Thrill Of The Chase Quotes

You learn to be friends with someone, get to really know them before you get all excited about the guy. You have to keep it tempered and figure out if you even like him, for who he is, not how he feels about you. I know it's not easy. Believe me, I know. But this thrill you feel.. is probably only there because things are new and uncertain. It's not about him. It's you, caught up in you. Your mind craves anxiety, the good exciting kind and the bad I-can't-function-at-work kind. You need to deprive your body and recognize that your propensity to chase codependency is leading you toward a fat, greasy life of miserable.

Who said that the thrill of the chase should only be felt by the hunter?

She has no idea who I am … Her ignorance is rather…thrilling. There are no expectations, no hidden agendas, no reasons to pretend – what she sees is what she gets. And all she sees is me.

The chase was the best part, Hunting was intoxicating. And knowing I had the power to snuff out Nila Weaver’s life the moment I caught her gave me a certain…thrill.

Experienced hunters do not choose their prey by how easily it is caught; they want the thrill of the chase, a life-and-death struggle—the fiercer the better.

I'm not the kind of guy who rides the same roller-coaster twice. Once is enough,and then the thrill is gone and so is the interest.

Oh, the thrill of the chase as I soar through the air With the Snitch up ahead and the wind in my hair As I draw ever closer, the crowd gives a shout But then comes a Bludger and I am knocked out.

Love isn’t a quilt. Love isn’t patient, love isn’t kind. Love is a game, a chase, a thrill. Love is wild and war-like, and every man and woman must fight for themselves.

Men haven't changed: they love the thrill of the chase, and if you hand yourself over on a plate they'll lose interest.

If we were content with ownership, then we would stop acquiring more stuff. But the combination of the thrill of the chase, the need for status and the crippling sense at the prospect of loss reveal that ownership Is one the strongest human urges and does not easily respond to reason. Of course, most of think we are the exception, but then, that is why we are possessed.

The irony was that my real enemy had been there all along right in front of me. Smiling crookedly and convincing me we were friends. Trying to seduce me for the thrill of the chase. Chastising me for not trusting him that first year in the tower stairs at the Academy… Telling me he loved me. And then tossing me aside the second I jeopardized his dreams. I wasn’t what he had wanted all these years. I’d merely been a diversion in his pursuit of the crown. I never should have trusted a prince.

Extroverts tend to tackle assignments quickly. They make fast (sometimes rash) decisions, and are comfortable multitasking and risk-taking. They enjoy “the thrill of the chase” for rewards like money and status.

The enemy was close. Despite my fear, I was somehow having fun. Being chased and killed by villains was a thrilling vision. My paranoia really excited me. It stimulated me. In short, it was pleasant. If it was pleasant, it also must be fun.

The chase and the cheap thrills don't last long.

Everyone is looking for the next big thrill to feel alive, chasing the unattainable.

...I looked at the place with my heart beating as I had known it to do in the dentist's parlor.

There’s this thrill I get, when I go on an adventure. Climb a peak, explore a city, set down wheels on a dirt runway in a place I’ve never been before. I’ve spent my whole life chasing that feeling.” He pauses. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who makes me feel that rush while I’m standing still.

Gavin had thought tragedy suited her: a young Miss Havisham, wearing the moth-eaten tatters of her frayed hopes like a ravaged bride. She had thought at first that it was the chase he craved, or the thrill of conquest, but while both of those might have been true, it was her humiliation that got him off. Physical, psychological, sexual—his favorite games were the ones he played with her head.

The door opens, and Logan is holding out his hand to me. When I touch him, when I slide my hand into his and feel his fingers wrap around mine, a mixture of thrilling electricity and warm comfort races through me. Touching him is my drug, my addition – though I try not to be a freak about it. And knowing he’s here, watching over us like a powerful, invincible guardian angel, settles my nerves and, like always, makes me feel safe and cared for. Because Logan would never let anything bad happen to any of us. And I believe with all my heart that there’s nothing he can’t do.

Our friends were not thrilled about getting up. I had to pour ice water on Halfborn Gunderson’s head twice. Blitz grumbled something about ducks and told me to go away. When I tried to shake Hearth awake, he stuck one hand above the covers and signed, I am not here. T.J. bolted out of bed screaming, ‘CHARGE!’ Fortunately, he wasn’t armed, or he would’ve run me through.

i am not my past. I am my present. I am my future. The past can chase you if you let it.You can spend your life trying to outrun it or you can stop running, turn around and look it inthe face. i've stared down my past, and now i'm moving on.I am more than my past.I am my future and it belings to me.

The clown is a creature of chaos. His appearance is an affront to our sense of dignity, his actions a mockery of our sense of order. The clown (freedom) is always being chased by the policeman (authority). Clowns are funny precisely because their shy hopes lead invariably to brief flings of (exhilarating?) disorder followed by crushing retaliation from the status quo. It delights us to watch a careless clown break taboos; it thrills us vicariously to watch him run wild and free; it reassures us to see him slapped down and order restored. After all, we can condone liberty only up to a point. Consider Jesus as a ragged, nonconforming clown--laughed at, persecuted and despised--playing out the dumb show at his crucifixion against the responsible pretensions of authority.

I have heard ballads of great battles, and poems about the beauty of a charge and the grace of a leader. But I did not know that war was nothing more than butchery, as savage and unskilled as sticking a pig in the throat and leaving it to bleed to make the meat tender. I did not know that the style and nobility of the jousting arena had nothing to do with this thrust and stab. Just like killing a screaming piglet for bacon after chasing it round the sty. And I did not know that war thrilled men so: they come home laughing like schoolboys after a prank; but they have blood on their hands and a smear of something on their cloaks and the smell of smoke in their hair and a terrible ugly excitement on their faces. I understand now why they break into convents, force women against their will, defy sanctuary to finish the killing chase. They arouse in themselves a wild vicious hunger more like animals than men. I did not know war was like this. I feel I have been a fool not to know, since I was raised in a kingdom at war and am the daughter of a man captured in battle, the widow of a night, the wife of a merciless solider. But I know now.

The thrill of working in this building, with its iconic globe on top, would never fade.

Extroverts tend to tackle assignments quickly. They make fast (sometimes rash) decisions, and are comfortable multitasking and risk-taking. They enjoy “the thrill of the chase” for rewards like money and status. Introverts often work more slowly and deliberately. They like to focus on one task at a time and can have mighty powers of concentration. They’re relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame.

Many psychologists would also agree that introverts and extroverts work differently. Extroverts tend to tackle assignments quickly. They make fast (sometimes rash) decisions, and are comfortable multitasking and risk-taking. They enjoy “the thrill of the chase” for rewards like money and status. Introverts often work more slowly and deliberately. They like to focus on one task at a time and can have mighty powers of concentration. They’re relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame. Our

I love you, Blue. Have I always? Haven’t I? When did it happen? Or has it always happened? Like your victory, love spreads back through time. It claims our earliest association, our battles and losses. Assassinations become assignations. There was, I am sure, a time I did not know you. Or did I dream that me, as I’ve so often dreamed of you? Have we always fulfilled one another in the chase? I remember hunting you through Samarkand, thrilling to think I might touch the loosening strands of your hair.

