Toe Tapping Quotes

Phoebe tapped the toe of her sneaker against the dock. “There’s only one good use for a man like Heath Champion.” “Here we go again,” Molly muttered. Phoebe’s lip curled. “Target practice.

I look at people holdings hands in the hallways, and I try to think how it all works. At the school dances, I sit in the background, and I tap my toe, and I wonder how many couples will dance to ‘their song.’ In the hallways, I see the girls wearing the guys’ jackets, and I think about the idea of property. And I wonder if anyone is really happy.

Who's the young man beside you?" Helen suddenly asked. "Oh, I see, you're one of us." She turned to Nonie. "And you did introduce us before." She tapped a finger against her right temple. "Every once in a while this old clock up here forgets to click to the next second. I apologize for that.

I bet it’s easy for you,” Celeste said, as she examined her fingers and toes. “What? Flirting?” “Yes.” “Depends. There’s flirting,” Julie said, jokingly pushing her chest out, “and then there’s flirting.” She tapped the side of her temple. “It’s the second one that’s hard because you’re putting more of yourself out there.

You should climb around inside my brain, Dan. It's like this dark room surrounded by quicksand." "I know what you mean," her brother said quietly. "I hate being in my brain sometimes. I have to get out." "What do you do?" Amy asked. Dan shrugged "I go to other places. My toes. My shoulders. But mostly here." He tapped his chest and immediately reddened. "I know. It's stupid." "Not really," Amy said. "I wish I could do that, too.

...What’s the one superpower of June Elbus?” I thought about myself from head to toe. It was like being forced to read the most boring part of the Sears catalog. Like leafing through the bathroom accessories pages. Boring brain. Boring face. No sex appeal. Clumsy hands. “Heart. Hard heart,” I said, not sure where it came from. “The hardest heart in the world.” “Hmmm,” Toby said, tapping a finger in the air. “That’s a useful one, you know. Very handy. The question is . . .” Toby paused like he was considering this all very seriously. “What’s the question?” “The question is, stone or ice? Crack or melt?

I'm something of a bastard on the best of days. And that day was hardly my best.' Jean-François's gaze roamed Gabriel, toe to crown. 'Nor this one, I fear?' Gabriel tapped an empty leather pouch at his belt. 'Behold the purse in which I keep my fucks for what you think of me.

Sit tight, I'm gonna need you to keep time Come on just snap, snap, snap your fingers for me Good, good now we're making some progress Come on just tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue? Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Applause, applause, no wait wait Dear studio audience, I've an announcement to make: It seems the artists these days are not who you think So we'll pick back up on that on another page And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, swear to shake it up Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes

The driver switches the radio. Gloria Estefan starts singing ‘Rhythm is Gonna Get You.’ ‘Mom used to loooove Gloria Estefan!’ I sob, collapsing into Laura’s lap. I notice her toe tapping. The rhythm did in fact get her.

I place a palm at his chest. His heartbeat knocks rapidly against my skin. "I never would have guessed." "What's that?" he asks on a hoarse whisper. "That you're one of those netherlings who has a rare penchant for kindness and courage." "Tut." He presses his glove over my hand. "Only when there's fringe benefits." Smiling, I rise to my toes, grip his lapels, and kiss each one of his jewels until they change to a captivating dark purple—the color of passion fruit. I ease back to the balls of my feet. "So beautiful," I whisper, tapping one of the sparkling gems. Morpheus catches my palm and kisses the scars there. "I couldn't agree more."

Daemon poked me in the back with his pen. Lesa’s brows arched, but she wisely said nothing as I twisted around. “Yes?” His half grin was all too familiar. “Reindeer socks today?” “No. Polka dots.” “Sock mittens?” “Regular”, I said, fighting a stupid grin. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” He tapped his pen on the edge of his desk. “Regular socks just seem so boring after seeing the reindeer socks.” Lesa cleared her throar. “Reindeer socks?” “She has these socks that have reindeers on them and are kind of like mitten for the toes.” He explained. “Oh, I have a pair like that,” Carissa said, grinning. “But mine have stripes on them. Love them in the winter.” I passed Daemon a smug look. My socks were cool. “Am I the only person who is wondering how you saw her socks”? Lesa asked. Carissa punched her on the arm. “We live next door to each other,” he reminded her. “I see lots of things.” I shook my head frantically. “No, he doesn’t. He hardly sees anything.” “Blushing,” he said, pointing at my cheeks with the blue cap of his pen.

Sean stood there with a mischievous grin, hand still forming a claw. He’d tapped on the door with his fingernails to fool me. I slammed the door in his face. Before the latch caught, the door bounced open again. Cameron stood just behind Sean with the rubber toe of his shoe blocking the door from shutting. “You look like hell,” Cameron said. “I look like Sean.” is was a joke from my darkest memory. If Sean told me I was ugly, I could deflect the insult easily, because he was calling himself the same name. If Cameron told me I was ugly, he was also insulting Sean, and Sean would get revenge on him without me having to do a thing.

The driver switches the radio. Gloria Estefan starts singing ‘Rhythm is Gonna Get You.’ ‘Mom used to loooove Gloria Estefan!’ I sob, collapsing into Laura’s lap. I notice her toe tapping. The rhythm did in fact get her

I run to the water's edge and the cold ocean licks my toes. Without touching my face I can feel that it's wet with fog and tears and sweat. I stand there, on the cusp of the ocean and listen to its loud inhale. And then it recedes and takes everything from my childhood with it the porcelain dolls, the tap-dancing shoes, the concert ticket stubs, the tiny trophies, and the long, long swing.

He had heard it sure enough, wailing underground in clubs and speakeasies, all through Prohibition, hot, polyphonic, toe-tapping, full of syncopated rhythms and bent, naughty notes—perfect for small and secret spaces.

He laid his white right hand tidily atop his white left hand, on the tabletop. Smith smiled appreciatively, but still declined to come out to play. Septimus tapped the toe of his shoe on the floor. Tap-tap-tap: a foot tutting.

We are the only primates that can tap our foot or move our body in time with a specific rhythm. It’s wired into us, but not into our chimp or gorilla cousins, which tells us that it is a trait that like language, big toes, and toolmaking evolved sometime over the past seven million years.

At the school dances, I sit in the background, and I tap my toe, and I wonder how many couples will dance to "their song." In the hallways, I see the girls wearing the guys' jackets, and I think about the idea of property. And I wonder if anyone is really happy. I hope they are. I really hope they are.

I look at people holding hands in the hallways, and I try to think about how it all works. At the school dances, I sit in the background, and I tap my toe, and I wonder how many couples will dance to “their song.” In the hallways, I see the girls wearing the guys’ jackets, and I think about the idea of property. And I wonder if anyone is really happy. I hope they are. I really hope they are.

