nodded then startled as thunder rumbled even closer. “Winnie deserves the hugs and cuddles and compliments and guidance you give her, but what she deserves and what life will hand her are two different things. She needs to know not every friendly gentleman who offers her a buss on the cheek can be trusted to respect her.

I remembered the first time I came here, thinking that a girl could get swept off her feet in a place like this. I smiled at the irony. Turned out that girl was me all along. That thought stopped me in my tracks. No. I wasn’t getting swept away. This was merely an arrangement with defined terms in which two parties were enjoying the physical perks of a relationship while maintaining emotional boundaries. Yes. That’s all this was.

If Christ is at the center—if He is the one who has forever swept her off her feet—she makes sure that her attitude and speech and conduct are pleasing to Him. She seeks to walk in His way. Her eyes are ever toward the Lord (Psalm 25:15).

A flustered photographer in the great Eurotrash tradition hurried over to their perch. He had a goatee and spiky blond hair like Sandy Duncan on an off day. Bathing did not appear to be a priority here. He sighed repeatedly, making sure all in the vicinity knew that he was both important and being put out. “Where is Brenda?” he whined. “Right here.” Myron swiveled toward a voice like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. With her long, purposeful stride—not the shy-girl walk of the too-tall or the nasty strut of a model—Brenda Slaughter swept into the room like a radar-tracked weather system. She was very tall, over six feet for sure, with skin the color of Myron’s Starbucks Mocha Java with a hefty splash of skim milk. She wore faded jeans that hugged deliciously but without obscenity and a ski sweater that made you think of cuddling inside a snow-covered log cabin. Myron

by the time we finished painting her house, she was sending her boys home with pecan pies and watermelon and fried chicken—you never saw such a love fest.” He paused, slowly lowering his hammer. “But I’ll never forget the day Stump leaned waaaay down to give her a hug, then swept her right off her feet and twirled her around in a circle.” Tracey laughed so hard, Noah was afraid she might fall off the roof. “Knowing Mrs. Peterson, I bet she shrieked with delight!

A man wants to pick up a woman. A woman just wants to be swept off her feet.

When they reached the river, he turned left. “Tohobt Pah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?” He pointed ahead of them. “Pah-gat-su, upstream.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.” His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them. Another rock jabbed her insole, and she winced, missing a step. He released her elbow and swept her off her feet into his arms. He took her so much by surprise that if she could have screamed, she would have. Their eyes locked, his mocking, hers wide. Though he now bore Loretta’s weight, her position was such that her back was in danger of breaking if she didn’t loop an arm around his neck. He stood there, looking down at her and waiting. Her mouth went dry. She wished he would just toss her over his shoulder again and be done with it. Being carried like a sack of grain wasn’t very dignified, but at least that way she didn’t have to cling to him. That determined glint she was coming to know too well crept into his eyes. He gave her a little toss, not enough to drop her, but enough to give her a start. Instinctively she hooked an arm around his neck. His lips slanted into a satisfied grin, a grin that said as clearly as if he had spoken that he would have the last word, always. He started walking again. The firm cords of muscle that ran down from his neck undulated beneath her fingers, his warm skin as smooth as fine-grained leather. His hair, silken and heavy, brushed against her knuckles. Beneath her wrist she could feel the crusty cut on his shoulder from Aunt Rachel’s bullet. Remembering the wound he had inflicted on his arm last night, she wondered just how many scars he had. Strangely, the longer she was around him, the less she noticed the slash on his cheek. His was the kind of face that suffered imperfections well, features chiseled, skin weathered to a tough, burnished brown, as rugged as the sharp-cut canyons and endless plains from whence he’d sprung.

