Look, girls know when they’re cute,” he said. “You don’t have to tell them. All they need to do is look in the mirror. I have one friend out in New York, an attorney. She moved out there after the school year to take the bar. She doesn’t have a job. I was like, ‘How are you going to get a job there in this market?’ And she’s like, ‘I’ll wink and I’ll smile.’ She’s a pretty girl. Whether that works despite her poor grades is yet to be seen.
He shook his head. "The next time I hear a women going on about how neurotic men are, I'm going to remember this. You tell me you like my body, and what do I say? I say, thank you. Then I tell you I like yours and what do I hear? A long lists of grievances.
She threw up her hands. "All right. Why not?" Why not?" Sure." His arms fell to his sides. "That's it? I pour my heart out. I love you so much I've got freakin' tears in my eyes. And all I get in return is 'Why not'?" What did you expect? Am I supposed to fall all over you just because you've finally come to your senses?" Would it be too much to ask?"...He'd begun to glare at her again, his eyes growing stormier by the minute."When do you think you might be ready? To fall all over me, that is.
The engine roared to life. He ran toward her. She shot our of her parking space. He rushed to the side of her car. "Stop it, Kristy! You're overreacting! Let's talk about this." That was when she did the unthinkable. She rolled down the window, thrust out her hand, and gave Reverend Ethan Bonner the bird.
I don’t think I’ve ever referred to any girl I dated as my girlfriend. I think that would freak me out. Even the girl that I dated for two years in college I don’t think I ever referred to her as my girlfriend.”“How would you introduce her?” I asked.“I’m just going to say her name,” he said.
Now, this is where I draw the line! It's bad enough everybody in town's going to be thinkin' I'm sleeping with a depressed, lice-ridden, hemorrhoidal foreigner who likes to be tied up and might be pregnant, although-since she's just about cornered the market on condoms-I don't know how that could have happened. But I will not-you listen to me, Emma!-I absolutely will not have anybody thinkin' a woman of mine needs a vaginal moisturizer, do you hear me?
I have seen clouds part for the sun. I have seen rainbows. I have seen flowers in the morning, covered in dew, and I have seen sunsets so brilliant with fire they made me want to weep. And I have seen Dan smile at me, his lips still wet from my kiss, and if I had to choose which sight moved me the most I would say it was that one.
Have you ever been so blindsided by a kiss you had to hold on for dear life to avoid toppling over like a sapling in a fierce storm? Yeah, me either. This was a first. It was no ordinary kiss. This felt like a revelation. Like a thunderclap accompanied by the soulful voices of a Greek chorus.
In modern times couples are more concerned about loyalty than love.
Spilling a Secret What its size, will have varying consequences. It’s not possible to predict what will happen if you open the gunnysack, let the cat escape. A liberated feline might purr on your lap, or it might scratch your eyes out. You can’t tell until you loosen the knot. Do you chance losing a friendship, if that friend’s well-being will only be preserved by betraying sworn-to silence trust? Once the seam is ripped, can it be mended again? And if that proves impossible, will you be okay when it all falls to pieces?
Michelle, since the first day I met you I knew you were the one for me. I knew that I would make you my wife. I love waking up to your beautiful face every morning and seeing you before I close my eyes each night. I love you with everything in me, and I promise to be the man that you need for the rest of our lifetime together. Would you do me the honor of being my wife?
How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.
Not only were my nerves shot, but my body was a traitor. I didn’t want to melt against him. I didn’t want to enjoy the feeling of his lips sliding across my skin. I didn’t want to like the possessive way his fingers dug into my waist or the way his erection pressed against me.
... because the Legs wasn't fearful of heights or swimming in rough water or Death itself she wasn't afraid to risk making a fool of herself. Maybe you think that's something of no consequence but it isn't - for making a fool of yourself, offering yourself to others to laugh at, to jeer, that takes guts.
James looked at the people around his table. He stared at each one of them as though he were looking at a magic-eye puzzle and he could see all of the different pieces and the colours but not beyond what was on the surface, and the more he tried, the depth, the revealing images, were kept away from him.
He faced Doug. His eyes were wet. "I am not one of your tricks, Douglas.""Of course, you're not.""That's what I feel like tonight, seeing you in there with all those bodies. One of a thousand nights. One of a thousand fucks. And fuck you for making me feel this way. And fuck you again for making me say fuck in this beautiful place.
She felt the cold blast from the sterile air conditioning on her bare arms and thighs, as she ambled down the center of the shopping complex's ground floor.The scene was a swirl of candy bright lights--the Victoria's Secret fuchsia signboard, signboards which lured one to purchase "confidence," or "sexual appeal," or whatever it was that was being advertised--the fluorescent lights in each store, contrasting with the shiny, black-tiled walls and eye-catching speckled marble tiles on the ground.One could lick the floor--the tiles were spotless, clean like the fake air she was breathing in, like the atoms and cells in her that were decaying in stale neglect.
You and your siblings are the most precious part of my life. And of all my children, you have the most potential to go anywhere you wish in this world – your test scores and grades have always been among the highest of your peers. But it’s clear now that you cannot reach your full potential in Syria.
Om is the things, Om is the ingredient, Om is the container and the content of this universe.
Om is that God of love. Like a loving mother Om cleans us of our clutters collected through many incarnations.
I am Not, but the Universe is my Self.
Talking to you is like talking to someone I’ve never met before. When did you become so competitive? When did you decide that you needed to win all of the time?’He stopped dead in the promenade and grabbed her hand, turning her to face him.He caught her by surprise. She leant her neck backwards slightly in defence.‘When I lost you.
When I’d remember this night in weeks, months, or even years, it wouldn’t be the sex. Sex would fade and so would the need to be filled with him, but right now I felt him inscribe his soul around my chest, and the reminder would be there with every beat for as long as I lived.
Funny how I keep forgetting you’re insane.” - Colleen O’Brien
Identify yourself,” Colleen demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.” - Colleen O’Brien
Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass.” – Faolán MacIntyre
His deep voice drifted to her through the crowd of women. “…my lady when she returns. Och, there ye are, Blossom,” Faolán grinned, standing up and taking her hand so she could ease back into the restaurant booth. “These lasses were just asking if I was a stripper. I told them I doona think so,” he said, his face clouded with uncertainty. “I’m not, am I?”The inquisitive lasses in question flushed scarlet and scattered to the four corners of the room at the murderous look on Colleen’s face. “No, you’re not, but I guess I can see how they’d think that,” she muttered darkly. “What you are is a freaking estrogen magnet.