I look at people holding hands in the hallways, and I try to think how it all works. At the school dances, I sit in the background, and I tap my toe, and I wonder how many couples will dance to ‘their song.’ In the hallways, I see the girls wearing the guys’ jackets, and I think about the idea of property. And I wonder if anyone is really happy. I hope they are. I really hope they are. Bill looked at me looking at people, and after class, he asked me what I was thinking about, and I told him. He listened, and he nodded and made "affirmation" sounds. When I finished, his face changed into a "serious talk" face. "Do you always think this much, Charlie?" "Is that bad?" I just wanted someone to tell me the truth. "Not necessarily. It's just that sometimes people use thought to not participate in life." "Is that bad?" "Yes." "I think I participate, though. Don't you think I am?" "Well, are you dancing at these dances?" "I'm not a very good dancer.

I could come down for a couple of days, Daniel,but I'd like to bring someone." "Someone?" Daniel's senses sharpened. He leaned forward with the cigar smoldering in his hand. "Who might this someone be?" Recognizing the tone, Grant crunched o a corn chip. "An artist I know who's doing some painting in New England, in Winty Point at the moment. I think she'd be interested in your house." She, Daniel thought with an irrepressible grin.Just because he'd managed to comfortably establish his children didn't mean he had to give up the satisfying hobby of matchmaking. Young people needed to be guided in such matters-or shoved along.And Grant-though he was a Campbell-was by way of being family... "An artist...aye,that's interesting. Always room for one more,son. Bring her along. An artist," he repeated, tapping out his cigar. "Young and pretty, too, I'm sure." "She's nearly seventy," Grant countered easily,crossing his ankles as he leaned against the wall. "A little dumpy, has a face like a frog.Her paintings are timeless, tremendous emotional content and physicality.I'm crazy about her." He paused, imagining Daniel's wide face turning a deep puce. "Genuine emotion transcends age and physical beauty, don't you agree?" Daniel choked, then found his voice. The boy needed help,a great deal of help. "You come early Friday,son. We'll need some time to talk." He stared hard the bookshelf across the room. "Seventy, you say?" "Close.But then true sensuality is ageless. Why just last night she and I-" "No,don't tell me," Daniel interrupted hastily. "We'll have a long talk when you get here. A long talk," he added after a deep breath. "Has Shelby-No, never mind," he decided. "Friday," Daniel said in a firmer tone. "We'll see about all this on Friday." "We'll be there." Grant hung up, then leaning against the doorjamb, laughed until he hurt. That should keep the old boy on his toes until Friday, Grant thought. Still grinning, he headed for the stairs. He'd work until dark-until Gennie.

When Jennah starts to sing, I feel the goose pimples rise on my arms. I haven’t heard her sing this piece with the orchestra before. Her voice is strong and pure, resonating through the hall. She sways forward onto her toes and gazes out to the back of the concert hall, her eyes bright. The sleeves of her grey jumper are too long so I am sure I am the only one to notice when she taps her finger against her skirt to help her with a re-entry. I can almost taste her voice in my mouth. It is the colour of dawn. I want to run up and grab her and twirl her around. I want to yell, She’s mine! The sight of her, standing there, singing, makes me want to shout with joy.

No longer kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees on the hard wood of the gym floor, Aunt Elizabeth standing by the double doors, arms folded, cattle prod hung on her belt, while Aunt Lydia strides along the rows of kneeling nightgowned women, hitting our backs or feet or bums or arms lightly, just a flick, a tap, with her wooden pointer if we slouch or slacken. She wanted our heads bowed just right, our toes together and pointed, our elbows at the proper angle. Part of her interest in this was aesthetic: she liked the look of the thing. She wanted us to look like something Anglo-Saxon, carved on a tomb; or Christmas card angels, regimented in our robes of purity. But she knew too the spiritual value of bodily rigidity, of muscle strain: a little pain cleans out the mind, she’d say.

Taking her left hand, he began to slide the moonstone onto her finger, and hesitated. "How did I propose the first time?" He had been nervous, steeling himself for a possible refusal; he could hardly remember a word he'd said. Amusement tugged at her lips. "You laid out the advantages on both sides, and explained the ways in which our future goals were compatible." Rhys absorbed that with chagrin. "No one has ever accused me of being a romantic," he said ruefully. "If you were, how would you propose?" He thought for a moment. "I would begin by teaching you a Welsh word. Hiraeth. There's no equivalent in English." "Hiraeth," she repeated, trying to pronounce it with a tapped R, as he had. "Aye. It's a longing for something that was lost, or never existed. You feel it for a person or a place, or a time in your life... it's a sadness of the soul. Hiraeth calls to a Welshman even when he's closest to happiness, reminding him that he's incomplete." Her brow knit with concern. "Do you feel that way?" "Since the day I was born." He looked down into her small, lovely face. "But not when I'm with you. That's why I want to marry you." Helen smiled. She reached up to curl her hand around the back of his neck, her caress as light as silk gauze being pulled across his skin. Standing on her toes, she drew his head down and kissed him. Her lips were smoother than petals, all clinging silk and tender dampness. He had the sensation of surrendering, some terrible soft sweetness evading him and rearranging his insides. Breaking the kiss, Helen lowered back to her heels. "Your proposals are improving," she told him, and extended her hand as he fumbled to slide the ring onto her finger.

you bet yours on the gray!” Even in songs Ma did not approve of gambling, but her toe could not stop tapping while Pa played such tunes. Then every evening they all sang one round. Mr. Boast’s tenor would begin, “Three blind mice,” and go on while Mrs. Boast’s alto began, “Three blind mice,” then as she went on Pa’s bass would join in, “Three blind mice,” and then Laura’s soprano, and Ma’s contralto, and Mary and Carrie. When Mr. Boast reached the end of the song he began it again without stopping, and they all followed, each behind the other, going round and round with words and music. “Three blind mice! Three blind mice!              They all ran after the farmer’s wife               She cut off their tails with the carving knife, Did you ever hear such a tale in your life Of three blind mice?” They kept on singing until someone laughed and then the song ended ragged and breathless and laughing. And Pa would play some of the old songs, “to go to sleep on,” he said. “Nellie was a lady, last night she died, Oh, toll the bell for lovely Nell, My old—Vir-gin-ia bride.” And, “Oh, do you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?              Sweet Alice with eyes so brown,

Say you live five miles from the grocery store. When you need food, you hop in your car, and fifteen minutes later you’re buying groceries. One day on your way to the grocery store you get stopped by a train. You’re delayed five additional minutes. The whole time you’re waiting for the train to pass, you’re irritated by the delay. You forget the fact that before cars were invented, a five-mile trip to the store could take a whole day. “Or how about the student who’s working on a research paper for a class assignment. Because of a slow internet connection, it takes him thirty more minutes to look up and download the necessary information for his paper. He’s peeved by the delay. He’s forgotten that before the Internet, he would’ve had to motor over to the library, look up books in an archaic card file system, find the books in the library stacks, then search through the books for his information. A process that could take hours. “But the quintessential example of this phenomenon is the microwave. Whereas in the past it might take twenty to thirty minutes to cook or heat food in a conventional oven, the same outcome can be derived with a microwave oven in less than two minutes. Yet we stand at the microwave tapping our toe impatiently waiting for those two minutes to conclude, frustrated by how long it’s taking. “Which is why I say today’s world suffers from a serious case of the Microwave Syndrome.

