Say my name." "No." She tipped her head up, her breath sawing out of her lungs. 'Don't stop, please.' He languidly stroked her. 'I won't stop, but I won't take you there unless you say it.' Her voice locked in her throat. He stroked into her again at the same time giving her the pressure she desired with his thumb. 'I have all night.
I never got to be in the driver's seat of my own life," she'd wept to me once, in the days after she learned she was going to die. "I always did what someone else wanted me to do. I've always been someone's daughter or mother or wife. I've never just been me." "Oh, Mom," was all I could say as I stroked her hand. I was too young to say anything else."
Oh! Do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a mustache and as yet the result is poor." Poirot stroked his own magnificent mustache tenderly. "It is an art, " he murmured, "the growing of the mustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.
You forgot to cough!" he said. "Sorry." She coughed. "Your sneakiness is dangerous. Next time that chisel will lodge itself in my head." "Now, Peder, there's plenty of stone around here for carving. No need to practice on your own face." He stroked his chin. "You're right, my jaw is already chiseled to perfection." She agreed, but she felt too silly to say so aloud.
She lowered her head until it was at his level. He stroked the line of her jaw, and then pressed his forehead against her hard snout and held her as tightly as he could, her scales sharp against his fingers. Hot tears began to slide down his cheeks. 'Why do you cry?' she asked. 'Because... I'm lucky enough to be bonded with you.' 'Little one.
Had you been lying all along? Mum gently stroked my hair. I whispered into her shoulder. 'I can't go back. Not yet. I can't leave.' And she held my head tight to her chest and wrapped her arms around me. 'You don't have to, ' she said, rocking me. 'You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, not anymore.' And I cried.
I'll never look at you in any way but complete admiration.' He stroked her hair soothingly. 'You will never be a millstone about my neck. Rather you're the sunshine that brightens my day.' He swallowed. 'Don't you see? You brought me into the daylight. You've embraced parts of me that I was never able to let see light. Don't make me retreat again into the night. (Winter Makepeace)
I'll never look at you in any way but complete admiration." He stroked her hair soothingly. "You will never be a millstone about my neck. Rather you're the sunshine that brightens my day." He swallowed. "Don't you see? You brought me into the daylight. You've embraced parts of me that I was never able to let see light. Don't make me retreat again into the night. (Winter Makepeace)
His thumb stroked my cheek. My eyes half-closed. When he spoke next, it was very softly, his voice an almost-physical caress against my whole body. My flesh tightened like a harpstring. I swallowed hard against the wave of liquid heat. "How can I possibly be jealous when I know you spent your time grieving for me, Dante?
You undo me, Merit. Wholly and completely. You don't take me at my word. You challenge me at every opportunity. And that means when I'm with you, I am less than the head of this House... and I am more than the head of this House. I am a man." He stroked my cheeks with his thumbs. "In my very, very long life, I need you more than I have ever needed anything.
Sometimes I had the feeling that all of us in his family were like pets to him. The dog you take for a walk, the cat you play with and that curls up in your lap, purring, to be stroked - you can be fond of them, you can even need them to a certain extent, and nonetheless the whole thing - buying pet food, cleaning up the cat box, and trips to the vet - is really too much. Your life is elsewhere.
The well padded astrologer stroked his corpulent belly, as he stared down intently at his cowrie board. There was a frown on his moon shaped face, a face that had always considered good rich food his birthright, even as he strove to read the cryptic messages that the Gods were strewing before him.
Darcy was floating, soaring. Warrick's kiss was sensual, carnal. It aroused her, inflamed her. His touch was just as wickedly delightful. His hands stroked her back, her butt, holding her tight, as if he couldn't fathom releasing her. She never wanted the kiss to end. It was too good, too... perfect.
I stroked Eric's hair, tucking some behind his ear. His eyes on mine were intent, and I knew he was waiting for me to speak. "I wish, " I said, "I could save orgasms in a jar for when i need them, because I think I had a few extra." Eric's eyes widened, and all of a sudden he roared with laughter. (Dead to the World)
In their sympathies, children feel nearer animals than adults. They frolic with animals, caress them, share with them feelings neither has words for. Have they ever stroked any adult with the love they bestow on a cat? Hugged any grownup with the ecstasy they feel when clasping a puppy?