Submitted for your approval--the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and thegorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room.” – Rod Serling
Och, lass. Yer going to have to not do that.” Faolán exhaled. “Creeping up on a man is a dangerous thing, and I confess I’m jumpier than most. Yer feet are soft as a cat’s.”“I wasn’t creeping anywhere, I was going to make coffee and this is my house, I’ll creep anywhere I like,” Colleen muttered with a petulant scowl. “But I wasn’t creeping.
You turn the lights on and off here and if you can’t sleep and want something to read there are books in the living room…” her voice broke off. “Wait. Can you read?”His chin took a slight tilt upward. “Aye,” Faolán replied, his voice cool, “in English, Gaelic, Latin, or French. My Welsh is a bit rusty, and I doona remember any of the Greek I was taught except for words not fit for a lady’s ears. I can also count all the way up to…” He looked down and wiggled his large bare toes, “…twenty.” – Faolán MacIntyre
Refusing to lean back against him, Colleen sat ramrod straight until they reached the road. “I guess I should say thank you for saving my life,” she muttered then turned and slapped Faolán hard across the face. “And that’s for you having to save it in the first place. And I’m not your woman, you big, arrogant, lying, betraying…faery loving…” She searched for the perfect insult and couldn’t find one, “…Scot.” She gave a very unladylike snort. “Happy now? That fiery enough for you?
One describes a tale best by telling the tale. You see? The way one describes a story, to oneself or to the world, is by telling the story. It is a balancing act and it is a dream. The more accurate the map, the more it resembles the territory. The most accurate map possible would be the territory, and thus would be perfectly accurate and perfectly useless. The tale is the map that is the territory.You must remember this.
Sometimes people who look different from you are scary. Maybe they are ugly. Maybe they are loud. Maybe theyare big. Maybe they are green. Maybe they are all those things. But you should not be afraid of them just because of how they look. You may find they are nice to you if you arenice to them.
On occasion he would think back to the fiercest passion it had been his pleasure to experience and reflect on what might have been. He would look upon the woman who occupied the opposite half of his bed and feel his life had not quite lived up to the promise of another day. These moments would be mercifully brief, or so he hoped.
If Audrey sensed what he was contemplating, her silence did not let on. He turned from the window and found her looking at him with a flawless poker face. It may have been attentiveness and curiosity to hear what he would say next, or perhaps she was expecting from him what women throughout the ages, often against their better judgment, had expected of men.
...the locale did not make him think of her, nor did most things. He felt no negativity about the time they had spent together, but simply did not dwell on it much. She had been a seat filler, memorable as the smiling face of a beautiful girl in the window of a passing train, inspiring a fleeting moment of joy and promise, immediately forgotten with the opening of that day’s newspaper.
Life was a swirl of mysteries, each one waiting to be plucked up and explored, but not necessarily solved. As the weight of responsibility bore down on a person, it could feel like a long list of chores leading up to the final one - figuring out how to die with dignity. But Quincy’s interpretation of his surroundings seemed a truer representation of life’s meaning, or rather, the lack of meaning other than to dazzle and delight and befuddle from cradle to grave.
Was happiness (which was perhaps achieved not by getting what you wanted, but rather, by obtaining what you didn’t know you wished for until it was in hand) a hologram that would continually change appearance with the slightest shift of perspective? Or maybe happiness by definition was a temporary state of being recognizable only in hindsight. It was impossible to catch what always managed to be overrun and end up in the rear view mirror.
For in America this season is decreed “family season”. (Eat your hearts out, you pitiable loners who don’t have families!) Melancholy as Thanksgiving is, the Christmas-New year’s season is far worse and lasts far longer, providing rich fund of opportunities for self-medicating, mental collapse, suicide and public mayhem with firearms. In fact it might be argued that the Christmas-New year’s season which begins abruptly after Thanksgiving is now the core-sason of American life itself, the meaning of American life„ the brute existencial point of it. How without families must envy us who bask in parental love, in the glow of yule-logs burning in fireplaces stoked by our daddie’s robust pokers, we who are stuffed to bursting with our mummie’s frantic holiday cooking; how you wish you could be us, pampered/protected kids tearing expensive foil wrappings off too many packages to count, gathered about the Christmas tree on Christmas morning as Mummy gently chided: “Skyler! Bliss! Show Daddy and Mummy what you’ve just opened, please! And save the little cards, so you know who gave such nice things to you”.
Playdate. (n) A Date arranged by adults in which young children are brought together, usually at the home of one of them, for the premeditated purpose of “playing”. A feature of contemporary American upscale suburban life in which “neighborhoods” have ceased to exist, and children no longer trail in and out of “neighbor childrens” houses or play in “backyards”. In the absence of sidewalks in newer “gated” coummunities, children cannot “walk” to playdates but must be driven by adults, usually mothers. A “playdate” is never initiated by the players (i.e., children), but only by their mothers.In American-suburban social climbing through playdating, this is the chapter you’ve been awaiting.
In French culture, the best way of buying time or getting off the hook entirely in a thorny personal situation is to claim that it’s complicated. The French did not invent love, but they did invent romance, so they’ve had more time than any other culture on earth to refine the nuances of its language.
The French have a penchant for absolutism, for thinking that things are all one way or all another, which is why their politics are marked by a general inability to compromise and why they tend to hold their personal opinions until the bitter end, even after they have clearly lost an argument.
When you’re used to being in dangerous situations, you develop a sixth sense about your surroundings, about where possible enemies might be lurking, how many steps it will take to reach the next corner on a dead run, the best hiding places if bullets start to fly...
It was his experience that life worked under the same guidelines as a capitalistic society. In order to get what you wanted, it was usually necessary to give up something in return. Sometimes gaining what you defined as everything meant losing what you most needed.
A tightrope walker uncertain if he could make it to the other side probably would not. A race car driver wondering if he was taking a turn too fast was likely to lose control. If a man feared death, whether his own or the taking of another's, death would surely come calling.