Men love independent women because they leave them alone. They love chasing women who are busy. It gives them a thrill, as big as a touchdown or a home run.

There was a thrill in the chase, especially when his lady thought she was the one doing the chasing.

I'm sitting in the bleachers, watching longingly as all the boys and umbumped girls in my Personal Health and Fitness class play Muggle Quidditch. I don't even like the game very much, I think it's silly, but I so miss physical activity that I'd be thrilled if I could run around the gymnasium with a broom between my legs, chasing after the human snitch wearing a gold pinny.

... stop trying to beat them. They aren't your competition... But if you want to be The Protector I made you to be, you have to stop chasing your own good plans. Stop trying to win". - Alpha

I think I liked it better when you wanted to punch him.” Sloane ignored him, giving Lou a pat on the shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink.” This couldn’t be happening. Why was this happening? This night had started out so well. “Why? Why are you buying him a drink? Are you going to ask him stuff about me? What happened to getting to know someone? The thrill of the chase. The mystery.” “Overrated,” Sloane replied sweetly, not bothering to look at Dex.

They knew that satiation wasn’t succeeded by tristesse, it was itself, immediately, tristesse. Satiation is the point at which you must face the existential revelation that you didn’t want really want what you seemed so desperate to have, that your most urgent desires are only a filthy vitalist trick to keep the show on the road. If you ‘can’t replace the fear or the thrill of the chase’, why stir yourself to pursue yet another empty kill? Why carry on with the charade?

If the phone rings...then you and I, greedy newshounds that we are, will jump up -- even if it rings during the good part -- and chase that perverse thrill of another big headline, another shocking story. We'll shake our heads that it excites us so, but we will give up sleep, food and love for the story.

Sometimes she stopped in her labors and saw with a thrill how beautiful the world was, how exquisite the purple mountains sometimes rising, a trick of optics, at the edge of sight, how joyous the blue birds chasing each other like scraps of windblown sky. A pureness of happiness coursed through her and left her ravished.

I gesture to his jacket. “Do you really think you’re qualified to give fashion advice?” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I looked like an absolute tool—now I’m sure of it.” “Did the producers pick that out for you?” “Yes. I’m supposed to ride down to the castle on horseback. Make my grand entrance.” Briskly, his long fingers unbutton the jacket. He shrugs it off, dropping it on the ground, revealing a snug white T-shirt and gloriously sculpted arms. “Better?” “Yes,” I squeak. The teasing smirk comes back, then he grips the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off. And my mouth falls open at the sight of warm skin, perfect brown nipples, and the ridges and swells of muscles up and down his torso. “What do you think of this?” he asks. I think this is worse than I thought. Henry Pembrook isn’t a Fiyero—he’s a Willoughby. A John Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility—thrilling, charming, unpredictable, and seductive. Marianne Dashwood learned the hard way that if you play with a heartbreaker, you can’t be surprised when your heart gets shattered into a thousand pieces. I shrug, trying to seem cool and unaffected. “Might look a bit too ‘Putin’ on the horse.” He nods, then puts his shirt back on, and my stomach swirls with a strange mix of relief and disappointment.

Of course, she’d also heard that rakes enjoyed the chase, the thrill of pursuing a reluctant woman, and she’d just scotched any prospect of that. But when she thought of how long it would take to entice Liam into wanting her, then pursuing her, pretending reluctance, before finally succumbing… Who had time for that? She wanted to know now.

I was never a child; I never had a childhood. I cannot count among my memories warm, golden days of childish intoxication, long joyous hours of innocence, or the thrill of discovering the universe anew each day. I learned of such things later on in life from books. Now I guess at their presence in the children I see. I was more than twenty when I first experienced something similar in my self, in chance moments of abandonment, when I was at peace with the world. Childhood is love; childhood is gaiety; childhood knows no cares. But I always remember myself, in the years that have gone by, as lonely, sad, and thoughtful. Ever since I was a little boy I have felt tremendously alone―and "peculiar". I don't know why. It may have been because my family was poor or because I was not born the way other children are born; I cannot tell. I remember only that when I was six or seven years old a young aunt of mind called me vecchio―"old man," and the nickname was adopted by all my family. Most of the time I wore a long, frowning face. I talked very little, even with other children; compliments bored me; baby-talk angered me. Instead of the noisy play of the companions of my boyhood I preferred the solitude of the most secluded corners of our dark, cramped, poverty-stricken home. I was, in short, what ladies in hats and fur coats call a "bashful" or a "stubborn" child; and what our women with bare heads and shawls, with more directness, call a rospo―a "toad." They were right. I must have been, and I was, utterly unattractive to everybody. I remember, too, that I was well aware of the antipathy I aroused. It made me more "bashful," more "stubborn," more of a "toad" than ever. I did not care to join in the games played by other boys, but preferred to stand apart, watching them with jealous eyes, judging them, hating them. It wasn't envy I felt at such times: it was contempt; it was scorn. My warfare with men had begun even then and even there. I avoided people, and they neglected me. I did not love them, and they hated me. At play in the parks some of the boys would chase me; others would laugh at me and call me names. At school they pulled my curls or told the teachers tales about me. Even on my grandfather's farm in the country peasant brats threw stones at me without provocation, as if they felt instinctively that I belonged to some other breed.

I can understand the ignorant masses loving to soak themselves in drink—oh, yes, it's very shocking that they should, of course—very shocking to us who live in cozy homes, with all the graces and pleasures of life around us, that the dwellers in damp cellars and windy attics should creep from their dens of misery into the warmth and glare of the public-house bar, and seek to float for a brief space away from their dull world upon a Lethe stream of gin. But think, before you hold up your hands in horror at their ill-living, what "life" for these wretched creatures really means. Picture the squalid misery of their brutish existence, dragged on from year to year in the narrow, noisome room where, huddled like vermin in sewers, they welter, and sicken, and sleep; where dirt-grimed children scream and fight and sluttish, shrill-voiced women cuff, and curse, and nag; where the street outside teems with roaring filth and the house around is a bedlam of riot and stench. Think what a sapless stick this fair flower of life must be to them, devoid of mind and soul. The horse in his stall scents the sweet hay and munches the ripe corn contentedly. The watch-dog in his kennel blinks at the grateful sun, dreams of a glorious chase over the dewy fields, and wakes with a yelp of gladness to greet a caressing hand. But the clod-like life of these human logs never knows one ray of light. From the hour when they crawl from their comfortless bed to the hour when they lounge back into it again they never live one moment of real life. Recreation, amusement, companionship, they know not the meaning of. Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, love, friendship, longing, despair, are idle words to them. From the day when their baby eyes first look out upon their sordid world to the day when, with an oath, they close them forever and their bones are shoveled out of sight, they never warm to one touch of human sympathy, never thrill to a single thought, never start to a single hope. In the name of the God of mercy; let them pour the maddening liquor down their throats and feel for one brief moment that they live!