Jasper’s boot tapped against the side of her foot. She met his gaze with raised brows. Look at me, he mouthed with darkened eyes. Did he not understand how difficult that was? Of course he didn’t. He did not feel overheated and confused when he looked at her. He didn’t struggle to understand why the act of pressing their lips together had created overwhelming feelings in other parts of the anatomy. Frustrated, she crossed her arms and looked at the passing carriages. The toe of his boot touched her ankle, then slid up along the back of her lower calf. Eliza froze. Her lungs seized, holding her breath. A shiver moved up her leg to unmentionable places. Wide-eyed, she glanced at him. Jasper winked. As indignation welled up within her, his tongue traced the curve of his lower lip in a slow, sensual glide. Her breath left her in a rush. Instantly and viscerally she recalled the feel of that talented tongue against her lips and in her mouth, thrusting deep and sure in imitation of a far more intimate act. Her breasts grew heavy and tender. The beat of her heart quickened and her skin tingled from her head to the place where his boot stroked her. It suddenly struck her that Jasper was deliberately arousing her. In the middle of the day. In the center of town. Seated inches away from two other people. His hand lifted to an unsecured button on his coat. Strong fingers grasped it, the pad of his thumb rubbing leisurely

Since my biographer may be too staid Or know too little to affirm that Shade Shaved in his bath, here goes: "He'd fixed a sort Of hinge-and-screw affair, a steel support Running across the tub to hold in place The shaving mirror right before his face And with his toe renewing tap-warmth, he'd Sit like a king there, and like Marat bleed." The more I weigh, the less secure my skin; In places it's ridiculously thin; Thus near the mouth: the space between its wick And my grimace, invited the wicked nick. Or this dewlap: some day I must set free The Newport Frill inveterate in me. My Adam's apple is a prickly pear: Now I shall speak of evil and despair As none has spoken. Five, six, seven, eight, Nine strokes are not enough. Ten. I palpate Through strawberry-and-cream the gory mess And find unchanged that patch of prickliness. I have my doubts about the one-armed bloke Who in commercials with one gliding stroke Clears a smooth path of flesh from ear to chin, Then wipes his faces and fondly tries his skin. I'm in the class of fussy bimanists. As a discreet ephebe in tights assists A female in an acrobatic dance, My left hand help, and holds, and shifts its stance. Now I shall speak...Better than any soap Is the sensation for which poets hope When inspiration and its icy blaze, The sudden image, the immediate phrase Over the skin a triple ripple send Making the little hairs all stand on end As in the enlarged animated scheme Of whiskers mowed when held up by Our Cream.

One finds oneself surprisingly supplied with information. Outside the undifferentiated forces roar; inside we are very private, very explicit, have a sense indeed, that it is here, in this little room, that we make whatever day of the week it may be. Friday or Saturday. A shell forms upon the soft soul, nacreous, shiny, upon which sensations tap their beaks in vain. On me it formed earlier than on most. Soon I could carve my pear when other people had done dessert. I could bring my sentence to a close in a hush of complete silence. It is at that season too that perfection has a lure. One can learn Spanish, one thinks, by tying a string to the right toe and waking early. One fills up the little compartments of one’s engagement book with dinner at eight; luncheon at one-thirty. One has shirts, socks, ties laid out on one’s bed. But it is a mistake, this extreme precision, this orderly and military progress; a convenience, a lie. There is always deep below it, even when we arrive punctually at the appointed time with our white waistcoats and polite formalities, a rushing stream of broken dreams, nursery rhymes, street cries, half-finished sentences and sights—elm trees, willow trees, gardeners sweeping, women writing—that rise and sink even as we hand a lady down to dinner. While one straightens the fork so precisely on the table-cloth, a thousand faces mop and mow. There is nothing one can fish up in a spoon; nothing one can call an event. Yet it is alive too and deep, this stream. Immersed in it I would stop between one mouthful and the next, and look intently at a vase, perhaps with one red flower, while a reason struck me, a sudden revelation.

Quote from "The Dish Keepers of Honest House" ....TO TWIST THE COLD is easy when its only water you want. Tapping of the toothbrush echoes into Ella's mind like footsteps clacking a cobbled street on a bitter, dry, cold morning. Her mind pushes through sleep her body craves. It catches her head falling into a warm, soft pillow. "Go back to bed," she tells herself. "You're still asleep," Ella mumbles, pushes the blanket off, and sits up. The urgency to move persuades her to keep routines. Water from the faucet runs through paste foam like a miniature waterfall. Ella rubs sleep-deprieved eyes, then the bridge of her nose and glances into the sink. Ella's eyes astutely fixate for one, brief millisecond. Water becomes the burgundy of soldiers exiting the drain. Her mouth drops in shock. The flow turns green. It is like the bubbling fungus of flockless, fishless, stagnating ponds. Within the iridescent glimmer of her thinking -- like a brain losing blood flow, Ella's focus is the flickering flashing of gray, white dust, coal-black shadows and crows lifting from the ground. A half minute or two trails off before her mind returns to reality. Ella grasps a toothbrush between thumb and index finger. She rests the outer palm against the sink's edge, breathes in and then exhales. Tension in the brow subsides, and her chest and shoulders drop; she sighs. Ella stares at pasty foam. It exits the drain as if in a race to clear the sink of negativity -- of all germs, slimy spit, the burgundy of imagined soldiers and oppressive plaque. GRASPING THE SILKY STRAND between her fingers, Ella tucks, pulls and slides the floss gently through her teeth. Her breath is an inch or so of the mirror. Inspections leave her demeanor more alert. Clouding steam of the image tugs her conscience. She gazes into silver glass. Bits of hair loosen from the bun piled at her head's posterior. What transforms is what she imagines. The mirror becomes a window. The window possesses her Soul and Spirit. These two become concerned -- much like they did when dishonest housekeepers disrupted Ella's world in another story. Before her is a glorious bird -- shining-dark-as-coal, shimmering in hues of purple-black and black-greens. It is likened unto The Raven in Edgar Allan Poe's most famous poem of 1845. Instead of interrupting a cold December night with tapping on a chamber door, it rests its claws in the decorative, carved handle of a backrest on a stiff dining chair. It projects an air of humor and concern. It moves its head to and fro while seeking a clearer understanding. Ella studies the bird. It is surrounded in lofty bends and stretches of leafless, acorn-less, nearly lifeless, oak trees. Like fingers and arms these branches reach below. [Perhaps they are reaching for us? Rest assured; if they had designs on us, I would be someplace else, writing about something more pleasant and less frightening. Of course, you would be asleep.] Balanced in the branches is a chair. It is from Ella's childhood home. The chair sways. Ella imagines modern-day pilgrims of a distant shore. Each step is as if Mother Nature will position them upright like dolls, blown from the stability of their plastic, flat, toe-less feet. These pilgrims take fate by the hand. LIFTING A TOWEL and patting her mouth and hands, Ella pulls the towel through the rack. She walks to the bedroom, sits and picks up the newspaper. Thumbing through pages that leave fingertips black, she reads headlines: "Former Dentist Guilty of Health Care Fraud." She flips the page, pinches the tip of her nose and brushes the edge of her chin -- smearing both with ink. In the middle fold directly affront her eyes is another headline: "Dentist Punished for Misconduct." She turns the page. There is yet another: "Dentist guilty of urinating in surgery sink and using contaminated dental instruments on patients." This world contains those who are simply insane! Every profession has those who stray from goals....

