Wrist Watch Luxury Watch Quotes

Mourinho was fascinated by luxury watches. He not only wore his sponsor’s brand – he collected watches compulsively. He maintained that you could not wear just any object on your wrist, stressing the need for something unique and distinguished intimately touching your skin.

With a regal inclination of her head, she said, "You know,I was positive you wouldn't want me to work for you either, and I tried to tell Mr. Weatherby that." She started toward the rosewood doors. "But he felt that when you realized I'm bilingual, you'd change your mind." "Bilingual?" Nick scoffed contemptuously. She turned toward him with her hand on the doorknob. "Oh,but I am. I can tell you exactly what I think of you in perfect Italian." She saw a nerve jerk in his tightly clenched jaw, and she added in a low,scathing voice, "But it's much more satisfying to say it to you in English; you're a bastard!" Wrenching open the door,Lauren marched across the luxurious reception area. She was punching the button to summon the elevator when Nick's hand clamped over her wrist. "Get back into my office," he growled between his teeth. "Take your hand off me!" she whispered furiously. "There are four people watching us," he warned. "Either you walk into my office on your own,or I'll drag you in there in front of them." "Go ahead and try it!" she raged right back at him. "I'll sue you for assault and subpoena all four of them as witnesses!" Unexpectedly,her threat wrung a reluctant, admiring smile from him. "You have the most incredibly beautiful eyes. When you're angry,they-" "Save it!" Lauren hissed, jerking violently at her wrist. "I have been," he teased suggestively. "Don't talk to me like that-I don't want any part of you!" "Little liar.You want every part of me.

Sitting in the courtyard, I watch the woman sweeping. I luxuriate in the sound of the bristles of her besom against the ground. She sweeps in an invisible pattern only she understands. I study her hands. They are blackened with chimney dust— not unlike the soft dust she’s now sweeping. It rises in a cloud above her, which makes me wonder: Where does it come from? The dust on our overworked hands and travelled shoes. The dust we inhale and cough into our handkerchiefs. The house dust, the road dust, the concrete dust, and cosmic dust. Where are they born? Perhaps they come from our aged bodies. We shed our skins like we shed our beauty— not all at once. And we walk freely on this blanket of dust without paying any mind to our ancestors, though we walk on them! Tread softly, for you tread on Yeats’s wrists and Poe’s elbows. You tread on van Gogh’s ears and Keller’s eyes. You breathe in your grandfather’s lover and the little girl you were when you were four. You smell them after the first rain in a long dry spell, or when an old lamp smoulders the bulb quite well. These all serve as reminders of our dusty secret: we are all dust under dust under dust. So next time it settles, remember to ask the dust!

LuXury Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Thirty Floors Above the Desert The Burj Al Arab suite was all gold and glass and impossible height. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Dubai glittered like someone had spilled a trillion dollars across black sand and lit it on fire. Zara stepped off the private elevator at exactly 11:07 p.m. Black abaya left in the Rolls downstairs; now just a backless emerald dress that cost more than most people’s rent and heels sharp enough to commit murder. Her hair fell in dark waves to her waist, still smelling of oud from the spa. He was waiting by the bar, jacket gone, white shirt open at the collar, cufflinks glinting like liquid mercury under the chandelier. Khalid Al-Mansour. Thirty-three. Old Emirati money mixed with new oil money. The kind of man who could buy a woman’s silence in seven figures and still make her thank him. “You’re late,” he said, voice low, amused. “Traffic on Sheikh Zayed,” she lied smoothly, letting her clutch drop onto the marble. “You said midnight.” “I said be ready when I want you.” He poured champagne, two flutes, didn’t offer her one yet. “Take the dress off.” No hello. No small talk. She liked that. Zara reached behind for the zipper, let the silk slide down her body like liquid sin. Nothing underneath except skin the color of warm caramel and a thin gold chain around her hips that caught the light every time she breathed. Khalid’s eyes went almost black. He crossed the room in three strides, backed her against the cold glass. Thirty floors up, the city sprawled beneath them like a toy no one else was allowed to play with. His mouth found her throat first, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. One hand pinned both her wrists above her head; the other slid between her thighs without asking permission. “Already soaked,” he murmured against her pulse. “Tell me, habibti, did you start touching yourself in the car thinking about this?” “Maybe,” she breathed, arching into his fingers. “Or maybe I just know what twenty-five thousand dollars an hour feels like inside me.” He laughed, dark and dangerous, and rich, and pushed two fingers deep, curling until her knees shook against the glass. “Look down,” he ordered, turning her face to the window. “Whole city watching you fall apart for me.” Dubai blinked and shimmered below, indifferent and dazzling. She came with his name in Arabic on her tongue and his thumb on her clit, forehead pressed to the cool glass, legs trembling so hard he had to hold her up. When the aftershocks faded, he spun her, lifted her onto the grand piano no one ever played, and dropped to his knees like a man about to pray to something far less holy. By the time the sun bled gold across the desert, the sheets were ruined, her lipstick was on his thigh, and there was a new diamond bracelet locked around her wrist that hadn’t been there at midnight. She left at 6:00 a.m. sharp, dress back on, heels in hand, city waking up beneath her feet. He stayed in bed, smoking, watching the door close. Same time next week, the bracelet said. She smiled in the elevator all the way down. Some cities don’t need love stories. They just need transactions that feel like sin and pay like heaven.