But your last letter… I am so good at missing things. At making myself not see. I stand at a cliff’s edge, and–hell. I love you, Blue. Have I always? Haven’t I? When did it happen? Or has it always happened? Like your victory, love spreads back through time. It claims our earliest association, our battles and losses. Assassinations become assignations. There was, I am sure, a time I did not know you. Or did I dream that me, as I’ve so often dreamed of you? Have we always fulfilled one another in the chase? I remember hunting you through Samarkand, thrilling to think I might touch the loosening strands of your hair. I want to be a body for you. I want to chase you, find you, I want to be eluded and teased and adored; I want to be defeated and victorious–I want you to cut me, sharpen me. I want to drink tea beside you in ten years or a thousand.

Maybe I’m not cut out for monogamy,” G. had said to me early on. “Maybe I should just live in a room by myself and have girlfriends.” Another woman might have said, “Now, where did I put my coat?” Being a madly infatuated rationalist who had read her Simone de Beauvoir, I took a deep breath and carefully and calmly explained that of course he had to make up his own mind about how he wanted to live, and that I understood fidelity wasn’t for everyone, that some people could be perfectly happy without it, but I wanted to give my whole self in love and I couldn’t do that if I was being compared to other women on a daily basis (which I was) or if our relationship was only tentative and provisional (which it was). “Sweetie!” he said when I finished. “I love it that you can say how you feel without getting angry at me.” That other woman would have slammed the door behind her before he’d finished speaking. They say philanderers are attractive to women because of the thrill of the chase—you want to be the one to capture and tame that wild quarry. But what if a deeper truth is that women fall for such men because they want to be those men? Autonomous, in charge, making their own rules. Imagine that room G. spoke of, in which the women would come and go—is there not something attractive about it? Rain tapping softly on the tin ceiling, a desk, a lamp, a bed. A woman dashes up the narrow stairs, her raincoat flaring, her wet face lifted up like a flower. And then, the next day—maybe even the same day—different footsteps, another expectant face. I had to admit, it was an exciting scenario. You wouldn’t want to be one of the women trooping up and down the staircase, but you might want to be the man who lived in the room.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that I’d stumbled across the kind of man I used to find irresistible, or that he’d managed to stare right inside my head to locate my weaknesses. The thrill of being wanted while pretending not to be interested was a game I’d played over and over during my youth. I’d thrived on it. I’d done more than my share of getting mixed up with men who were all ego and muscles, and Radleigh McCoy reminded me exactly why I’d given them up. Danger, the chase. It was never worth the pain in the end. Unfortunately, my body hadn’t got the memo yet.

Livia.” He seemed thrilled to let the word roll off his tongue. “Do you know that I’m invisible?” “No one has really seen me in years.” Blake looked at the sky. “Sometimes I wonder how they know I don’t have a home. I try to dress decently.” He waved a hand at his jeans and army jacket. “I think it just seeps out of me. I’m not the same as everyone else.” He shook his head, his eyes reflecting a weary despair. As he looked at Livia again, the despair was chased away with a grin. “But when you saw me for the first time, you actually saw me. You saw me, and then you smiled like I was just the same as everyone else on that platform.

Men with hidden lives don’t truly feel connected to people. Their attention is more engaged by excitement, adrenaline, and thrill seeking than by the love of a woman. They desire the high of the moment, the chase, and the challenge of avoiding being caught—by the police, their mothers, or you. (..) They really believe that their lives are their own and they are free to do whatever they want as long as they don’t do it in front of you. Rules, laws, society’s expectations—all are frivolous to the hidden-life man. (..) The number-one enemy of the hidden-life man is an inquiring mind followed by persistent questions and a lively intuition.

In a world where women do not say no, the man is never forced to settle down and make serious choices. His sex drive--the most powerful compulsion in his life--is never used to make him part of civilization as the supporter of a family. If a woman does not force him to make a long-term commitment--to marry--in general, he doesn't. It is maternity that requires commitment. His sex drive only demands conquest, driving him from body to body in an unsettling hunt for variety and excitement in which much of the thrill is in the chase itself. The man still needs to be tamed. His problem is that many young women think they have better things to do than socialize single men.

Many psychologists would also agree that introverts and extroverts work differently. Extroverts tend to tackle assignments quickly. They make fast (sometimes rash) decisions, and are comfortable multitasking and risk-taking. They enjoy “the thrill of the chase” for rewards like money and status. Introverts often work more slowly and deliberately. They like to focus on one task at a time and can have mighty powers of concentration. They’re relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame. Our personalities also shape our social styles. Extroverts are the people who will add life to your dinner party and laugh generously at your jokes. They tend to be assertive, dominant, and in great need of company. Extroverts think out loud and on their feet; they prefer talking to listening, rarely find themselves at a loss for words, and occasionally blurt out things they never meant to say. They’re comfortable with conflict, but not with solitude. Introverts, in contrast, may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family. They listen more than they talk, think before they speak, and often feel as if they express themselves better in writing than in conversation. They tend to dislike conflict. Many have a horror of small talk, but enjoy deep discussions.

Have you ever listened to a song from a long time ago; from your past; a song that was filled with so many memories tied to it, that you felt it so deeply- that it made you cry? And did you listen to it again, intentionally, for a second time? So you could travel back in time through that song; back when everything seemed so much simpler, basic, carefree? Those are the songs that are the soundtracks of our lives… the ones that bring back childhood memories, deep feelings, snapshots of our lives (or short videos), best friends, first loves, first heartbreaks… births, deaths. Our lives are like the record albums that we used to play just a few years ago; just yesterday. We played some of the songs over and over again- to the point of which we can sing along with every word as we play it. Other songs seem somewhat unfamiliar, as we rarely go back to listen to them; we skip over them or we barely listen to the start of it before we turn off the record player. But just like on a record album and just like in our memories, you can't cut a song out off an album... just like you can't cut out a memory. The songs and memories remain there, side by side; the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that thrill us and the ones that hurt. Those are the songs that our lives are composed of. Those are the songs that we chase back, back into our our own memories in our private and personal musical time machines.

All at once, something changed in that molten gray gaze, and he stepped closer, his scent overwhelming her—that clean-Tris scent. “Alexandra,” he murmured, his fingertips grazing her cheek. His warmth enveloped her, warding off the chill night air. He cupped her face in his hand and pressed closer, all but pinning her against the ancient stone wall. Closer, closer, until she could feel his breath teasing her lips. She wondered fleetingly if she would faint from lack of air. Then his lips touched hers, and all thought fled for a long, glorious moment. When he released her, she stood frozen in utter, giddy disbelief, relying on the wall for support. Her first kiss, it had been, and it had felt wonderful. Soon, she thought dizzily, his surprising, thrilling words still swirling about in her head…I’ve thought about you all the time…soon, they would kiss again.