An upbeat song played over the loudspeaker, and everyone's attention focused on the Jumbotron above the basketball court. "It's time for the Bulls' Kiss Cam. So, pucker up for your sweetie and kiss them." The camera found an older couple in their fifties. The man pulled his wife, I assumed, in for a quick peck on the lips. "Aww. That is so sweet," Trina said. She proceeded to yank poor Owen to his seat in case the spotlight landed on them. She'd do just about anything to get on television, even if it meant not kissing Owen tonight to do so. "That is so staged," I said and sneaked a quick peek at my phone, seeing if he messaged me back. He didn’t. "Really?" she countered and slapped my arm. Once I glanced her way, she pointed towards the large screen looming above. On the screen was Sebastian and me as the camera had just so happened to find us. It stayed there zooming closer. And closer. And closer. "Come on," the announcer called out, prodding us. "Just one kiss won't hurt." He had no idea what he was asking. A kiss would initiate feelings I couldn't avoid any longer. I momentarily forgot how to breathe as the song, “Kiss the Girl” from the Little Mermaid hummed at my lips. Not the best choice, but still. Everything became much worse once my giant moved into view, smiling my favorite smile. Sebastian inched closer; eyebrow cocked to dare me."No pressure or anything." I was quiet for a moment before whispering, "Game on, buddy." My eyes closed a few heartbeats shy of Sebastian's lips meeting mine. His hands rose, cupping my cheeks to keep me from pulling away. Like that was going to happen. Sebastian’s mouth moved against mine, and I conceded, kissing him in return. He tasted sweet and minty, like the home I’d been missing. The kiss turned from soft and tame to fierce and wantingas if neither of us could get enough. And already, I considered myself a goner. Everything became a haze. My heart thumped so wildly against my chest, I swore Sebastian could hear. The crowd surrounding us was whistling and cheering us on, and it only kept gaining momentum as the moments passed. The noise quickly faded until it was as if we were the only two people in the room. We could have been the only two people on earth. "Okay, guys." Trina tapped my shoulder, garnering my attention. "Camera has moved on now." That was our cue to separate, and I slowly drew away from Sebastian. He, in turn, slipped his hand to the back of my neck, holding me here. "Don't," he sighed against my lips. I didn't budge another inch. I didn't want to. Sebastian rewarded me by deepening the kiss. Dear God. There were sparks. My stomach flipped. My toes curled. My body warmed. Every single inch of me only wanted one thing and one thing only. If this continued for too much longer, it was easy to guess my new favorite hobby: Kissing Sebastian Freaking Birch. Needing some air, I pressed my palm flat against his chest. This time he released me as we both were breathless. Sebastian's eyes carefully studied me. He kept staring as if he could read my heart, my mind. And for those brief few seconds, I honestly didn't believe there were any secrets between us. His gaze shifted as he gauged what to do next, and I had no freaking idea where we went from here. We'd done it now. We crossed that line, and there was no way of ever going back.

Everything is someone. Colours, cutlery, capital letters. A's complacent, B indignant, C tricky, D worthy, I can't help this, never could. The hot tap thinks the cold two's common, the cold tap thinks the hot tap's precious. I back out of my small bathroom peacemaking - you're both right for pete's sake - my fingers are clannish brothers with a secret, my toes a mum and her babies, my slippers hush me: pipe down they're trying to sleep, and yet the void's a void? Perhaps that's all humans do, fill the space with folks to meet... my own heart let me have more pity on...

I tap my toes on the floor, admiring the boots from this vantage, and open up my laptop. I’ll just take a quick peek at my Pinterest board first to see what else these boots would look good with. Everything. They look good with everything, I decide after a half hour of pinning. Which somehow ended with me pinning knitting patterns. I don’t knit, but Pinterest is a bitch that way.

His thumb found that spot, the one everyone insisted was magical. They were right. It only took a little tap, a soft stroke, and my eyes crossed, and my toes curled.

Fact was, it was a gorgeous, sunny day outside. The wind was whipping through my hair, cooling off my heated skin. I had Guns blaring on the radio... and a beautiful girl riding shotgun, tapping her toes to the beat.

Fact was, it was a gorgeous, sunny day outside. The wind was whipping through my hair, cooling off my heated skin. I had Guns blaring on the radio... and a beautiful girl riding shotgun, tapping her toes to the beat. Life was good.

Charlotte Bell was waiting in line at the coffee stand, not fidgeting, not tapping her toes, not looking at her phone, she was just there. Present in some indefinable but obvious way. Probably counting her breaths or reminding herself that the anticipation would make her almond chai latte taste better. She alone looked at peace amidst the disorder, as though she were standing in the eye of the storm.

The driver switches the radio. Gloria Estefan starts singing ‘Rhythm is Gonna Get You.’ ‘Mom used to loooove Gloria Estefan!’ I sob, collapsing into Laura’s lap. I notice her toe tapping. The rhythm did in fact get her.

His fire-hot stare blazes into me as he taps her hips and barks, “On the floor, Lilac.” She crawls away from him, climbing down to the floor to kneel at my feet. Then, I watch him as he walks around the bed, meeting me toe-to-toe. Did I say too much? Maybe Ellis isn’t into sucking dick and I just fucking insulted him? Although that’s not what my gut is telling me here. My gut is telling me I just invited Ellis Prior to suck my cock and that is exactly what he’s about to do

She gracefully dances her way with a well-timed running man over to fetch your falsie but decides to merely tap it with the toe of her black stiletto behind a large, potted palm. And there it lays- that guilty little bitch.

Wait... we... you... you mean... we...” I spray words around the room, taking out innocent bystanders with my abrupt enthusiasm. “This is huge! This is enormous! This is like the Godzilla of breaks. It’s the sort of break that destroys large chunks of Tokyo!” I stop, take stock, try and gain perspective. Punctured lung and all that. “Who is it?” I ask, unable to stop one toe from tapping.