Loretta opened her eyes and gazed up at her Comanche husband through a haze of longing. By degrees her pulse slowed, and her senses cleared. A tender smile curved his mouth. “My heart is heavy to say these words, Blue Eyes, but someone may come. My woman who is without shame must wait, eh?” She groped to jerk her blouse down. Hunter reared back to let her sit up, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She straightened her clothes, keeping her pink face averted. Taking her hand, he rose and led her up the bank, wishing they were a bit farther from home so he could finish what he had begun without running the risk of company. “We will go to my lodge, yes? I will make you happy there where no one can see.” She slugged his shoulder. “You did that on purpose!” He laughed and tucked her under one arm to hold her close to his side as they walked. When they came within sight of the village, she drew away. A guilty flush dotted her cheeks. Hunter threw back his head and laughed. She retaliated by grabbing up a handful of pebbles to throw at him. Her aim was terrible, but Hunter ran out of throw’s reach anyway--until her ammunition was exhausted. Then he doubled back, charging, so he could reach her before she gathered more rocks. She shrieked and fled. His longer legs quickly closed the distance between them. He swept her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder, clamping one arm across the backs of her knees. Playfully she pummeled his back. Just as playfully he ran his free hand up her skirt and gave her bottom a light pinch. All in all, Hunter decided, it had been a good day.

Another rock jabbed her insole, and she winced, missing a step. He released her elbow and swept her off her feet into his arms. He took her so much by surprise that if she could have screamed, she would have. Their eyes locked, his mocking, hers wide. Though he now bore Loretta’s weight, her position was such that her back was in danger of breaking if she didn’t loop an arm around his neck. He stood there, looking down at her and waiting. Her mouth went dry. She wished he would just toss her over his shoulder again and be done with it. Being carried like a sack of grain wasn’t very dignified, but at least that way she didn’t have to cling to him. That determined glint she was coming to know too well crept into his eyes. He gave her a little toss, not enough to drop her, but enough to give her a start. Instinctively she hooked an arm around his neck. His lips slanted into a satisfied grin, a grin that said as clearly as if he had spoken that he would have the last word, always.

Hunter bent his head and pressed his face against her hair. The next instant she felt his lips on her neck. She also felt his hand on her posterior. Frustrated by her high neckline and her full skirts, he made a fist in the calico. “So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes?” He started to lift her dress. Loretta reached behind her and caught his hand. “Wha--what’re you doin’?” He lifted his head, eyes alight with teasing mischief. “I search for my woman. You are in there.” “I’m not your woman yet. Have you no shame? It’s broad daylight. People might see.” “They will see you are my woman.” “They’ll see my drawers, that’s what they’ll see!” He abandoned his hold on her skirt to run his palm up her back. “No bones. That is good.” Loretta’s face flamed when she realized he was referring to the whale bones of a corset. A decent man didn’t mention such things. “You haven’t brought me Amy,” she reminded him. “Our bargain doesn’t start until you do.” “I have spoken it. It is done.” “Amy first.” Before she realized what he was about to do, he swept her off her feet and put her on the horse, then leaped up behind her. Cinching an arm around her waist, he bent his head and said, “This Comanche will sure enough find her quick.

They've been solid since Dad swept Mom off her feet.

Catherine sighed. “He was so handsome and charming. He just swept me off my feet.” “Ick,” Erica said, under her breath. “Of course, I could never tell him that I’d been sent here to gouge him for information,” Catherine went on. “Revealing the truth would have ruined the bond of trust that is integral to any marriage. So I kept everything secret. And then, as the years went on, I began to realize that Alexander had concealed some things from me.” “Like the fact that he sucked eggs as a spy?” Erica asked. “Well . . . yes.

Steady there, Tornado.” Cradling her, Finn sent down a warm smile at her, and wow. Yes, please. He’d just swept her off her feet like Lancelot, and used a nickname that might have been better reserved for a ranch horse, but for some reason she was all about it.