It was just a word. It took nothing from him. It made him feel only as low as he allowed himself to feel. His own brother used it in conversation habitually. But not in the same way - filled with malice, overflowing with insult. He couldn't tear his eyes away, shook with lust for retribution. Six little letters making one huge statement. NIGGER.
Something refused to come into focus in my thinking. Indistinctly, as though in a fog, shapes moved toward me and retreated just beyond cognition. But that getting a hold of things is the uncertainty. As the Tractatus says right at the beginning, “The world is everything that is the case.” It seemed as though the Mammy≈Divas® were just like Steve Jobs, trying to have reality bent to their own wills. Objectively, the iPhone was a muddle of mysticism and logic—breakable glass, non-ergonomic design, lousy battery life, lousy irreplaceable battery, lousy headphone jack, lousy virtual keyboard, lousy email, lousy memory, lousy lice, etc., etc, and an interface that you had to adapt to by pretending as an article of faith that no adaptation was required. The Mammy≈Divas® promised a seamless racial interface—eternal blackness ordered and majestic. They put a benign face on their lust for panoptic power. They promised to discipline and punish with pancakes.
Stop saying hurt.’ She turned on him; the wounded animal finally breaking free. ‘You fall over on the pavement, that hurts; you stub your toe, that hurts; you trap your finger in a car door, shit, that hurts. You did not hurt me. James. It was like you took a razor and pressed down hard in the tenderest place.
This person has hoped and dreamed and now it is really happening and this person can hardly believe it. But believing is not an issue here, the time for faith and fantasy is over, it is really really happening. It involves stepping forward and bowing. Possibly there is some kneeling, such as when one is knighted. One is almost never knighted. But this person may kneel and receive a tap on each shoulder with a sword. Or, more likely, this person will be in a car or a store or under a vinyl canopy when it happens. Or online or on the phone. It could be an e-mail re: your knighthood. Or a long, laughing, rambling phone message in which every person this person has ever known is talking on a speakerphone and they are all saying, You have passed the test, it was all just a test, we were only kidding, real life is so much better than that.
Before I could respond, I looked out the window again and as if in response to my thoughts, I saw Cooper walking up my driveway. My jaw dropped. I peeked around the kitchen doorframe. Mom was still lost to the television. I turned and looked out the window to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. No, it was really him. And he had a horse walking beside him. How clichéd could it get?
He nibbled on my lower lip again and pulled away, his breathing loud and labored. I opened my eyes and met two blue orbs so dark with desire that it almost made me lose all train of thought and strip naked. His lips were red and a little swollen from our kiss. And I'd be damned if I didn't want to nibble on his lower lip, too.
I can't stop thinking about what he felt like against my body, against my lips. I can't remember anything else, anything before that. And I realize in this moment that I've finally done it. That horrible, awful thing I swore I would never do.The frosting. The cigarettes. The blue glass triangle. The shooting stars. The taste of his mouth on mine in the hall closet. Gone. All I can think about is Sam. Matt is – erased. My whole body is warm and buzzing. Sam is smiling next to me, because of me. And I've never felt so lonely in all my life.
Don't compete with your friends to win a date with few beautiful girls, but compete to win few beautiful goals.
The modern man needs to catch on to the fact that women want to be treated as equals, but only when it suits us. the modern woman's fierce need for independence doesn't mean we want to pay for our half of a meal, or that we don't want a man to hold a door open for us. We still want to be looked after, but on our terms.
He kept glancing at my hair, and that meant one of three things; he was trying to figure out if I dye, he had never seen a ginger before in his life, or he was wondering whether the carpet matched the drapes.Martinez, Katerina (2014-09-25). Midnight Magick: A Romantic Witch Suspense (Amber Lee Mysteries Book 1) (Kindle Locations 202-203). Katerina Martinez. Kindle Edition.
He stared at the corner of the yellowed ceiling, at the spider web and its solitary occupant. “Why here?” he asked the spider. “You could choose anywhere instead of this house. I know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.” The spider said nothing. Come to think of it, Callum was sure the spider hadn’t moved even an inch in the last week. Maybe it was dead. Dead and crisp like the untouched wasp carcass on his window sill.
It feels like someone is gripping my heart and twisting it. It feels like I can't breathe. I shut my eyes tightly against the memory that is threatening to surface. I can't br
The thing is, Sara, writing's scary. You have to be prepared to go deep......And when your brain's shouting, 'No, no, no, I'm not going to think that thought; it's too dirty, it's too scary, it's too painful,' that's when you must make yourself think it and make yourself write it.
Apparently, we're all in the frame," I heard Harry murmur somewhere behind me. And I whirled back to him. Innate, irrational anger surged. Then stopped, dead - as I suddenly took in Handsome, Robert and Doc. They were all staring at me. They were concentrating, all resolute, all a tad furrow-browed… upon my face.Self-consciousness burgeoned. I gingerly fingered my and lips and my chin,"Am I drooling?""Your arse is hanging out," said Harry, not looking up from the forensics he was scanning.And so it was.Handsome, Robert and Doc averted their eyes as I, wishing I'd merely been dribbling, grabbed the back flaps of my breezy hospital gown, fully placed my back against the wall. Then, thinking better of it, dived hurriedly, carefully, back into bed.If Chinese Lady'd been here, she could've, would've, told me.I missed her already.
SWAT? For me?" Still trembling, one hand clung to the ambulance gurney, the other held a massive sterilised cotton wool wad under my nose."Tactical Support was busy. You got Dennis and Arlo," said Harry, speed-reading the papers he'd snatched from inside my jacket.Closest his hands had been to my chest in a long time."Which one broke my nose?""That'd be Dennis.
The pure menace radiating from my younger sister is undeniable. She can hate me, but I need her to know that she has something that Stella never did: a place to fall. "And if he hurts you or if anyone hurts you...you have me." It feels unnatural, but I hug my sister. Her arms are limp at her sides, but she doesn't push me away. "Remember, you have me," I repeat.
The truth is, we are never just one thing. We all have many titles and many labels, but far too often, we get trapped inside a single definition. The Teacher's Pet, the Rule Follower, the Cheerleader, the Athlete, the Princess, the Basket Case, the Criminal... the Rock Star's Girlfriend. Whether we wrote that definition or it was given to us, it somehow becomes our only identity. We get so lost in it that we forget about all the other pieces that make up who we are.