This way,” Clyde says with more gusto than I think I could manage even on a good day and suddenly we’re whisking our way down a myriad of corridors, pushing through doors and security points. I tag along as best I can, feeling like flotsam caught in a wake. Eventually we reach a moment of stasis, waiting for an elevator to take us up. “So,” I manage to say into the toe-tapping silence, “who are the Sheilas then?” Clyde turns, a look of sudden horror on his face. For a moment I wonder if he’s foreign and I’ve somehow stumbled across a colloquialism that means I’ve slept with his mother.

With that jaunty tick of her chin, she darted around a chair and moved directly into his path. "You cannot frighten me with your scowl, Captain." "I was not attempting to either frighten or scowl. It is this inconvenient affectation, you see." He tapped his finger to his cheek and stepped toward her. She remained still but seemed to vibrate upon the balls of her feet now. She was a little slip of a thing, barely reaching his chin yet erect and determined. He couldn't resist grinning. "You don't look any taller to me standing on your toes, you know. I am uncowed." Her heels hit the floor. "Perhaps you take pleasure in playing at notoriety with this pirate costume." "Again with the pirate accusation." He shook his head. "You see no hook on my wrist or parrot on my shoulder, do you? And I have all the notoriety I wish without pretending a part." -Arabella & Luc

Oh yeah, and how do I know that? Because from where I stand, if you hadn’t stepped in, I think he might have.” He laughed. “Damien doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He spiked your drink because he was nervous—why do you think he backed down so easily?” “So that makes it all okay, does it?” I snapped. “Because he was too nervous to get laid for the first time the simple, safe way? That’s petty and sick...” Then something occurred to me. “But why me?” Brett dropped his gaze to his tan suede hiking boots. He paused and tapped a toe against the linoleum. “Brett?” I snapped, knowing he was keeping something from me. “I may have suggested he talk to you,” he murmured. “What? Oh for fuck’s sake!” “Damien wouldn’t have hurt you, Colt.

And that’s when I realize that ever since she came out of the bathroom, she didn’t tap one single time, not even her toes, and she didn’t stutter even the first time. That makes me feel all gooey inside. Gooey and melty and needy. God, she’s going to make me need her, and then she’s going to walk away. I can tell. ***

Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice carried straight into the darkest corners of the hall and straight into Ellen’s heart. “There is a slight misprint on tonight’s program. We offer for our finale tonight my own debut effort, which is listed on the program as Little Summer Symphony. It should read, Little Weldon Summer Symphony, and the dedication was left out, as well, so I offer it to you now. “Ellen, I know you are with me tonight, seated with my parents and our friends, though I cannot see you. I can feel you, though, here.” He tapped the tip of the baton over his heart. “I can always feel you there, and hope I always will. Like its creator, this work is not perfect, but it is full of joy, gratitude, and love, because of you. Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this work to the woman who showed me what it means to be loved and love in return: Ellen, Baroness Roxbury, whom I hope soon to convince to be my lady wife. These modest tunes and all I have of value, Ellen, are dedicated to you.” He turned in the ensuing beats of silence, raised his baton, and let the music begin. Ellen was in tears before the first movement concluded. The piece began modestly, like an old-fashioned sonata di chiesa, the long slow introduction standing alone as its own movement. Two flutes began it, playing about each other like two butterflies on a sunbeam, but then broadening, the melody shifting from sweet to tender to sorrowful. She heard in it grief and such unbearable, unresolved longing, she wanted to grab Val’s arm to make the notes stop bombarding her aching heart. But the second movement marched up right behind that opening, full of lovely, laughing melodies, like flowers bobbing in a summer breeze. This movement was full of song and sunshine; it got the toes tapping and left all manner of pretty themes humming around in the memory. My gardens, Ellen thought. My beautiful sunny gardens, and Marmalade and birds singing and the Belmont brothers laughing and racing around. The third movement was tranquil, like the sunshine on the still surface of the pond, like the peace after lovemaking. The third movement was napping entwined in the hammock, and strolling home hand in hand in the moonlight. She loved the third movement the best so far, until it romped into a little drinking song, that soon got away from itself and became a fourth movement full of the ebullient joy of creation at its most abundant and beautiful. The joy of falling in love, Ellen thought, clutching her handkerchief hard. The joy of being in love and being loved the way you need to be. Ah, it was too much, and it was just perfect as the music came to a stunning, joyous conclusion.

I’ve been thinking.” Tapping his booted toes together, he tilted his head on the cushion. “Thinking what?” Looking to the side, she clutched her coat a little tighter. “I’ve been thinking that being a country doctor might be a rather nice change of pace.” The tapping stopped. His body stilled. “What are you saying?” She looked at him. “That I’d go to Texas with you if the offer is still good.

Mother Mary wants to draft two more kids,” Astrid told Sam. “Okay. Approved.” “Dahra says we’re running low on kids’ Tylenol and kids’ Advil, she wants to make sure it’s okay to start giving them split adult pills.” Sam spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What?” “We’re running low on kid pills, Dahra wants to split adult pills.” Sam rocked back in the leather chair designed for a grown man. “Okay. Whatever. Approved.” He took a sip of water from a bottle. The wrapper on the bottle said “Dasani” but it was tap water. The dishes from dinner—horrible homemade split-pea soup that smelled burned, and a quarter cabbage each—had been pushed aside onto the sideboard where in the old days the mayor of Perdido Beach had kept framed pictures of his family. It was one of the better meals Sam had had lately. The fresh cabbage tasted surprisingly good. There was little more than smears on the plates: the era of kids not eating everything was over. Astrid puffed out her cheeks and sighed. “Kids are asking why Lana isn’t around when they need her.” “I can only ask Lana to heal big things. I can’t demand she be around 24/7 to handle every boo-boo.” Astrid looked at the list she had compiled on her laptop. “Actually, I think this involved a stubbed toe that ‘hurted.’” “How much more is on the list?” Sam asked. “Three hundred and five items,” Astrid said. When Sam’s face went pale, she relented. “Okay, it’s actually just thirty-two. Now, don’t you feel relieved it’s not really three hundred?” “This is crazy,” Sam said. “Next up: the Judsons and the McHanrahans are fighting because they share a dog, so both families are feeding her—they still have a big bag of dry dog food—but the Judsons are calling her Sweetie and the McHanrahans are calling her BooBoo.” “You’re kidding.” “I’m not kidding,” Astrid said. “What is that noise?” Sam demanded. Astrid shrugged. “I guess someone has their stereo cranked up.” “This is not going to work, Astrid.” “The music?” “This. This thing where every day I have a hundred stupid questions I have to decide. Like I’m everyone’s parent now. I’m sitting here listening to how little kids are complaining because their older sisters make them take a bath, and stepping into fights over who owns which Build-A-Bear outfit, and now over dog names. Dog names?” “They’re all still just little kids,” Astrid said. “Some of these kids are developing powers that scare me,” Sam grumbled. “But they can’t decide who gets to have which special towel? Or whether to watch The Little Mermaid or Shrek Three?” “No,” Astrid said. “They can’t. They need a parent. That’s you.