There, in the center of the chamber, sat a small, golden harp. Cold leached through Nesta, clarifying her thoughts enough to realize where she stood. That the music of the priestesses had lulled her into a trance, that her own bones and the stone of the mountain surrounding her had been her scrying tools, and she had drifted to this place … The Harp gleamed in the darkness, as if it possessed its own sun within the metal and strings. Play me, it seemed to whisper. Let me sing again. Join your voice with mine. Her hand reached toward the strings. Yes. The Harp sighed, a low purr rolling off it as Nesta’s hand neared. We shall open doors and pathways; we shall move through space and eons together. Our music will free us of earthly rules and borders. Yes. She’d play the Harp, and there would be nothing but music until the stars died out. Play. I have so long wished to play, it said, and she could have sworn she heard a smile within the sound. What might my song unlock in here? A cold, humorless laugh skittered along Nesta’s bones. It sang again, Play, play— The song halted, and the vision shattered. Nesta’s knees gave out as the room swept in, and she collapsed onto the pew, earning an alarmed look from Gwyn through the crowd. Her heart thundered, her mouth was dry as sand, and she forced herself to rise to her feet again. To listen to the end of the service as she pieced it all together, realized what she had discovered in her unwitting scrying.

as we could tell by the washing of the water over our heads, and the heavy breaking of the seas against her bows, (with a sound as though she were striking against a rock,) only the thickness of the plank from our heads, as we lay in our berths, which are directly against the bows. At eight bells, the watch was called, and we came on deck, one hand going aft to take the wheel, and another going to the galley to get the grub for dinner. I stood on the forecastle, looking at the seas, which were rolling high, as far as the eye could reach, their tops white with foam, and the body of them of a deep indigo blue, reflecting the bright rays of the sun. Our ship rose slowly over a few of the largest of them, until one immense fellow came rolling on, threatening to cover her, and which I was sailor enough to know, by “the feeling of her” under my feet, she would not rise over. I sprang upon the knight-heads, and seizing hold of the fore-stay with my hands, drew myself upon it. My feet were just off the stanchion, when she struck fairly into the middle of the sea, and it washed her fore and aft, burying her in the water. As soon as she rose out of it, I looked aft, and everything forward of the main-mast, except the long-boat, which was griped and double-lashed down to the ring-bolts, was swept off clear. The

as we could tell by the washing of the water over our heads, and the heavy breaking of the seas against her bows, (with a sound as though she were striking against a rock,) only the thickness of the plank from our heads, as we lay in our berths, which are directly against the bows. At eight bells, the watch was called, and we came on deck, one hand going aft to take the wheel, and another going to the galley to get the grub for dinner. I stood on the forecastle, looking at the seas, which were rolling high, as far as the eye could reach, their tops white with foam, and the body of them of a deep indigo blue, reflecting the bright rays of the sun. Our ship rose slowly over a few of the largest of them, until one immense fellow came rolling on, threatening to cover her, and which I was sailor enough to know, by “the feeling of her” under my feet, she would not rise over. I sprang upon the knight-heads, and seizing hold of the fore-stay with my hands, drew myself upon it. My feet were just off the stanchion, when she struck fairly into the middle of the sea, and it washed her fore and aft, burying her in the water. As soon as she rose out of it, I looked aft, and everything forward of the main-mast, except the long-boat, which was griped and double-lashed down to the ring-bolts, was swept off clear. The galley, the pig-sty, the hen-coop, and a large sheep-pen which had been built upon the forehatch, were all gone, in the twinkling of an eye-leaving the deck as clean as a chin new reaped—and not a stick left, to show where they had stood. In the scuppers lay the galley, bottom up, and a few boards floating about, the wreck of the sheep-pen,—and half a dozen miserable sheep floating among them, wet through, and not a little frightened at the sudden change that had come upon them.