I don't know what being in love with someone is supposed to feel like," Tyler admits with a breathy laugh, "but if being in love means thinking about someone every second of every day... If being in love means your entire mood shifts when they're around... If being in love means you'd do anything and everything for them," he murmurs, "then I am endlessly in love with you.
It doesn't matter if it's the real world or fictional," I insisted. "Crushes are the best part of liking someone, and they are completely safe. You get all the benefits of fantasising about someone, but none of the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not drama. It's all the good parts with none of the parts that make you lie awake at night all angsty.
Acknowledging that my biological imperative may not include the drive to procreate, that I just might be attracted to XX chromosomes instead of XY? That's so stupid-minor in comparison to the fact that I might actually be in love for the first time in my life. It's with a girl...so what? Lesbian, bisexual, whatever! Thus isn't about categorisation or chromosomes. This is about how I feel about another person.
Shadows ran all around her and someone was talking to her but it was all just white noise. Goodbye solo she would never perform. Goodbye perfect night that never got the chance to end in Garrett’s arms. Garrett, oh god. Goodbye love of her life, she had loved him and with the thought of never seeing him again her body gave up a single tear. It escaped her eye and coursed through the blood and dirt on her cheek making a single clean streak as the blackness took over.
You’re not going to disappear,” I said. “I won’t let you”.“Even if this is all there is? Going to school and working at my uncle’s restaurant and fighting with Mari? Why would anyone want to remember this?”“I want to remember you. Just like this.”She rolled onto her back, hands covering her face, and I pulled them away.“People like you don’t disappear,” I said.“Then where do they go?”“Everywhere.
Well that’s open to debate,’ he said. 'It sounds like a recipe for disaster to me, and I hate the thought of you throwing yourself at guys just to try and get laid. Christ, I’d do you myself if I thought it would keep you safe.’‘Now that’s true friendship,’ I said, cracking under the severity of his tone.
Sometimes books feel like the only thing that keep her sane. Actually, she knows that they're the only reason she's still even vaguely okay right now. That's what she clings to: reading great books and seeing great films and, for as long as she's immersed in them, being able to forget, if only for a short time, about the reality of her life.
My mouth dropped open, because even if it wasn't my best friend, I knew the guy who was presently rubbing the short stubble on his chin. The only new thing about him was the little scar on his left eyebrow. It was Gabriel Green, known to me as Gabe the douche bag. Great!
...You're worried that you're going to go out of here and mess up your lines or trip on your high heels, but you're not. You're going to blow them away, just like you always do. You're a woman who knows what she wants, and you know how to get it. You're going to be the most, Margo, to say the least.
He gently sucked on my lower lip, biting it carefully with his teeth. It sent tingles all over my body and I had to hold on to his strong shoulders, firm under my fingers. I opened my mouth and tugged once on his lip ring. What happened next was the best sound I had ever heard before. He groaned so deeply that I couldn’t keep my answering moan quiet.
Why are you looking at me like that?’’ he asked, his hand tensing for a second on my hip.“No reason.’’ I moved my hand up his chest and on the way his abs contracted.He pushed me away abruptly, forcing me to sit up with him. With the scruff hiding parts of his cheeks I wasn’t sure, but he seemed to be blushing. “You shouldn’t touch a man like that in the morning,’’ he rasped, his hand hiding his crotch.
Don’t cry,’’ he breathed out so very close to my face. Just a little closer and I’d feel his lips ghosting against mine. “It’s like a punch in my guts when you cry.’’ “You shouldn’t touch me,’’ I said, but despite my words, I didn’t try to move away from his touch. A tear ran to my upper lip and I tasted it with the very tip of my tongue. Nolan’s eyes darkened when he followed it, not straying from my mouth. I could see goosebumps over his skin on his neck and on his forearms. “Nolan?
I said nothing in my texts. You came up with your own conclusions and you were mad thinking about me being with someone else…’’ “Stop,’’ he said, his jaw tightening. “Touching another man…’’ “Stop it.’’ “Sleeping…’’ He ran to me and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me once, not hard, but enough to make me stop. “Quit it,’’ he whispered, his voice deep and dark.
I'm a poet who has lost his words." He looks across the street, but not before I catch the dull glint of shame in his eyes."Where did you lose them?" I ask, gentling my tone.He turns back to me. When he speaks, his voice is so small that I have to lean closer to hear it. "The same place I lost myself.
I try not to react, but I must fail because Gabriel turns to look at me. “The world needs both butterflies and lions. One is not better than the other. They're both beautiful and brave in their own ways.”His hand covers mine as it fiddles with the blades of grass. “Ava.” I look up. “I do not wish you were a lion any more than I would have wished her to be a butterfly.
Leo was a force of nature. He lived life big and loud in all respects…which meant that when he got riled up, everyone was sucked into the vortex along with him. His temper was legendary, but then again, so were his passions. He was charming and charismatic, brilliant and quick. He loved to argue, loved to box and work out, loved to laugh, loved to…love. And from the day they’d met, he’d swept her up into his whirlwind sphere, and she felt like she hadn’t been allowed a second to breathe since. Not that she’d minded, not while it had all still been safe and contained. She’d delighted in his passions…all of them. But everything was different now.
That voice inside his head telling him he’d failed Bria when she needed him most was getting louder every day, but he refused to listen. That wouldn’t help. He never looked back. He couldn’t look back, could only do what he always did: fight his way forward, fight for his future…their future.
You're very different from the man I pictured you to be."I smirk at her, amused. What, so she didn't think I'd be a fucker with a drinking problem who is obviously very much into casual sex and reckless driving on a classic bike? I arch an eyebrow at her and run a hand along my square jaw. "I hope you find me sexier.
You have got to do the shiatsu. I had one back home a month ago. Fantastic.”Marisa Finley frowned under her carrot-ginger-turmeric facial mask.“What’s a shiatsu?” It sounded like an unusual breed of dog."I’m taking my shiatsu to the groomers this week to have it shampooed and blow-dried.And possibly beribboned.
No." I pulled away just enough to lock my eyes with his. His crooked smile sent shivers down my spine. His eyes were a deep blue darkening more as the minutes passing between us were getting hotter. "I will be the one using you, and you'll love every second, every breath, every stroke and every fucking inch of me," he said, his lips ghosting above mine.