Extroverts tend to tackle assignments quickly. They make fast (sometimes rash) decisions, and are comfortable multitasking and risk-taking. They enjoy “the thrill of the chase” for rewards like money and status. Introverts often work more slowly and deliberately. They like to focus on one task at a time and can have mighty powers of concentration. They’re relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame. Our personalities also shape our social styles. Extroverts are the people who will add life to your dinner party and laugh generously at your jokes. They tend to be assertive, dominant, and in great need of company. Extroverts think out loud and on their feet; they prefer talking to listening, rarely find themselves at a loss for words, and occasionally blurt out things they never meant to say. They’re comfortable with conflict, but not with solitude. Introverts, in contrast, may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family. They listen more than they talk, think before they speak, and often feel as if they express themselves better in writing than in conversation. They tend to dislike conflict. Many have a horror of small talk, but enjoy deep discussions. A few things introverts are not: The word introvert is not a synonym for hermit or misanthrope. Introverts can be these things, but most are perfectly friendly. One of the most humane phrases in the English language—“Only connect!”—was written by the distinctly introverted E. M. Forster in a novel exploring the question of how to achieve “human love at its height.” Nor are introverts necessarily shy. Shyness is the fear of social disapproval or humiliation, while introversion is a preference for environments that are not overstimulating. Shyness is inherently painful; introversion is not.

Saying goodbye to everyone, I picked up my bag and began walking away as a deep husky voice called my name. I didn’t stop walking, but looked over my shoulder in time to see Brandon walking around the table toward me, and Chase holding the brunette’s head away from his as he watched us, she just continued onto his neck. Falling into step with me, he held out a hand, “We haven’t met yet, I’m Brandon Taylor.” Dear Lord that voice could warm me on the coldest day of the year. “Harper Jackson, nice to meet you.” He smiled as he held the door open for me, “You too. You seem to know the rest of the guys pretty well though we’re just meeting, they said you’re Bree’s roommate?” “Uh, yeah. I am, but I don’t really know them well. I’ve only talked to them for a total of about ten minutes before today.” “Really?” The corners of his mouth twitched up, “You seem to make quite an impression in a short amount of time then.” “Oh I definitely made an impression with them.” I muttered. He looked at me quizzically but I shook my head so he wouldn’t push it. We stopped walking when we got to the path that would take me to the dorms and him to his next class. I turned towards him and shamelessly took in his worn jeans resting low on his narrow hips and fitted black shirt before going back to his face. I hadn’t realized how tall he was when we were walking out, but he had to be at least a foot taller than me. His height and muscled body made me want to curl up in his arms, it looked like I’d fit perfectly there. I nervously bit my bottom lip while I watched his cloudy eyes slowly take in my small frame. It didn’t feel like the guys at the party, looking at me like I was something to eat. His eyes made me feel beautiful, and it thrilled me that they were on me. Thrilled me that they were on me? Get a grip Harper you just met him two seconds ago. “Come on PG, let’s go.” Chase grabbed my arm and started dragging me away. “Chase! Stop!” I yanked my arm out and shot him a dirty look. “What is your problem?” “I’m taking you and Bree to the house, and you need to pack for the weekend so let’s go.” He grabbed for me again but I dodged his hand. “The weekend, what?” “You’re staying with me, go pack.” I narrowed my eyes and started to turn towards Brandon, “Fine, hold on.” “Harper.” “Go away Chase, I’ll meet you in the room in a minute. Go find Bree.” He moved to stand closer behind me so I just sighed and gave Brandon a lame smile. “Sorry, apparently I have to go. I’ll see you tonight?” I don’t know why I asked, he actually lived there. A sexy smile lit up his face as his hand reached out to quickly brush against my arm, “See you then.” With a hard nod directed towards Chase, he turned and walked away.

The last cake in his hand, he turned to her. “Alexandra.” Placing the candle on the side table, she knelt to retrieve the cloth. “We missed you at the last few meals. But you could have asked if you wanted more.” She straightened, setting the cloth on the table, too. “I’d have sent them to you in the workshop.” He tilted his head, giving her a look so calculatedly innocent—his smile vague, his eyes deliberately blank—that she laughed again. “I’m going to tell everyone you’re a sweet thief.” The cake fell from his fingers and landed with a little plop on the carpet. “Alexandra,” he repeated and reached for her, dragging her into his arms. Though stunned, she went willingly. With their faces just a hair’s breadth apart, he hesitated, making her shiver with anticipation. Then their lips met—she couldn’t tell who closed the gap—and her heart rolled over in her chest. The way they were pressed together from shoulder down to navel seemed incredibly intimate and thrilling—and very different from the friendly or sisterly sort of embrace she was used to. She could feel the searing heat of his skin through the fine fabric of his dressing gown. He wrapped his arms around her back. She buried her hands in his soft hair. He tasted of sugar and chocolate and Tris, a deliciously sweet combination. No, make that dangerously sweet. It took a herculean effort to retreat the barest inch. “We cannot,” she whispered. The look he gave her was so odd and intense, it seemed to go right through her. “I—I need to go back to my room,” she stammered, removing herself from his arms. When he didn’t reply, she added, “I’m sorry,” even though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. He nodded, his lips curving in a sad almost-smile. “We should both go back to our rooms,” she said more firmly. “Good night.” “’Night,” he echoed and turned to exit the far end of the room. Almost against her will, she followed him to the doorway and watched him slowly traverse the long length of the torchlit great hall, standing there until he disappeared into the dark corridor that led to the guest chambers. He didn’t look back. She released a long, shuddering breath before retrieving her candle

Pixie lay in a basket by the fire where a dozen brown and white puppies wriggled around her.  She had surprised us by getting pregnant very soon after moving back in with us, and the puppies were just under four-weeks-old now. We couldn’t have been more thrilled, and Bandit couldn’t have been a better dad.  He seemed to have endless patience as they climbed all over him, these wriggling furballs of energy.  Literally everything excited them.   Sully kneeled down beside me to pet the nearest pup, one with a big brown patch over one eye and a butt that never quit shaking.   “Have you got names for them yet?”  I pointed at the one in his hand while Bandit said.  “That’s Patch” “Because of his eye, obviously,” I filled in. Hearing the name, Patch suddenly squirmed out of his hands and bolted for Bandit, but his little paws couldn’t quite get purchase on the new floor and he skidded all the way to Bandit who he bumped into, coming to a sudden stop.  Shaking his head, he looked up at Bandit with intelligent eyes, then sat, waiting for further instructions.  Sully and I shared a look.   They were too young to know their names or much more than that, but it definitely seemed that Patch had known his name and was now waiting for Bandit to begin a game or something.  I pointed at a different puppy, one with a white shape on his rump.   “That one’s Star.” Bandit said. The minute the iPad said his name, Star’s head shot up, then he too bounded over to sit beside his brother.  Sully’s mouth fell open.  “No way…. They’re too young to behave like this.” Feeling a wave of excitement, I watched as Bandit finished calling his kids.   “Panda, Ace, Champ…” As he called their names, each puppy jumped to attention, coming to sit in a neat row in front of Bandit until all twelve of them were in a line in front of him.   I snapped a look at Bandit.  “Did you know about this? Did you know they were super smart too?”  He snorted out of his nose, laughing at our shock.  Sully and I looked at each other, the same startled expression in our eyes. “But…” was all Sully could say.  I at least managed two whole words before the full ramifications of an entire household of super smart dogs could hit me. “Oh boy.