So, he didn’t age well. We can’t all be Adonis with a talent for flowers,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. ‘That’s right,’ Jake says. ‘Not everyone can age as well as us.’ He steps up beside me, pulling at the lapel of his jacket with the confidence he never lacks. Once again, Brynn rolls her eyes dramatically. A move she often uses when Jake and I are together. He’s one of my best friends and I’m the one who set the two of them up. Somehow, he swept her cold heart off its feet, and they’re now living in wedded bliss and have added a new character to their lives by way of their two-year-old daughter Zoey. The pair of them run a wedding planning business together. Brynn is the brains, and Jake is the brawn. Besides blood and weddings, Brynn and I don’t have much in common. When I let my

Jamie considered herself outside that, but there was a definite feeling of distrust that underpinned every conversation, and a palpable sense of contempt that beat in the background.  She put it out of her mind and pressed on, hoping to hell that they weren’t going to find Grace dead with a needle in her arm.  That would turn a shit-clap into a shit-pie.  Her dad had practically been a poet.  But she wasn’t hungry. A two-lane road swept across a bridge headed north out of the city. Below it, an old line ran perpendicular, the rails buried in stone chips grown over with brambles. It hadn’t been used in years, and provided a sheltered area stretching across its width.  The banks on either side were fenced off and let down around twenty feet onto the flat at the bottom, and the space beneath the bridge was filled with tents and tarps, all huddled together out of the worst of the weather.  A section of fence had been pushed down, one of the posts dug out and shoved over. It had been trampled flat and an old blanket had been laid over the crushed barbed wire at the top so that the denizens could make the traverse without getting nicked.  They’d walked the last stretch up a pretty much deserted street that had been blocked off at the bottom when the line had been put out of commission. Jamie and Roper moved between the bollards and up the cracked pavement towards the gap in the fence in silence.  Three homeless people were sitting on the street — two by the makeshift entrance to the old line and one opposite.  He was wearing a bright green wind-cheater and had his arms folded under his armpits.

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.

She's tragically scarred with an avant-garde, spastic heart - yet radically guarded (anti-romantic garden) - tactless, though perhaps smarter; and so her soul carries an ego too heavy to be swept off her feet: Modernity's narcissist.

Decades ago, I trained myself to mistrust that girl’s perceptions. No doubt she projected as many pixels onto the world’s screen as she took in. So while I trust the stories I recall in broad outline, their interpretation through my old self is suspect. Forget reporting the external events right, try judging them when you’re an alumna of custodial care. When I reach to grasp a solid truth from that time, smoke pours through my fingers. Yet driving east with all my belongings wedged into Warren’s small white car, I feel swept off my feet as any storybook maiden by her champion. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and the holiday burger taken at a roadside diner is a feast.

His self-esteem was a mass of smarting pin- pricks. Whenever he assured himself, as he tried to do, that he was the heroic victim of a grand and melancholy passion, the memory of some new and petty indignity stabbed him awake. “I’m darned if I’m going to put up with it,” he told Matilda that evening. “What I want to know is this: Am I the master of my own house?” Matilda only smiled. And so it went on. You might, Jimmy thought, have supposed that treatment of this kind would arouse the fair one’s pity, poor substitute as that might be for the warmer emotion which, by all romantic canons, she owed to her rescuer. In protest he adopted an air of injured tenderness and nobility. But Matilda soon knocked the bottom out of that. “Don’t take any notice,” she told their guest, “if he happens to touch your hand when he’s passing the butter. He’s quite harmless, is Jimmy, and even if he does like to dream he’s a Don Juan, that doesn’t take me in! I know him! We haven’t been married six years for nothing.” “Oh, haven’t we?” said Jimmy, darkly. ‘That’s where you’re mistaken! ” “Just listen to him!” laughed Matilda. “He hates you to think he’s been faithful. Isn’t he just a lamb?” And the object of Jimmy’s frustrated passion merely smiled. She was always smiling. The tragic figure of the Boulogne boat, the distressed beauty of the Customs House, the vision of pathetic loveliness whom he, James Marler, had swept off her feet with such manly magnificence, no longer existed. Those grave, impassioned dialogues which he had imagined taking place under the romantic towers of the Crystal Palace had never materialized. She was gay, she was childish, perhaps she was even more beautiful; but her gaiety, her childishness, her beauty were not for him.