Believe me, I knew you enjoyed it without voicing it that way. It was like your body screamed for me to take you." All too true, but I didn't like it to be told aloud. I arched an eyebrow, something I couldn't do when sober. "I'm pretty sure if I put a hand on your crotch, you're sporting a boner. It works both ways.
Don't see me as a girl. See me as a buddy of yours or something." He cast his eyes downward and didn't look back up to my face. I looked down and groaned. Such a guy. "My buddies don't have boobs, as far as I know." "Because you felt them up to be sure?" I chuckled, against my better judgement. Once again, his mouth dropped open.
He smiled wickedly, and my body warmed. "Girls dig bad boys." "Unfortunately, that's true." "Is there a message, Bridge?" "In your dreams," I replied with a roll of my eyes, but it was all an act because there was a message there. I wanted him. I was screwed ― Uh, bad choice of words.
The smoke burns slightly down my throat and to my lungs. I focus on this, and empty my head, empty the images of Skye’s beautiful face all bruised up. In the end, I can’t even give her what she’s rightfully asking. A kiss. Just a fucking kiss on her lips. Even that I’m unable to do. It’d be pathetic if our situation and our past weren’t so tragic. I take another drag of my cigarette and watch the smoke swirling in the room only lit by the moonlight. — Duke
My father and I used to watch a ton of old horror movies when I was growing up. ’The Creature from the Black Lagoon‘ was one of my father’s favorites and he was very excited for me to see the film. But after the movie was over, I told him that I was kind of bored. I said to him, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy, but I saw the zipper in the back of the monster’s costume. From that point on, I was really never scared at all. The point I’m trying to make is that I don’t believe someone intentionally tipped off the target. And I maintain that no one made some horrendous mistake, which I’m now trying to cover up. I believe what really happened with the operation was that our target ended up seeing the zipper. Orlo Kharms realized something around him wasn’t… real. And he was able to avoid the trap we had laid out for him.
I don't feel at home where I am,or where I spend time; only where,beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,you consist of pure freedom, which, seen,turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone,to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean-ing lies buried, that never let onecome within cannon shot yet.From cloud-covered wells untoldpour color and light, a feteof cupids and Ledas in gold.That is, silk and honey and sheen.That is, boon and quiver and call.That is, all that lives to be free,needing no words at all.
They died together; they'll always be remembered together. It's decided, once and for all. He was hers. The rumors don't matter; they'll fade...People may remember it was suicide, but my name won't be attached. It will just be two lovers, fused together forever.
Jase opened his door, stepped down, and leaned into her window. “Hungry?”Taking a big breath didn’t help when his sexy scent of cologne had hit her in the face. Hallelujah. “Yeah, I’m getting there.” “Let’s go. The cowboy just came to take you away.” He reached in and turned off the ignition, clasped her keys and opened the door. When she stepped out, he didn’t bother to move back any and they were close. This man was hot and not only his temperature. Whatever kind of chemistry radiated off him, soaked right into her.
He speaks in that strange sports talk, telling me about the start of the new season and asks if I follow baseball. No. I really don’t. He assures me if I stay in town long enough I will become a baseball fan. It’s a requirement of living in St. Louis. Everyone is a Cardinal’s fan. “Loyal,” he tells me. St. Louis is a loyal town.
Even though Marcus really believed some miracle would happen, he didn't waste a second." He gave a sad, lopsided smile. "So I learned this from my dying brother. Don't waste it.""Waste what?" she whispered.He looked at her for a long time. "Everything that makes you.
So, first, I want you to know that everybody experiences some level of anxiety. It's a normal human response to stress. It's like your body's smoke alarm. If there's a fire, you want to know so you can put it out or call 9-1-1, right?”I shrug. “I guess. But it feels like my alarm is going off all the time.”Doctor Ann nods. “Some people's systems are more sensitive than others'. For you, maybe all it takes is burning a piece of toast, and your alarm thinks the house is on fire.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins / In an orchard soft with rot."The soft with rot part sounded so familiar, but it took a few moments before she made the connection as to why. "He was mumbling that to me," she said. A clear image of Marcus, gaunt and pale in his dining room deathbed, lit up her brain. She hadn't thought of him like that in so long. "The last time I saw him.""He said it was you," Jackson said, suddenly looking at somber as she felt. "You were going to be those empty bins, once he died. And it was maybe the saddest thing I had ever heard.
Why I felt the need to always disobey everyone around me was beyond me. But I guess being sixteen years old made me susceptible to bouts of irrational behaviour and the occasional notion that I was in fact smarter than everyone else, regardless of whether or not that was true.
If I was smart now, I would simply walk back the way I had come instead of proceeding forward into the face of danger. Obviously there was a part of me that had considered facing the two vânătors alone and had decided that was a good idea. Perhaps it was PMS? What other logical reason could there be for continuing on a path this ridiculously dangerous and stupid? Unless of course the only plausible explanation left was that I was in fact a total moron, with a capital M? I thought about that for a second. Nope, I just can’t see it.
He was so close his breath touched my cheek. Staring into his eyes, I could almost forget about the nightmare. I could almost forget about Mama. Like the woods back in Virginia, his eyes changed color with his mood—greener when he laughed and darker, like now, when he was angry or worried. They were kind, serious, intelligent eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled.
I snatched my gaze away from hers and tugged at the collar of my shirt. I wanted to know how she could talk with such authority on the subject. I wanted to know what evil she’d seen, but I wanted even more to escape the narrow store aisle. Warning bells pealed in my brain. 'She’s crazy. Don’t get involved.
Her grin changed her quiet presence into something altogether different, something that made it hard to look away. There were lots of pretty girls in my hometown, including my on-again, off-again girlfriend, but no one who looked like this odd girl with her sprinkle of freckles and ragged haircut. Had someone attacked her head with a pair of scissors?
Well, well, well. Tickle my Elmo ass silly. I was sitting across from a person who enjoyed talking to dead people, and if they wouldn’t talk, then by God, he’d just wake their corpses up instead. Next to him was a moody, chain-smoking vampire who just might be bipolar and smoked like a corncob pipe.
Music from the party throbs and echoes off the basement walls. I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m certain I don’t know how Charlie ended up on the other side of the room with Guy In Touch With His Emotions. Raising a bottle to my lips, I watch as the guy uncrosses his long legs and recrosses them.His tampon must be killing him.