Oh, dear,” she gasped, pulling back. “I just thought of something horrible.” Nigel blinked a few times in confusion. “I don’t mean to criticize, Amelia, but that is hardly the reaction a man looks for when he first kisses the girl he loves.” She clutched at his cravat again, completely demolishing it this time. “You love me?” “Of course I love you,” he said simply. “How could I not? Now, tell me what’s wrong.” “My parents,” she said, feeling rather dazed by everything. “They’ll be furious if I reject Lord Broadmore. Especially for a man…” She trailed off, hating to insult Nigel. And, strictly speaking, he hadn’t yet asked her to marry him. “A man like me,” he finished. “Is it because I don’t have a title?” “Yes, and because you’re not rich. I know how awful that sounds, but you mustn’t think less of them because of it. Mamma and Papa just want the best for me.” He studied her. He didn’t seem offended, but he did look wary. “Are those things important to you, as well?” She winced, hating that she might have made him doubt himself. “No. Well, of course I don’t want to be poor, but I don’t need to be rich, either. And a title means little to me.” She huffed out a sigh. “I’ll just have to reconcile myself to the notion that Mamma and Papa will be angry with me for not marrying Lord Broadmore. Or anyone else, simply because they’re rich.” The tension seemed to bleed from Nigel’s shoulders as his hands drifted down to her waist. “And would you consider marrying a mere gentleman?” “Of course I would, but…” “But what?” She glanced anxiously at Gwen to make sure she was still asleep. Nigel waited patiently for her to respond. “What if my father cuts me off?” When Nigel frowned, Amelia’s heart sank. “Are you sure he would do that?” he asked. She sighed. “It’s certainly possible. I do hope that wouldn’t...” He leaned down to press a swift kiss on her lips. “My dear girl, while I might not be a nobleman, I am as rich as Croesus. Your parents might lament the lack of a title, but I’m sure the marriage settlements will make up for it nicely.” She stared at him. “I thought your fortune was quite modest, by all accounts.” He grinned. “I rarely talk about money, but for you I’ll make an exception.” After he named a staggering sum, Amelia could only gape at him like an idiot. With a little snort of laughter, he tapped her mouth shut. “I do hope your esteemed father will approve,” he said. Amelia pressed a hand over her heart, right where a bubble of joy was expanding outward. “Oh, I think he’ll be able to reconcile himself to the notion. Not that I give a fig how much you’re worth, Mr. Dash.” Nigel made a great show of wiping his brow. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said in a voice warm with laughter. “I’d hate to disappoint either of you.” Amelia went up on her toes to press a kiss on his lips. “That, my dear, wonderful sir, would be quite impossible. After all, you are the nicest, most dependable man in the world.

Come in,” she called without thinking. The door opened, and Caleb stepped inside. “I want to apologize for last night,” he said, his hat in his hands, his expression as innocent as an altar boy’s. “The truth is, I don’t think we should get married.” Lily was beginning to get disturbing ideas about the rolling pin in her hands. His disclaimer came as no surprise to her, of course; she’d known he was an out-and-out scoundrel all along. “Oh?” “We’d do nothing but fight. And make love, of course. I think we’d better just stay away from each other from now on.” Lily had prayed to hear these words that very morning. So why did they hurt so much? “What if I’m pregnant?” Caleb shrugged as though they were talking about the possibility of a splinter or a stubbed toe. “I’d take care of you both, of course.” “Like you took care of Bianca, I suppose.” Caleb’s grin was infuriating. “Yes.” Lily began tapping her palm with the rolling pin. “But you don’t think we should be married.” “Absolutely not,” Caleb replied firmly. “What if I think we should be?” He grinned. “If you propose to me, Lily-flower, I might reconsider. You’d have to be suitably humble, of course.” Lily made a strangled sound of rage and rounded the table, wielding the rolling pin like a battle ax. Caleb easily wrested it from her hand and tossed it aside before pulling her into his arms. She squirmed, but there was no escaping, and when he caught her chin in one hand and forced her head back for his kiss she was lost. When it was over, and Lily was breathless, Caleb set her away from him. “When you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Lily glared up at him. “I’ll dance in hell before I’ll come crawling to you, Caleb Halliday!” He laughed, more in amazement than good humor. “If I didn’t think you might be carrying my baby, I’d turn you over my knee right here and now and blister your behind!” “I’m not carrying your baby!” Lily stormed out of the house toward the woodshed, bent on getting kindling for the cook stove. Caleb followed, cornering Lily against a sawhorse, and said a possessive hand on her abdomen. “We’ll see about that in a few months,” he vowed.

She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at. “Stop it,” she says. I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?” “Stop staring at my fat.” “I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.” “Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused. She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.” “Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.” She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits. What? “Why?” “I don’t know how to take you.” I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not. “But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans. “No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.” “I didn’t mean to make you angry.” She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes. “I’m not angry,” I tell her. “Then what are you?” “I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for the first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?” She

The first time he tapped her toe she thought it happened by accident. The second time, she kicked him.

Do I matter to you at all?” My hand shakes as I brush my hair from my face. “What do you mean?” “Do you care about me at all?” he asks. “Tell me the truth.” “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I scoot to the edge of the sofa. “I don’t know how you feel,” he says quietly. “We don’t even know each other…” I begin. But I don’t know how to finish. “I want to know you.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Do you want to know me?” he asks quietly. “Sam…” He hobbles his way toward the door. “Sam!” I call, because I feel bad, and I feel like something important is about to walk out the door. “What?” he snaps, turning to face me. “What do you want from me?” “I want to take you on some dates.” He shrugs. “I want to learn about you, and let you learn about me. I like you. A lot.” “I’m not your kind of girl,” I say quietly. His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?” I point toward his pocket. “I’m not like…them. I’m just…me.” I shrug my shoulders. He hobbles back toward me and stops when he’s right by my face. With him on crutches, I come up to his nose. It’s strange meeting a man who’s taller than me. “I like talking to you,” he says. He points toward my sticks. “Even when you’re tapping, although I’d like to find out what that’s all about.” He kisses my cheek really quickly, and I can feel it all the way to my toes. I cover my cheek with my hand. His voice goes soft. “I really like kissing you. And I’d like to do it some more.” “But…” “But every time I call you, you don’t answer. When I come to see you, I can’t get past the front desk.” He throws up his hands. “If you don’t want to see me, please say so. I won’t like it, but I’ll go away.” I want to see him. I want to see him so badly. “Sam…” He

I feel a tap, tap, tap on the side of my nose and open my eyes to find blue eyes just like Paul’s staring into mine. “Hayley,” I say. I wipe my eyes. The sun is just barely up. Paul sits up on his elbow and looks over me. “Go back to sleep, Hayley,” he says. “The sun is shining,” she says. “No, it’s not,” he tells her. Then he reaches over me, grabs her, and pulls her over my body. She lands between us and snuggles into the spot. She closes her eyes and yawns. “Go back to sleep,” he tells her again. She rolls onto her side, facing me, and she looks at me for a second, her gaze curious but not at all sad or mad or any of the things I had been worried about. Her little-girl breaths are close enough that they fall on my chin and make me feel all warm and melty inside. Paul’s toes tangle with mine, and he pulls my foot to rest between his down at the bottom of the bed. He’s touching me. He wants to touch me. I extend my hand toward his head, and he adjusts my palm to rest beneath his cheek and closes his eyes. There’s a slight smile on his face as he falls back asleep. And there’s one on mine, too. It’s an almost giddy feeling of peacefulness. I never imagined peace to come with quite so much bemusement. But it has. And I like it.