I was never a child; I never had a childhood. I cannot count among my memories warm, golden days of childish intoxication, long joyous hours of innocence, or the thrill of discovering the universe anew each day. I learned of such things later on in life from books. Now I guess at their presence in the children I see. I was more than twenty when I first experienced something similar in my self, in chance moments of abandonment, when I was at peace with the world. Childhood is love; childhood is gaiety; childhood knows no cares. But I always remember myself, in the years that have gone by, as lonely, sad, and thoughtful. Ever since I was a little boy I have felt tremendously alone―and "peculiar". I don't know why. It may have been because my family was poor or because I was not born the way other children are born; I cannot tell. I remember only that when I was six or seven years old a young aunt of mind called me [i]vecchio[/i]―"old man," and the nickname was adopted by all my family. Most of the time I wore a long, frowning face. I talked very little, even with other children; compliments bored me; baby-talk angered me. Instead of the noisy play of the companions of my boyhood I preferred the solitude of the most secluded corners of our dark, cramped, poverty-stricken home. I was, in short, what ladies in hats and fur coats call a "bashful" or a "stubborn" child; and what our women with bare heads and shawls, with more directness, call a [i]rospo[/i]―a "toad." They were right. I must have been, and I was, utterly unattractive to everybody. I remember, too, that I was well aware of the antipathy I aroused. It made me more "bashful," more "stubborn," more of a "toad" than ever. I did not care to join in the games played by other boys, but preferred to stand apart, watching them with jealous eyes, judging them, hating them. It wasn't envy I felt at such times: it was contempt; it was scorn. My warfare with men had begun even then and even there. I avoided people, and they neglected me. I did not love them, and they hated me. At play in the parks some of the boys would chase me; others would laugh at me and call me names. At school they pulled my curls or told the teachers tales about me. Even on my grandfather's farm in the country peasant brats threw stones at me without provocation, as if they felt instinctively that I belonged to some other breed.

I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! Let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole-pointed prow, - death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!" The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove; - ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope's final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths. For an instant, the tranced boat's crew stood still; then turned. "The ship? Great God, where is the ship?" Soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous Fata Morgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by infatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the pagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea. And now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its crew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning, animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the smallest chip of the Pequod out of sight. But as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the sunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag, which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying billows they almost touched; - at that instant, a red arm and a hammer hovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the flag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar. A sky-hawk that tauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home among the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding Tashtego there; this bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between the hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial thrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his hammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic shrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive form folded in the flag of Ahab, went down with his ship, which, like Satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it. Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.

But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me.I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Stroeve’s action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognizes its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to its spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected that Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed.I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofiness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. lf he affected her at all. it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him. And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard.She washed his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and I know not what troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly, without movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and still she fled silently. and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy? Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind, and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad. She was desire.

Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume. "The ship! The hearse!--the second hearse!" cried Ahab from the boat; "its wood could only be American!" Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab's boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent. "I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole-pointed prow,--death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! THUS, I give up the spear!" The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the grooves;--ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope's final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths. For an instant, the tranced boat's crew stood still; then turned. "The ship? Great God, where is the ship?" Soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous Fata Morgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by infatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the pagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea. And now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its crew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning, animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the smallest chip of the Pequod out of sight. But as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the sunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag, which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying billows they almost touched;--at that instant, a red arm and a hammer hovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the flag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar. A sky-hawk that tauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home among the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding Tashtego there; this bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between the hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial thrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his hammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic shrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive form folded in the flag of Ahab, went down with his ship, which, like Satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it. Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.

She was just assaulted. How you act now will remain between you for the rest of your lives, do you understand me? Be kind. Be quiet. Listen. No sudden moves, no loud noises, no grabbing. Ask permission, you shithead. You follow her goddamn lead, got it?

We should also have insisted that the company invite other investors at that point, rather than our chasing the original investment so aggressively. Easy in retrospect, isn’t it?

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them.   As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful.  “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift.  The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness.  Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear.  The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold.

From the White House on down, the myth holds that fatherhood is the great antidote to all that ails black people. But Billy Brooks Jr. had a father. Trayvon Martin had a father. Jordan Davis had a father. Adhering to middle-class norms has never shielded black people from plunder. Adhering to middle-class norms is what made Ethel Weatherspoon a lucrative target for rapacious speculators. Contract sellers did not target the very poor. They targeted black people who had worked hard enough to save a down payment and dreamed of the emblem of American citizenship-homeownership. It was not a tangle of pathology that put a target on Clyde Ross' back. It was not a culture of poverty that singled out Mattie Lewis for "the thrill of the chase and the kill." Some black people always will be twice as good. But they generally find white predation to be thrice as fast.

After 55 years at the bar and a career as a law professor it may seem strange that I wouild write a novel. But the opportunity to spin a tale about hidden treasure, secret codes, midlife love, a life-saving dog and a thrilling chase through West Virginia was just too tempting. The Secet of the 48th Foot was too much fun not to give it a whirl.

His tongue rubbed over hers. She cautiously stroked back with her own, earning a little growl of approval. A thrill chased over her skin. Heat built between their bodies, melting away some of her anxiety.

If you didn’t know much about the Baudelaire orphans, and you saw them sitting on their suitcases at Damocles Dock, you might think that they were bound for an exciting adventure. After all, the three children had just disembarked from the Fickle Ferry, which had driven them across Lake Lachrymose to live with their Aunt Josephine, and in most cases such a situation would lead to thrillingly good times. But of course you would be dead wrong. For although Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire were about to experience events that would be both exciting and memorable, they would not be exciting and memorable like having your fortune told or going to a rodeo. Their adventure would be exciting and memorable like being chased by a werewolf through a field of thorny bushes at midnight with nobody around to help you. If you are interested in reading a story filled with thrillingly good times, I am sorry to inform you that you are most certainly reading the wrong book, because the Baudelaires experience very few good times over the course of their gloomy and miserable lives. It is a terrible thing, their misfortune, so terrible that I can scarcely bring myself to write

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.

I’ve always fantasized about violence, but the chase? Fuck me, the chase nearly had me come in my pants from the thrill alone.

Chase As performed by Nathan Avebury at the George and Dragon York, April 2016 I know I'm supposed to like the thrill of the chase, but - personally - I like it when the chase is over. I like the bit where no one has to go and get croissants for breakfast, or pretend they always have them in the fridge, and we just have toast, or Weetabix. I like unmatching underwear, and fuzzy armpits. I like being able to wear my old Hootie and The Blowfish T-shirt with reasonable confidence that no one is going to call a cab for me. I like the things that say: relax. We have arrived somewhere where we can both rest. Don't get me wrong: I like a bit of tension, a bit of fizz. I might not enjoy the chaise longue but that doesn't make me ready for the rocking chair. But I'll be relieved when you've seen my weird-shaped toes and that potential deal-breaker is done with. So maybe we could skip the chase, and relax?