A nation forgetting its own laughter is in a sad state of affairs
I slowly, deliberately began to work the blade into his throat. He squirmed and kicked and fought agains tme, but in his current state, I was stronger. His will to live was pathetic, just like he was. Eventually he stopped kicking. I kept cutting. When I was finally done, I was covered in sweat and only a few drops of blood on my shoes and pants. They'd come out in a good wash.I put his head into the garbage and pulled the bag out, making a knot at the end. I hoped it wouldn't leak through. Then I looked around the office. It was a mess before I came in, piles of paper and empty beer bottles scattered around. The addition of his blood and a headless corpse was barely noticeable.
Maxwell D. Kalist is a receiving teller at a city bank, Orwell and Finch, where he runs an efficient department of twenty two clerks and twelve junior clerks. He carries a leather-bound vade mecum everywhere with him – a handbook of the most widely contravened banking rules. He works humourlessly (on the surface of it) in a private, perfectly square office on the third floor of a restored grain exchange midway along the Eastern flank of Květniv’s busy, modern central plaza. Behind his oblong slate desk and black leather swivel chair is an intimidating, three-storey wall made almost entirely of bevelled, glare-reducing grey glass in art-deco style; one hundred and thirty six rectangles of gleam stacked together in a dangerously heavy collage.
Each day of the week, Kalist indulges himself in a different, secret ritual. On Mondays, he wears cologne. On Tuesdays, he eats meat for lunch. On Wednesdays, he places a bet after work. On Thursdays, he smokes one cigarette (but claims he’s not a smoker). On Fridays, he treats himself to his favourite pastime: horse practice – he grew up with horses and likes to try and emulate their distinctive whinnies, snorts, neighs, snuffles, sighs, grunts, fluttering nostrils, the occasional aggressive outburst and the especially beautiful nicker of a mare to her foal. And, on Saturdays, lest we forget, Maxwell D. Kalist drinks wine from a chalice.
Many people are caught up with the toys of contemporary society. Because of great advancements in our culture, some have cultivated an attitude of “comfortability.” They may be going to hell, but it is going to be a comfortable ride for them.
Have you always been so refined? Your attitude and that mouth.” He sucked air through his teeth and grimaced. “Do you kiss your Mother with it?”I answered like the smart ass he knew I was. “I did before she died. Of course, my mouth was clean back then. It took years of trial and error to blossom into the fine outstanding young woman you see before you today.
This assumption of the intrinsically repressive nature of collective experience and redemptive power of individuation is a staple of contemporary art theory and criticism. I would argue that a closer analysis of collaborative and collective art practices can reveal a more complex model of social change and identity, one in which the binary oppositions of divided vs. coherent subjectivity, desiring singularity vs. totalizing collective, liberating distanciation vs. stultifying interdependence, are challenged and complicated.
He stopped to rest at a cart selling nuts and candy, bought himself some Jelly Belly's, flirted just enought with the Mexican cutie working there to convince her pull out the banana-flavored one. Although he liked his Jelly Belly's mixed up, he didn't like banana, but, since it took too much effort to pull them out himself, he generally tried to talk someone else into doing it. If that didn't work, he just ate 'em.- Kenny Traveler
Fucking hell,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The pain in his face mirrored the deep ache in her bones. He lifted her hand to his mouth and traced his lips slowly across her palm. With incredible gentleness, he pulled her arm toward him and pressed a warm kiss to the pulse on her wrist, his breath washing over the delicate skin and casting a spell as bottomless and dark as shame.
Led Zeppelin! I clapped my hand over my mouth.This big, strong man, wearing a muscle shirt and cargo pants, sang rock songs to a toddler in the middle of the night. I was so toast. Game over. And it was doubly terrifying, considering I had no idea how to make him stick around. He would leave and take his sweetness and his Pepto and our hearts.
Hot damn, Diego Santero looked fine soaking wet. Everything about him radiated potent masculinity, from the slick, dark hair that drew emphasis to the angles of his cheeks and jaw, to the water beading off his forearms and the soaked black shirt and cargo pants that clung to every curve of muscle and flesh below.
She had a hand on his belt, ready to show him exactly what she had in mind for the night, when he lowered to his knees between her legs, his hands spanning her ribs. Nervousness had vanished from his expression, replaced by eyes that gimmered with tenderness and perhaps even a hint of joy.
They were opposite in so many ways, but it was the kind of difference that was balancing-her softness with his steel, his instinct and her logic. He was teaching her by example to have courage in the face of fear, and she badly wanted to help him give voice to his grief and understand it was all right to feel pain.
And if we don't keep moving, we won't make it to a computer in time to stop the submarine sale because we'll have to spend a second night in the jungle, surrounded by friggin' pit vipers. In the rain. And I am sick and tired of the rain. I want to get a roof over our heads and dry clothes for you because I can see right through your damn shirt and it's driving me crazy.
How much the pain grew inside him after Ossie died until the only way to deal with it was to throw himself into the fray. And the whole time, Vanessa's body was wrapped around him like she was the only one being strong as a shield while he stripped his life bare.
He liked the sound of her voice, husky and low in a way that got him thinking about pinning her to the rock and setting his mouth to work on the hollow of her throat, proving to her which of them was in control. Then again, feelings didn't get much more out of control that his were at the moment.
She dribbled water over his neck and back. The towel didn't quite soak up all of it, and drops raced down his back, trailing the curve of his spine. She loved that curve, framed on either side by ripple after ripple of muscle, and she especially loved the way it dipped in at his waist before flaring onto his perfect, rounded backside.
She wanted his strong, capable hands on her blody and those soft lips locked with hers. She wanted to be held tight and kissed until she could forget-if only for a few precious minutes-that her life as she knew it had evaporated in a cloud of smoke and flame and violence.
Her gaze slid up the thick muscles of his arm, imagining her hand doing the same, imagining what it would feel like to explore a body of such raw, masculine energy. No doubt about it, he was man built for battle. Yet she could seein his sharp, dark eyes, and in the glimpses of humor and caring he'd let slip, that there was so much more to him than the fight.
You may not mean to, but you do seem to look down your nose at many of us mere mortals muddling along down here. I feel as though you think everyone should be better than they are. I certainly think you expect me to behave like some sort of perfect princess. But I’m just an ordinary girl who wants to grow up and find out where I belong in the world.