Do you know what a woman wants, Quinn-san?” “I’m not the man to ask.” He wished Thibodaux was there. The big Cajun had barrels of philosophy about women. “I think most men believe we want to be ravished—swept off our feet.” She sat on the end of the bed, one sock on, the other in her hand. “And perhaps some of us do when we are young. But what we really want is to feel safe.

Zane continued to look at her. Even better, he kept her hand in his, his thumb rubbing up and down the length of her fingers. Over and over. Up and down. It was very rhythmic. And sexual. Her thighs took on a life of their own, getting all hot and shaking slightly. Her mouth went dry, her breasts were jealous of the attention her hand was getting and her hormones were singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Obviously she needed intensive therapy…or maybe just sex. Zane’s eyes darkened. The muscles in his face tightened, and he stared at her with a hawkish expression. Had he been anyone else, she would have sworn that he’d just had a physical awakening of his own. Awareness crackled around them, like self-generated lightning. The tightness in her chest eased just enough for her to suck in a breath, which was really good, because the next second it all came rushing out again when he kissed her. Just like that. With no warning, Zane Nicholson bent his head and claimed her mouth. It wasn’t a movie-perfect kiss. They didn’t magically melt into each other. Instead their noses bumped, and somehow the hand still holding hers got trapped between them. But all that was fairly insignificant when compared with the intense, sensual heat generated by the pressure of his lips on hers. That part was exactly right. Not too hard, not too soft. When he moved against her, need shot through her body. Had she been breathing again, she would have whimpered. Had he tried to pull away, she would have fallen at his feet and begged him not to stop. Somehow he released her hand and pulled his free. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her against him so her entire body pressed against his. The man was a rock. Big, unyielding and warmed by the sun. She wanted to snuggle even closer. She wanted to rip off her clothes and give the goats something to talk about. She wanted-- He licked her lower lip. The unexpected moist heat made her gasp as fire raced through her. Every singed nerve ending vibrated with need for more. The masculine, slightly piney scent of him surrounded her. Operating only on instinct, she parted her lips to allow him entry. She had a single heartbeat to brace herself for the power of his tongue touching hers. Then he swept inside and blew her away.

What better way to get over my own heartbreak than to read about another female being swept off her feet by a sexy male?

young bears dashed inside and found their mother half-buried. They pulled heavy stones from her body and dusted her off. “I have broken bones,” she rasped, “but they will heal. Where is the robot?” RECO 2’s headlights switched back on. Stones tumbled as the robot staggered to his feet. His body was scratched and scraped. His head was badly dented. His left arm was completely useless, so—thwip—it was tossed aside. Then the one-armed robot limped out of the cave and continued the hunt for Roz. “Don’t worry about me,” Mother Bear growled to Nettle and Thorn. “Kill the robot.” With his heavy limp and his grinding gears, RECO 2 was easy to track. The young bears caught up with him as he was entering a grove of pines. But they didn’t attack, not yet. There was a better place to finish him off up ahead. So they hung back and followed him across the mountainside. The distant rumble of the waterfall grew louder with each passing minute, and then a slash of white appeared through the trees. Soon, the robot was standing beside the roiling, frothing river, just above the falls. He was too badly damaged to leap over the falls or to wade through the rapids or to climb down the cliffs. But he had to continue his hunt for the target. So he started limping upriver in search of a safer crossing. There was a rustling, and the young bears exploded out from the trees. They threw their heavy shoulders against the robot’s body, and he stumbled sideways onto the riverbank. Nettle reared up and wrestled the robot, twisting and shaking him with all of her strength. RECO 2 felt his feet slipping on the rocks, he felt his body tipping over, and then he plunged into the white water. And he brought Nettle with him. The current immediately swept Nettle toward the falls. She rolled through the rapids, crashed into one rock and then desperately