Some day,” he says quietly, “do you think you might talk to me without tapping? Just me and you. No pressure.” The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been tapping the countertop, the back of the chair, or even my toe against the floor. “I…c-c-c-…” I close my eyes and try to squeeze out the word. “Can’t.” He grins. “You just did.” I

I would like to have somebody to take care of.” I cough into my fist. “Someday. Like Paul and Friday. And Logan and Emily. And Matt and Sky. And Pete and Reagan. I want to be a couple.” “You want kids?” She searches my face. “Yeah.” But I don’t want them tomorrow or anything. “I’m still undecided about kids,” she says quietly. I nudge her shoulder. “You like kids. I’ve seen you with PJ and Kit.” “Just because I like them doesn’t mean I could raise one.” She points to her mouth. Then to her tapping toe. “It might be difficult.” “Raising kids is always difficult,” I say with a grin. “Look at Logan and Emily. Emily was terrified one of their kids would inherit her dyslexia.” I tilt my head and study Peck. “Is stuttering hereditary?” She shrugs. “I have no idea. If so, I’m never having kids. Ever.” Note to self: research that tomorrow and never tell her the answer.

Phase 6: The Blessing You can do this final phase no matter what your religious or spiritual beliefs are. If you believe in a higher power, you imagine that you can tap into it, call upon it, and feel the energy of this higher power flowing down into you, through your head and all the way to your toes—you feel loved and supported. That’s it. It takes thirty seconds. If you don’t believe in a higher power, you can imagine that you’re rebooting yourself, fine-tuning yourself, or calling on your inner strength. Likewise, you feel this energy coursing through you. You’re now ready to hit the ground running to pursue your quest.

All right you guys,” I said, tapping my toe on the tiled floor and smirking at my guys through the mirror’s reflection, “time to admit it. Out of all of us, I’m the deadliest member of Poison.” Kai stifled a laugh as João straight-up chuckled in my face. “You have that all backward,” João said. “I do not,” I defended, pulling down my shirt and feeling freedom. Absolute freedom.

That’s where the trust comes in,” she said. “Close your eyes.” “Why?” She put her hands on her hips, tapping one foot until he obeyed. “Fine, my eyes are closed now, happy?” “Terrified” was a better description. But one final look at the crush cuffs had Sophie taking a slow step forward. Then another. She could do this. She just had to think of it as… an experiment. And maybe she was a little curious. “What are you doing?” Dex asked as she closed the last of the distance between them. “Just testing something.” She found herself marveling again at how much taller he was than the boy she’d first met, and took one deep breath for courage—then another to steady her nerves. When she couldn’t stall any longer, she tilted up on her toes and leaned in, lingering a hairsbreadth away, so he’d have the option of pushing her back if he wanted. He didn’t. So she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his.

Now, the fun part: Scold at the prop — point at it, tap it with your toe, and say “Bad, bad tissue!”, similar to telling a toddler that the stove is hot. Do not, however, look at your puppy.

Seconds later, a girl emerged from the stairwell, her feet barely tapping the floor. I stepped back, shocked. She wasn't a fifty-year-old lady. She wasn't my daughter. She wasn't Robert either. She was fifteen, if that. Her cheeks were the color of brick. I opened the door. She was wearing a rain jacket, and her hands were hidden in her sleeves. "Sorry," she said. "The subway was so slow. I got out at Ninety-Sixth Street and walked." Her voice was deeper than I would have thought. She took off a hat that looked too big for her, all flaps and flannel. She was long-necked, reddish-haired, and freckled, but olive in the skin, as if she'd been shaded. Her eyes were light blue, like ancient sea glass. She took off her sneakers without using her hands and then leaned over and placed them neatly by the door. They were flat as pancakes, with shoelaces that didn't match. She was wearing socks with white bugs on them. She curled her toes when she saw me looking. "You know they eat them in Thailand?" she said. "Oven-baked with green curry." "Socks?" I asked. "No," she said and the sides of her cheeks lifted into a smile. "Crickets on my socks.

Dad went back to the front, taking Jovie with him, and Kye cornered me. Backing me up until my ass bumped into one of the workshop tables. “You have no sense of personal space, do you?” Not that I minded. Especially when he trapped me there, planting soft kisses against my throat and shoulder. “We could try for a workshop-table-baby.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, making my toes curl. “How about it?” It took an extreme amount of willpower to not let his kisses distract me. “First, we’re not trying for any kind of baby while Dad’s here.” He grunted, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. “We could come back after hours.” My brows hiked into my hairline. “Why would we come all the way back into town when we have a perfectly comfortable bed. And kitchen. And living room. And the armchair that we still have yet to christen.” We shared a wicked smirk before I gave him a quick, chaste kiss and whispered, “I don’t want a chisel poking my ass while you fuck me. Not sexy.” “Armchair baby it is,” he sighed, like he was accepting the next best option. “Should I at least buy you a drink first? Soften you up a bit?” “Hmmm,” I hummed, reaching up to tap his chin with my index finger. “Well, if you insist. How about hot cocoa?” He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes, and I had to keep myself from getting swept away by his gaze. “I know just the place.” Kye donned his coat and slid his hand into mine. We made our way to The Bowl, ordered our drinks, and met at the windows where, almost exactly one year ago, I’d dabbed whipped cream off his nose. I reached up now to do the same after he took his first sip, because he still didn’t have the skills to drink The Bowl’s monstrosity properly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I accused, balling up the napkin. I’d never openly admit it was one of my favorite things. “Holly?” “Yes?” “Shut up and forking kiss me.” And I did. I forking kissed the big, Krampus-looking, kindhearted, funny, foul-mouthed, available all-months-of-the-year alien. It just happened to be another one of my favorite things.

She wasn’t aware of her foot’s nervous tapping until Rohan came to her and slid one of his feet beneath her skirts to still her drumming toes. “Hummingbird,” he whispered. “You’d better go now. If you don’t, I’ll end up compromising you in ways you never knew were possible.