I think you still love me,’ he says, ‘even though you don’t want to.’I glare at him, fury battling my instincts.‘Because that kind of love, Jessa,’ Kit continues, ‘doesn’t just disappear. It doesn’t just fade. I still love you. I’ll always love you. And I think you feel the same way about me. And hell, I know I don’t deserve it. I know all I deserve is your hatred. But if there’s a chance, a single chance that you might still love me, then I’m not going to throw it away. Because I’ve been through hell and you’re the only reason I’m still standing.’ He pauses. ‘So tell me the truth. Do you love him?
Hey, she was his fantasy girl. She was supposed to act in an appropriate fantasy-like manner. She wasn’t supposed to look at him as though he was all her nightmares rolled up into one big pile of dog crap that she couldn’t wait to scrape off her sensible shoes. And that was only after she’d finally recognized him—which had taken far longer than it should have done considering they’d had hot, mind-blowing sex every night for a year...In his dreams.
Is this another fantasy?” she asked.His gaze lifted to her face. His expression was serious, his usual amusement absent. “No. This is real. This is you and me. Just once, and afterwards I’ll leave you alone. I promise I won’t hold you back. Now, I’m going to make love to you, slowly and completely, and you’ll never forget the feel of me inside you.
The accusation raises my hackles. “Why? Because I’m a player?” Indignation makesmy tone harsher than I intend for it to be. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’sbecause I haven’t met the right girl yet? But no, I couldn’t possibly want someone tocuddle with andwatch movies with, someone who wears my jersey and cheers for meat games, and cooks dinner with me the way you and Garrett—
With the music of our singing in the background, I looked at the church candles and thought about the surreal connection between images and memory. The peaceful and joyous candles flickering there during the Christmas ceremony projected warmth, comfort, and familiarity – even though thy emitted the same kind of fiery energy as the flames caused by the war.
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.
His name feels like a secret, and now he's wearing it on his wrist. I want to know all about this girl who put it there. What she looks like. If she's got freckles, fair hair or dark, like his. If she's scrappy or etheral, funny or serious, scrape-kneed or ladylike. I know that she loves him, so I want to know everything else. But West doesn't want to share her with me. I shouldn't keep trying to scale these walls he puts up. I'm a terrible climber.
I plastered on my best poker face, attempting to appear cool and casual even thought I had never been so eager to deliver two Chicken Parmagianas in my life."Just be careful, hon," Rosanna said."Oh, are the plates hot?" I flinched back just before my hands made contact.Rosanna laughed. "No, but hot boys can burn just as easily.
I shrugged uncomfortably, leaning my head against hers, almost forgetting Mr. Gardner’s presence as Mo and I fell into that sort of exclusionary, near-telepathic best-friends communion. She knew that I would argue that I wasn’t ashamed, but that I hadn’t quite figured out how to truly mean it when I held my head up high. My entire life, people had been telling me to keep it down and stop being an embarrassment. So, I was still in that “fake it ’til you make it” stage, hoping genuine pride would come if I pretended confidence long enough. For now, I was relying on bravado and a complete lack of give-a-fuck to carry me through.
Ew. Can you not talk about my dad ogling people? Scarlett Johansson may be gorgeous, but still.”“It’ll be a challenge, but I think I can refrain from licking the screen,” Brendan deadpanned, placing the wine bottle on the coffee table next to the bowl of popcorn before settling into the chair where he’d been working on his computer ea
Around eighth grade Margot started getting really sensitive about her weight, even though she wasn’t remotely fat—just a little round-faced. So Margot did what any normal fourteen-year-old girl would do. She started puking on purpose, every day after fifth period. Of course now, she does more than puke. But we don’t talk about that. Because real friends don’t judge each other for what they do to survive in hell.
See, the thing is, I had a little misunderstanding with Trent Gibson in Pre-Calculus earlier. I dropped my textbook on his face—accidentally, while we were discussing some…equations—and he thought I was trying to brain him. So of course, he narked to Shoemaker, and apparently accidents are grounds for disciplinary action these days.
The paradox is that some of the most artistically valuable contemporary photographs are content with being photographs, are not under the same compulsion to pass themselves off - or pimp themselves out - as art. The simple truth is that the best exponents of the art of contemporary photography continue to produce work that fits broadly within the tradition of what Evans termed 'documentary style'.
Some guys get fifteen years, others get life.So death for Edbut not for everyone.Cos it all depends on who you kill and where you kill them too.Like,don't shoot a white cop in Walker Country, Texas. If that's your plan, do it in Arlington, New York- no needles of electric chairs there.Just doesn't seen fair to me.
The world is full of things put off for the wrong reasons, which can suddenly become impossible without any warning. They hang in the air like ghosts, their mouths sewn up forever. They will never be able to speak, but if it was you who put them there, you will always be forced to see them.
Grief's not like a cancer, doesn't go when the operation's done and the darkness is out. It's a knife wound. Take out the blade and you still go the bleeding, wait long enough, and it turns to a scar, but it's always with you the rest of your life.
It’s like your whole life you’ve been falling toward the earth, until the moment someone catchesyou. And you realize that somehow you’ve caught her at the same time. And together, instead offalling, you might be able to fly.” The ghost went to the discarded clipping and stared down at thephoto, riveted. “She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”“Sure,” Alex said automatically, although there was nothing of Zoë’s sparkling allure in thephoto, only a hint of resemblance.
I'm also getting a piece of chocolate cake... "Can I have a bite?" he asked, his voice smooth and sexy. A bite of what? she wanted to ask, but didn't. She wasn't ready for that level of flirting. "Get your own slice, Gallagher." "I can do that, Blake. I'm in the mood for something sweet it seems.
Callie, I feel like we’ve got something amazing. Something that’s going to last. I look at you , and I see my future. But it’s almost like we take two steps forward and four back, every time. You let me in a little, and then you push me away. I just need you to know that I’ll wait. I’ll be here for whatever you need, whenever. Just don’t shut me out, baby. Please.