No, not at all. Chase loves his aunt… I’m sure he’s thrilled she’s here.” Gaby sounded like she appreciated the gesture but Power had his reasons, always had his reasons. He needed just a minute, just a little time with Gaby alone. It was Chase’s day but he knew in the projected eight or so hours they would be there, he’d be a fool to not try to maximize his opportunities. Like he explained to her, he had an urgent need to connect with her on a deeper level, progress their friendship or relationship where she no longer felt out of reach, sickeningly unattainable… where acquiring her no longer occupied his thoughts in 30-second intervals. He needed to hurry up and feel the satisfaction of her belonging to him before life realized exactly who he was, remembered all of the wicked he’d done to the world, realized his intentions with her, and intervened…before the angel got lost with the devil. Because one look at Gaby and he felt a new drive, a desire to have his own. He had attached himself to different people for different purposes, protected them, did the worst of things for the best of reasons, for them; put his life on the line…for them, and even loved them selectively, like when it came to Rich and Sabrina. But they were never his own. No matter how much they tried to convince him of that, he always knew he was an extension to their family. But Gabrielle, she made him hunger for something of his own. He wanted her and anything that came with her...for himself.

As we look at the major acquisitions that others made during 1982, our reaction is not envy, but relief that we were non-participants. For in many of these acquisitions, managerial intellect wilted in competition with managerial adrenaline. The thrill of the chase blinded the pursuers to the consequences of the catch. Pascal’s observation seems apt: “It has struck me that all men’s misfortunes spring from the single cause that they are unable to stay quietly in one room.

It was the lust. That’s the thrill I chased. Lust. Pure passion.

GROWING UP changes one’s definition of what is fun — maturation does that, thankfully — so I hate to admit now that as a boy I thoroughly enjoyed throwing rocks at cars. It was a thrill to wait in hiding, ambush the car driving by, and then make our escape. Occasionally, a driver would stop their vehicle and get out to yell at us. But if we were really fortunate, they would chase us. We would run just far enough ahead to encourage them, but when they got close, we would turn on the afterburners of youth, leaving them far behind while we laughed hysterically. Once in a while, the police would come by — usually in unmarked cars — and the chase would be much more dramatic until we reached the ten-foot-tall fences at the end of the neighborhood field. To the police, it must have appeared as if they had us trapped. They had no idea, however, how practiced we were at vaulting those fences. We treated it like an Olympic event, running at full speed toward the fence and then leaping high into the air, grabbing the chain links, and allowing the momentum of our feet to swing us over the top and down on the other side. We would laugh at the police as we ran off, knowing there was no way they would follow us. Today I have great admiration for the police, who risk their lives on a daily basis to protect our lives, freedom, and property.

Women are huntresses until the day we die. Our perpetual thirst for the chase endures until our last breath. It remains while we are too focused on our careers to pursue love, when we have been burned by past relationships, and even when we are simply enjoying the freedom of being single. It does not miraculously vanish once we are settled down in a monogamous relationship – we merely make the conscious decision to remain faithful. But a lioness in a zoo is still a lioness. Romance novels are the remedy for our restless hearts. They invite us to explore and experiment within the safety of their pages. Every book is an opportunity to satisfy our unending desire to fall in love. They allow us to experience it all over again, right from the start: The intoxicating newness. The thrill of the hunt. The exhilaration of the game. The building anticipation. The worsening hunger. And finally, the fulfillment of a much-needed release. Each book offers a chance to achieve a state of blissful, glowing contentment… Until the next one catches our eye, that is.

nutrient. When you give your child a big daily dose of “Vitamin P,” you: •   thrill his senses •   help him master movement •   sharpen his thinking •   encourage his language use •   boost his people skills •   teach him about the world •   stimulate his immune system •   build his self-confidence •   improve his sleep Do you see why play is such a brilliant way to feed your child’s meter? Happy, healthy toddlers have their days filled with chasing, pretending, rolling, and tinkering.

Tesla was never one to chase recognition—he was after the pure thrill of discovery and creation.

Tesla was never one to chase recognition—he was after the pure thrill of discovery and creation. His imagination was a factory with unlimited resources, and the world an exciting playground with unlimited possibilities. He was excited to see men like Rontgen pioneer new fields of understanding, and was happy that his work contributed to the rise of other great men.

For man, a hunt is not always about subsistence. Often it’s the pure thrill of the chase that’s the foremost lure.

him. After a while he glanced back to see who was coming after him, but no one was there. His legs were longer than the others foals’ legs; maybe he was too fast for them. He slowed, breathing hard, ready to dash away at the first sign of a foal. He circled the trees for a long time, flicking his ears and listening for any movement. But slowly the truth hit him like a tail smacking an oblivious fly—no one had chased him. The thrill of the chase melted away, and he noticed his back muscles were throbbing from dragging his long wings.

The thrill of seduction is in the chase, rather than in the conquest. Those graced with an abundance of self-confidence seem particularly fond of being pursuers. Their strong self-belief increases the likelihood of their success.

I can’t believe you did this,” she said a moment later, and he noted that along with her irritation, she was gripping the steering wheel as if her life depended on it. That shouldn’t have reassured him, but it did. “Which part?” he asked with a chuckle. She gaped at him, then turned her attention back to the road. “All of the parts.” She drove on for another few seconds, making the turn onto the road that led down to the harbor, then suddenly stomped on the brake, causing him to brace a quick hand on the dash. She jerked the truck to the side of the road and came to a full stop before turning to him, her expression urgent. “Did something happen? To your family? Cooper, don’t even think about not--” “What?” he asked, honestly surprised by the sudden barrage, and more so by the clear concern in her eyes. “Your family,” she repeated, as if he was a bit slow. And maybe he was. About a lot of things. “I was just thinking I can’t imagine them being thrilled with you taking off like this, halfway around the world no less, leaving them shorthanded and--then I thought, oh no, something must have happened, because why else would you--” She broke off, shook her head, and seemed to look sightlessly at her hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Because why else would I what?” She finally looked at him, and along with that goodly dose of agitation and not a little honest confusion, he saw that sliver of vulnerability again. “Because what else would cause a man I knew to be perfectly sane and fully committed to running one of the biggest cattle stations in the Northern Territory alongside his big, loud, boisterous, and very close-knit and beloved family--to up and run halfway around the world chasing after a…after--” “You?” She blinked, closed her mouth, opened it again, then simply shook her head and looked away.

I was just thinking I can’t imagine them being thrilled with you taking off like this, halfway around the world no less, leaving them shorthanded and--then I thought, oh no, something must have happened, because why else would you--” She broke off, shook her head, and seemed to look sightlessly at her hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Because why else would I what?” She finally looked at him, and along with that goodly dose of agitation and not a little honest confusion, he saw that sliver of vulnerability again. “Because what else would cause a man I knew to be perfectly sane and fully committed to running one of the biggest cattle stations in the Northern Territory alongside his big, loud, boisterous, and very close-knit and beloved family--to up and run halfway around the world chasing after a…after--” “You?