I scooch my body over so I’m on the bed, and we’re head to toe. She’s lying next to me. “Sixty-nine,” I say with a smirk. “Oh. I’ve never done that.” “Hop on. Don’t be shy.” She doesn’t hesitate, and the next thing I know, my tongue is on her again and my cock is taken in by her magical mouth. I love the weight of her tits on my abs as she bobs up and down on me. I wrap my arms around her waist, and as much as I want to see what she’s doing that is making me feel so amazing, I love how I can make her wiggle in this position. Her body shudders again, and I wonder if she’s coming. I damn well hope so. I feel some combination of her hands, mouth, and tongue on me as she slides up and down, slick hands on my rock-hard erection. I gyrate up and down a little, rocking my hips into her. Our bodies press together in an explosion of sixty-nine heat and sweat and sex. For a moment, I pull her hands behind her back, forcing her to sit up and on my face. She’s hesitant at first, but I think my enthusiasm overrides any shyness she might have, and she’s twisting into me as she comes again. I know because she tells me, even though her words are barely a whimper at this point. She lifts her body up and off me, then kneels between my legs and pushes her hair behind her head. “D, tell me how you want me to finish you,” she says as she runs her hand up and down on my cock. I bite my lip. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck your tits.” “Well, I’m glad you’re not lying.” She looks down. “Fuck these things? And how would you do that?” I narrow my eyes. “You’ve never done that?” She shakes her head. “Never.” “So I get to take your boobs’ V card?” I exclaim. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it.” She lies down on her back and I position my legs on either side, straddling her upper body. I slide my cock between her breasts, and just enjoy the beautiful view for a moment. When I lean back with one arm for balance, I find myself fondling her clit again—instinct—but she grabs my arm. “Nah-ah. This is about you, now. This is about D.” Grabbing my cock, she pulls me toward her face and leans forward at the same time, then takes me to the back of her throat, leaving me nice and slick. She puts my cock between her tits and then presses them together. “You like that?” she asks, and I nod vigorously. “Very much,” I grit out. “Good. I like watching you do it.” Her eyes flicker with excitement and that turns me on even more. I press her boobs together myself and she grabs hold of my ass and slides her hands around my hips. It’s so damn hot and this is goddamn reckless abandon, and I feel like I can do anything sexually with this woman, like I’m free and she’s my toy and I’m hers, too. I pump my cock between her tits again and she lets out a moan that puts me over the edge. “Gonna come,” I growl. “Where should I come.” “My tits, baby,” she says throatily, and next thing I know I spurt ropes all over her breasts and neck. By some miracle, none gets on her face. When it’s all over, both of our hearts are racing. She looks down at her chest, and then up at me. “Wow.” “I would say sorry, but that would be a lie.” She touches a tiny bit of the liquid with her finger and taps her tongue. “You taste good, actually. I mean, I already tasted you before.” I laugh as I unstraddle her and go grab a towel. “I’ll let you taste me as much as you want, babe. By the way, let me just say you kind of look hot as hell right now.” “Thanks.” I wipe her off, wipe myself off, and then lean down to kiss her. I envisioned a peck, but it ends up being a long, lingering kiss that promises more. She takes my hand and I stand there for a minute, next to her.

Healthy Choices are the Way of a Healthy Lifestyle!!! If you work 9-6, then you should be healthier but there is nothing you can do in our busy schedule and yeah sometimes 9-6 desk job pretty much limits you from doing a lot of stuff including Working Out and Eating a well-balanced diet. Healthy Lifestyle always associated with a good diet and proper exercise. Let’s start off with some general diet(healthy breakfasts, workout snacks, and meal plans) and exercise recommendations: The Perfect Morning Workout If You’re Not a Morning Person: 45-minute daily workout makes it easy to become (and stay) a morning exerciser. (a) Stretching Inchworm(Warm up your body with this gentle move before you really start to sweat): How to do it: Remain with feet hip-width separated, arms by your sides. Take a full breath in and stretch your arms overhead, squeezing palms together and lifting your chest as you admire the roof. Breathe out and gradually crease forward, opening your arms out to your sides and afterward to the floor (twist knees as much as expected to press hands level on the ground). Gradually walk your hands out away from your feet, moving load forward, bringing shoulders over hands and bringing down the middle into the full board position. Prop your abs in tight and hold for 1 check. Delicately discharge your hips to the floor and curve your lower back, lifting head and chest to the roof, taking a full breath in as you stretch. Breathe out, attract your abs tight and utilize your abs to lift your hips back up into full board position. Hold for 1 tally and afterward gradually walk your hands back to your feet and move up through your spine to come back to standing. Rehash the same number of times in succession as you can for 1 moment. (b) Pushups(pushup variation that works your chest, arms, abs, and legs.): How to do it: From a stooping position, press your hips up and back behind you with the goal that your body looks like a topsy turvy "V." Bend your knees and press your chest further back towards your thighs, extending shoulders. Move your weight forward, broaden your legs, and lower hips, bowing elbows into a full push up (attempt to tap your chest to the ground if conceivable). Press your hips back up and come back to "V" position, keeping knees bowed. Power to and fro between the push up and press back situation the same number of times as you can for 1 moment. (c) Squat to Side Crunch: (Sculpt your legs, butt, and hips while slimming your waist with this double-duty move.) How to do it: Stand tall with your feet somewhat more extensive than hip-width, toes and knees turned out around 45 degrees, hands behind your head. Curve your knees and lower into a sumo squat (dropping hips as low as you can without giving knees a chance to clasp forward or back). As you press back up to standing, raise your correct knee up toward your correct elbow and do a side mash with your middle to one side. Step your correct foot down and quickly rehash sumo squat and mash to one side. Rehash, substituting sides each time, for 1 moment. Starting your day with a Healthy Meal: Beginning your day with a solid supper can help recharge your glucose, which your body needs to control your muscles and mind. Breakfast: Your body becomes dehydrated after sleeping all night, re-energize yourself with a healthy breakfast. Eating a breakfast of essential nutrients can help you improve your overall health, well-being, and even help you do better in school or work. It’s worth it to get up a few minutes earlier and throw together a quick breakfast. You’ll be provided with the energy to start your day off right. List of Breakfast Foods That Help You to Boost Your Day: 1. Eggs 2. Wheat Germ 3. Bananas 4. Yogurt 5. Grapefruit 6. Coffee 7. Green Tea 8. Oatmeal 9. Nuts 10. Peanut Butter 11. Brown Bread By- Instagram- vandana_pradhan

I know what you’re thinking, Mer” Noah murmured, his eyes on Mike McKinney’s name. “What?” “You’ve got that damn song in your head.” “Dem Bones?” “Yep.” “It’s completely inappropriate. But ever since we had that talk, I think of it whenever I think of him. How did you know?” “Because you’re tapping your toes in the rhythm of the song . . . and because it’s been stuck in my head for a year.” “I’ll sing ‘Red Red Wine.’” “Don’t you dare.

If a flock of chickens is without water on a hot day, and all you have to do to prevent them from dying slowly and painfully is turn on a tap, you ought to turn it on. If to do so you have to walk a few extra steps in shoes that pinch your little toe, you ought to walk those few extra steps.