I've read dozens of interviews and accounts that basically come down to How Poets Do It and the truth is they're all do-lally and they're all different. There's Gerard Manly Hopkins in his black Jesuit clothes lying face down on the ground to look at an individual bluebell, Robert Frost who never used a desk, was once caught short by a poem coming and wrote it on the sole of his shoe, T.S. Eliot in his I'm-not-a-Poet suit with his solid sensible available-for-poetry three hours a day, Ted Hughes folded into his tiny cubicle at the top of the stairs where there is no window, no sight or smell of earth or animal but the rain clatter on the roof bows him to the page, Pablo Neruda who grandly declared poetry should only ever be handwritten, and then added his own little bit of bonkers by saying: in green ink. Poets are their own nation. Most of them know.
Attack me already. Please! I can’t take it anymore.But I don’t say any of that. I just savor each and every slow, amazing, and tongue-free kiss. Maybe he was born without a tongue, I think for a brief second, but then I realize that I am dumb because he wouldn’t be able to talk if he had been, now would he?
I used to think that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I guess it’s more so of a case-by-case thing when I look at it now. It especially doesn’t help when most of the time, when forced to reckon with the realities of things, you have your illusions occupying you.
When Grant Blue reaches me, he bends his head down close enough that I can smell the soap and promise on his skin. Clean living and popularity—It’s quite the aftershave, let me tell you. If I’m being honest, the fact that he even has to bend to talk to me is making me want to swoon a little. ...But just a little.
I came here because it's pine-dark and the ocean is wild. The kind of quiet-noise you need when there's too much going on in your head. Like the water and the woods are doing all the feeling, and I can hang out, quiet as a headstone, in a between place. A blank I can bear.
I have certainly heard of the Subtle Art of Shutting Up, but I can't say I've practiced it all that much. I greatly prefer the underappreciated genius of Speaking My Mind. I figure if someone doesn't like what I have to say, they shouldn't put their ears in close proximity to my mouth.
What's all this nonsense about odd vision and not fitting in? There are plenty worse things in this world than not fitting in--like fitting in way too much. You strike me as a real original, Izzy Malone, in a world that loves carbon copies. If you think you beautified something, I believe you. I've never understood why folks love safe, neutral colors so much. Colors are what make this world worth living in.
Your mother would have more luck winning her election than teaching you how to be charming. Izzy Malone, going to charm school! Are you going to walk across the room with a book stuck on your head?""No, it's not like that at all," I said as he doubled over with laughter. "And I really don't see what's so funny.""It's just that"--he gasped--"it would be like teaching a hippo to wear high heels!
You were as much in prison as anyone I knew there, Colin. Only you created it for yourself. Your father paced out the cell and your brothers fit the bars and you turned the key in the lock and buried it somewhere only you know. And you stared at Daniel through the bars and cursed him for being able to walk out the door. But he’s not the one who did something wrong. All he did was save himself. And you can too. But you have to find that key and unlock the door.
A weathered cork sat inside the box lined with green velvet. It had turned a darker brown and was a little shriveled, but the name Moet & Chandon was still clearly visible.Vivien reached inside and pulled out her mother's cork. The one she'd searched for in the bed of red impatiens. To anyone else, it was nothing. Just a weathered piece of nothing. To Vivien, it was everything.
He was on the edge of a cliff. And he wasn’t jumping, he was diving, a huge swan dive, like those famous cliff-top divers in some exotic place he’d seen on television once. Only they landed safely, bodies cutting into seawater like knife blades.And his dive was a killing one.
My mouth went dry as I tried to remember all of Poppie’s tips for kissing over the years. She told me no guy wanted a girl with a mouth as wide as a guppy, who sucked his tongue with the force of a Dyson vacuum cleaner first time, or licked him to death like an overeager puppy. She’d told me to just purse my lips and let him lead and take control. Don’t slobber, don’t slobber, don’t slobber, I chanted to myself as he got closer and closer
Fact: Cells are constantly dying and new ones are taking their placeFact: After seven years have gone by, every cell in my body has died and a new one has taken its place.Do the math. That means that every seven years, I'm a totally new me. not one of the old cells remains. Twice, I've had a total makeover
You're doing it wrong.""Son, I've got a gun to your chest and you're telling me that I'm doing it wrong?""Yes""How?""Closer isn't better." He disarmed her with a swift motion, then offered the weapon back to her. "Further away you are, the less unpredictable I can be."Della's eyes had opened wide with surprise, but she recovered fast. Took the shotgun back and said, "Okay. Knock again so we can start over.
She looked up and their eyes locked. “Want to be my birthday present?” she asked in a breathy whisper.Chase’s mother didn’t raise any fools. He released her hips and trailed his hand down her arm until their fingers entwined.“Let’s get out of here.”He tugged her from the dance floor, trying not to rush like he was running from a fire. But, damn. There was a fire in his britches.
I want you both." I said quietly, not caring that my cheeks had grown warmer. "I have for a while.""If we try this—" Tyler took a deep breath. "And it doesn't feel right—""We'll stop." Kacey promised as he slid his hand beneath my halter neck and began caressing my skin. "You say it baby, and we'll stop and forget all about it."My stomach flipped at the feel of his fingers circling my navel. "And if I don't want to stop?"An unreadable look crossed Tyler’s face and my heart skipped as Kacey moved behind me. The warmth of his body seeped into my back, while his fingers painted trails of heat across my abdomen and along my ribs."Then what happens in Silver Creek, stays in Silver Creek. Unless you decide otherwise." Kacey pressed his lips to my ear. A shiver ran down my neck and spine. "Does that sound fair?
All women should feel as Sex Subjects if they want and choose so without fear of repressions, condemnations and put down and without the need to pay them for that.Being freely a sexy and seductive woman is allowed only for few privileged professions: actresses, dancers, models, singers, prostitutes. They all do it for work. You can pay for them being sexy.If a sexy woman is openly adored by a man, the woman remains as a woman, she is not turning into a table, a cup or a bill of money. She is still the Subject who knows her power.
We need to get you laid."Despite the fact she couldn't see my face, my brow furrowed. "How is that going to help?""Rebound sex is exactly what you need right now, sweaty, dirty, work-your-frustration-out sex. In fact, I have the perfect guy in mind—"I jolted up quickly at the sound of a firm tapping. I looked over at the window to see Kacey's sun kissed face, his shades resting at the edge of his long nose, baby blue eyes fixed on me.I placed my hand over my thumping heart. "You ass.""Bitch?""Not you, Jayne." I climbed off my bed. "Kay and Ty are here.""Speak of the devil, and his sexy ass will most definitely appear.