They landed in a field with a light dusting of snow. “Middle of nowhere?” Elysia said, looking around. “Interesting choice.” “No waaaay!” Thrilled, Ferbus broke from the group and started running toward a series of objects on the horizon. Driggs snickered. “This should be fun.” As they got closer to Ferbus’s shouts of glee, the forms that had made no sense at a distance began to take shape into something that made even less sense: stacks of old automobiles, seemingly dropped from space but arranged in an undeniable pattern. “Carhenge!” Ferbus jubilantly danced through the pillars, taking it all in. “Man, you hear about it, you dream about the day you might get to see it, but it’s even better than I imagined!” Elysia blinked. “What is Carhenge?” “Don’t you get it?” said Ferbus, the grin still on his face. “It’s like Stonehenge.” He pointed. “But with cars.” The Juniors stared at him. Bang coughed. “Well,” said Uncle Mort after a moment, “as riveting as”—he consulted his atlas—“rural Nebraska is, it’s probably best that we keep moving.” Ferbus’s face fell. “But the gift shop.” Uncle Mort rubbed his temples. “Tell you what, next time we’re being chased by a murderous criminal, I’ll try to schedule in a little more time for sightseeing.” He formed the Juniors back into a circle. “Let’s not assign a designated driver this time. We’ll scythe, and whoever thinks of something first, somewhere farther east—that’s where we’ll go. Ready?” *** This time around they were greeted by the stoic faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln, all wearing caps of snow. “Ooh, Mount Rushmore,” Ferbus said bitterly. “Because dead presidents are so much more fascinating than the subtle, delicate art of automotive sculpture.” “East!” Uncle Mort said, exasperated. “Not north!

Excitement buzzed over her skin, caressing her body with a thrill of anticipation. The amount of sizzling chemistry dancing between them was enough to burn down a bed…or two. She

So why hasn’t some lucky woman snatched you up yet?” I ask again. “I have issues.” He chuckles, but then he sobers. “I do have some trust issues. And, while I am in remission, I live each day knowing I could get sick again. I don’t like wasting time because it’s one of the only things in life we can’t get more of. So, I know I’m moving really fast and I’m probably scaring the shit out of you, but that’s how I roll. I love hard when I love, and I hope you’re okay with that.” I scoff. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with me when you just met me. I’d have to call you a liar.” “No, I’m not in love with you…yet. But for the first time in a long time, I want to chase this feeling and see where it goes.” “So, I’m the chasee, huh?” I ask. My heart thrills at the idea of it. “Oh, I plan to chase you. Provided that you’d welcome my advances.” His hand slides up and tickles the back of my knee, and I’d welcome just about any advances he wants to lay on me. “Just one more thing,” he says. “What?” I ask. “Once I fall in love with you, don’t ever cheat on me. If you want to be done with me, tell me. But don’t lie to me or cheat on me. It’ll make me hate you. And all I want to do is love you. Someday. When we’re both ready.” I’m ready now. But at the same time I’m not. “Deal,” I say.

As we look at the major acquisitions that others made during 1982, our reaction is not envy, but relief that we were non-participants. For in many of these acquisitions, managerial intellect wilted in competition with managerial adrenaline. The thrill of the chase blinded the pursuers to the consequences of the catch. Pascal’s observation seems apt: “It has struck me that all men’s

I have fun all the time. I am the epitome of fun." He grabbed a coke from the counter and laughed. "Whatever you say, Firecracker." "Firecracker? Why Firecracker?" she asked, ignoring the giddy thrill the nickname gave her. "'Cause you're all wrapped up, just waiting for someone to light your fuse and make you heat up, start to lose control and finally, explode," he said, grinning as he popped his coke lid and took a swig. "And you think that someone's going to be you?" she asked. "I like my odds," he said. -Katie & Chase

he was enjoying this—the thrill of the chase, the undercover con, the adrenaline high.

Word Silence" There's a flame like the flame of fucking that longs to be put out: words are filings drawn toward a vast magnetic silence. The loins ask their usual question concerning loneliness. The answer is always a mountaintop erasing itself in a cloud. It's as if the mind keeps flipping a coin with a lullaby on one side and a frightening thrill on the other, and if it lands it's back in the air at once. A word can rub itself rosy against its cage of context, starting a small fire in the sentence and trapping for a moment the twin scents of now and goodbye. The sexual mimicry always surprises me: the long dive the talky mind makes into the pleasures of its native dark. Like pain, such joy is locked in forgetfulness, and the prisoner must shout for freedom again and again. Is that what breaks the sentences apart and spreads their embers in a cooling silence? The pen lies in the bleach of sunlight fallen on the desk, ghost-sheet of a bed turned back. If I look for a long time into its wordlessness, I can see the vestiges of something that I knew dissolving. Something that I no longer know. And there I sleep like an innocent

Customer Review 5.0 out of 5 starsA crime adventure story for the car enthusiast! ByAmazon Customeron March 9, 2016 Format: Kindle Edition This is a fast-paced story with surprising complexity from a first-time author. The story takes the reader on a thrilling journey across the globe that includes South Africa, Namibia, Singapore, Sri Lanka, England and France as a top racing driver finds himself inadvertently intertwined with criminals. The author's. attention to the detail of the cars in the story almost makes them characters themselves! He is clearly a car enthusiast with a real talent for crime writing. This book will appeal to anybody who loves a rollicking crime story, but especially to those who love their cars, motor racing and car chases!

It turned out that somebody had reported a suspicious person on the beach, remember when they used to come in fishing-boats, the illegals, and thanks to that anonymous telephone call there were now fifty-seven uniformed constables combing the beach, their flashlights swinging crazily in the dark, constables from as far away as Hastings Eastbourne Bexhill-upon-Sea, even a deputation from Brighton because nobody wanted to miss the fun, the thrill of the chase.

With dopamine it’s the craving; that’s the thing that drives you, not the actual shoe. It’s the chase – the thrill of the hunt driven on by cues in the environment that predict the next shoe around the corner. Dopamine does not always generate pleasure but impels you to seek rewards. You can be a very unhappy addict. If,

You are being nonsensical, Benjamin. Why are you wearing those clothes?” “Because I did not want my pocket picked, today of all days.” His tone was sober enough that she glanced over at him in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.” “I’m carrying valuables for my lady.” He withdrew a little box from an inside pocket, and Maggie’s heart started trotting around nervously in her rib cage. “Benjamin, what are you about?” “Come.” He took her by the wrist and led her to a low stone wall circling a fountain. “I want to do this properly.” Foreboding mixed with an odd, sentimental thrill as Maggie seated herself on the stone wall. Benjamin took the place beside her, his expression still somber. He flipped open the box, withdrew a gorgeous emerald ring, and tucked the box out of sight again. “With this ring, I plight thee my troth, Maggie Windham.” She watched, dumbstruck, while he took her hand and slid the ring onto the appropriate finger. It was the stone she had picked out—she was almost sure of it—but the setting was nothing she recognized. “You should not be doing this.” She stared at the golden love knot crafted into the setting, stared at it until a teardrop splattered onto the back of her hand. “Oh, Benjamin, this is foolishness. We are not engaged, not truly.” He folded her into his embrace, resting his cheek against her temple. “It has been two weeks, Maggie, or nearly so. I think we are truly engaged.” She shook her head and tried to draw back, but he did not let her go. “I am not with child.” “Your menses have started then?” And still he did not let her go, but damn him, he understood her well enough to make a direct inquiry. “Not yet, but they will. I can feel it.” She would will it to happen, of that she was certain. No woman could conceive a child with this much tension and anxiety swirling in her vitals. “Then we’re still engaged.” “Must you be so stubborn?” He let her go and pulled back far enough to aim a look at her that asked silent, pointed questions about who was being stubborn with whom. “I got a ring for myself, too,” he said. “It’s not fashionable, but my parents observed this custom, and I noted yours do, as well.” “You don’t miss much of anything, do you?” He passed her a gold band that would have been plain, except it was chased with a swirling, interlocking pattern reminiscent of the love knot. “You don’t have to say the words, Maggie, but if you’d oblige me?” He held out his hand, and Maggie felt her heart—already fractured into a hundred sharp, miserable pieces—splinter further. Wordlessly, she took the ring from him and slid it onto the fourth finger of his left hand. “This is not a real engagement, Benjamin Portmaine. I wish it could be, but it cannot.” He kissed her, a sweet, gentle, heartrendingly tender pressing of his lips over hers. “It’s real to me, Maggie Windham. In this moment, sitting here with you, I am betrothed to the only woman I’ve ever wanted for my countess, my wife, and my love.” She

I was just thinking I can’t imagine them being thrilled with you taking off like this, halfway around the world no less, leaving them shorthanded and--then I thought, oh no, something must have happened, because why else would you--” She broke off, shook her head, and seemed to look sightlessly at her hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Because why else would I what?” She finally looked at him, and along with that goodly dose of agitation and not a little honest confusion, he saw that sliver of vulnerability again. “Because what else would cause a man I knew to be perfectly sane and fully committed to running one of the biggest cattle stations in the Northern Territory alongside his big, loud, boisterous, and very close-knit and beloved family--to up and run halfway around the world chasing after a…after--” “You?” She blinked, closed her mouth, opened it again, then simply shook her head and looked away. A beat passed, then another. “So, they’re all okay?” she asked him anyway, back to staring at her hands. “Big Jack? Ian? Sadie?” She glanced at him. “Little Mac?” He lifted his hand, palm out. “All safe and sound, I swear. Last I checked anyway.” His grin settled back to a quiet smile. “The only one who’s lost anything is me.” She ducked her chin; then he saw her pull herself together. And when she raised her eyes to his once more, she was all Kerry McCrae. Bold, confident, smart, and more than a little smart-assed. Potent combination, that. Or so he’d learned. When she’d first come to their station, hired on by his father, Big Jack, as a jackaroo--or jillaroo, as the female ranch trainees were called--Cooper had told his dad and his two siblings that the American wouldn’t last a fortnight. A wanderer who’d gone a bit troppo more than likely, traipsing around the world for kicks, thinking station life was some romantic outback romp, was about to find out she’d bitten off more than she could chew. He bit back a grin at the memory of how she’d taken on Cameroo and every single member of the Jax family, wrapping them around her like they were a comfortable, well-worn coat. And the only chewing that had been done was by him, eating his words. “You know, a more prudent man might have wanted to use that newfangled thing called a phone, or to shoot off an e-mail on that fancy laptop Sadie was so excited about finally getting for her schoolwork,” Kerry said, more quietly now. “Find out if the other party even remembered his name, much less if she was interested in doing anything more with him than trying to herd ten thousand head of cattle all over the godforsaken outback.” “Twenty thousand. And you just told your entire town you loved Australia and its godforsaken outback.” She nodded but said nothing; there was not even a hint of that earthy, easygoing smile that was usually never more than a breath away.

All finished here?” said the waitress, Peggy, who’d been far from shy with her flirting.

No, not here,” he said. “My mother remarried and is living down in Australia. I have a brother in London, and my father is retired in Honolulu.

I'll always come for you.' Liar. Had he found a new obsession, a new girl to kill for? Or had he simply gotten bored with their games once he had a taste of her? Had it been that, the fact that he’d had her in some way, the thrill of the chase gone?

As it prowled through the forest, the Dogman felt a surge of exhilaration coursing through its veins. There was a thrill in the hunt, a dark pleasure that pulsed with each beat of its heart. It relished the anticipation of the chase, the moment when prey and predator collided in a deadly dance.

We're at a loss to explain it. It's a moment where I as a birder am reminded we know so very little. I'm not just okay with that; I'm thrilled by it. I'm thrilled that I can hear the sound of ravens, the bird geniuses, and have absolutely no idea what they're communicating. I'm delighted that I'm hopeless—for now—at puzzling out which little peep sandpiper is which. And that when something utterly unexpected happens, like a hovering costas hummingbird, running her bill up and down my calf because she's checking out my leg hair as potential nest material, it's more than just my skin that tingles with excitement. It means my whole life through, I'll still be learning something new from birding. Right until they pry the binoculars from my cold, dead hands. What a terrible, wonderful curse we suffer from, to find joy in chasing flying cigars through town, to witness the impossible, by the light of ordinary street lamps. What ridiculous fools we must be; what birders.

I’ve given you nothing but what you wanted, despite all that you knew I’d done. You still wanted me, Chase. You craved me as much as I crave you. You need me, baby. Like I need you. To protect you. To fuck you. To complete you. You may not be like me when it comes to dealing with life, but you secretly love the thrill of my darkness, baby. That's why you were drawn to the shadows. You get a kick out of it. It excites you. It turns you on knowing that I would burn down the world for you. That I’m watching you at all times. You love it, Chase.

The possibility of failing scared me more than the prospect of succeeding thrilled me. I was a scaredy cat. I didn’t want to get hurt. Another opportunity didn’t come along. In fact, I was too scared to even apply to anything else. So I just took the job I thought I deserved and went along with it. If there is one thing I can guarantee to you—your dreams don’t wait around for you to get to them. That’s why it’s called chasing a dream. We keep running out of time. Don’t postpone for tomorrow what you can do today. You’re brilliant, passionate, and hardworking. Run after your dream, Callichka. Or you’ll never catch it.

That statement makes this locale of depravity the last venue in which a Carver should be spotted and a temptation I couldn’t seem to resist. The comment about taming the wild that I made to Ty is my Achilles’ heel. I’ve lost so many years to numbness that chasing the whir and tingle of a rush is an awakening I covet. Whether it’s defying the foam and torrent of tumultuous rapids, confounding an adversary with a sneak attack, or dipping a toe into the forbidden, that jolt of electricity reminds me why I’m alive. Waking up makes sense again. So, for this one night, the Carver legacy can take a back seat to the thrill of debauchery. I’m all in.

just can’t keep myself from taunting him. It’s like skydiving. Liam Graves chasing me might be the biggest rush I’ll ever experience. A free-falling thrill of untethered fantasies. Too much of a high to pass up.