I stroked Eric's hair, tucking some behind his ear. His eyes on mine were intent, and I knew he was waiting for me to speak. "I wish," I said, "I could save orgasms in a jar for when i need them, because I think I had a few extra." Eric's eyes widened, and all of a sudden he roared with laughter. (Dead to the World)
I was afraid. Of getting hurt in other ways. To be truthful, I still am." His thumb stroked her cheek. "I would never hurt you." "I don't think you can promise me that." She squeezed his bruised fingers. "But it makes things a bit more equal, to know that I can hurt you, too." His gaze fell to her lips. He said simply, without any trace of irony, "You are killing me.
Touch is a magical thing, Natti, ' he explained. 'It can comfort.' He raised one hand and stroked her cheek, soft and gentle. 'It can entice.' His thumb moved along her jaw and applied pressure as it traveled down her neck, causing her to shiver with delight. 'And it can hurt. Whatever the intensions, it brings two people together. It makes a certain... connection.
I'm not going anywhere." Gently, he stroked her back, cradled her head. Was there anything more astounding or more frightening to a man, he wondered, than a strong woman in tears? "I've been right here all along. I love you, Eve, almost more than I can stand." "I need you. I can't help it. I don't want to." "I know." He eased back, tucking a hand under her chin to lift her face to his. "We're going to have to deal with it." He kissed one wet cheek, then the other. "I really can't do without you.
In this man's smile was all the unfairness of the world in its thuggish seduction. "Just come with me. We'll take care of you." "No, you won't." Taylor stroked the man's cheek. She reached her arms up to cradle the back of his head and, with the skill of a champion, she broke his neck. Then she dragged him into the bushes, took his gun and walkie-talkie, and kept moving.
I had witnessed his pain in motion; the way he had stroked over the sea fueled by something so similar to what fueled me. The agony he couldn't hide from his caramel-colored eyes. I was drawn to whatever was broken in him, probably in the same way that he was drawn to what was broken in me.
She watched as he settled down on the bed with Naya skin to skin on his chest. His hand all but covered her tiny body as he stroked her in that changeling way, bonding with her on the most elemental level. Then he purred, and Naya made a happy little sound of delight, very much a cat in her love of touch.
I will love you forever, ' I murmured, and he stroked the hair off of my forehead. I will hold you to that.' His face was grim and his voice was sober-he touched my handprint of chaos as he said it, and I knew in my bones that it was a solemn vow, and not a sweet or a kind offering of love at all. Green would make me live if he had to crack the foundations of the world.
How can she create with all your negative energy?" "Yeah, man. You're bringing us down." "This is about as low as it gets, " Ariel said. "Where did you get those ridiculous black berets?" Moth adjusted his recently donned beatnik attire. "This is what the hip cats wear , daddy-o." "Can you dig it?" Cobweb stroked a few wisps of fake chin hair, while the others nodded and snapped their fingers.
Another man's property or not, Creed could not walk away from this and ignore it. He draped an arm around her and drew her to him so that her cheek rested against his thigh. His other hand stroked the top of her head, his fingers tangling through her soft hair. He was large in comparison to her, and he did not wish for her to be frightened by him again, so he sent a faint tendril of compulsion to belay her fear while he whispered a few nonsensical words of comfort.
Phury knelt beside him and stroked his face. "I've only ever had you to live for. If you die I have nothing. I'm utterly lost. And you are needed here." Zsadist tried to reach out, but couldn't lift his arms as Phury stood up. "God, Z, I keep thinking this tragedy of ours is going to be over. But it just keeps going, doesn't it?" Zsadist blacked out to the sound of his twin's boots heading from the room.
and my friend Karen remembers as a little girl studying Hebrew she inquired of her refugee tutor who stroked his beard and said in Yiddish "if there is a god or if there isn't a god a Jew studies"-isn't that a good story beloved, but the woman in me says that the poet lies the poet can afford to lie
Alicia Suskin Ostriker
For once, he slept first. She lay in the dark, listening to him breathe, stealing a little of his warmth as her own body cooled. Since he was asleep, she stroked his hair. "I love you," she murmured. "I love you so much, I'm stupid about it." With a sigh, she settled down, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to empty. Beside her, Roarke smiled into the dark. He never slept first.
The tree was so old, and stood there so alone, that his childish heart had been filled with compassion; if no one else on the farm gave it a thought, he would at least do his best to, even though he suspected that his child's words and child's deeds didn't make much difference. It had stood there before he was born, and would be standing there after he was dead, but perhaps, even so, it was pleased that he stroked its bark every time he passed, and sometimes, when he was sure he wasn't observed, even pressed his cheek against it.
Karl Ove Knausge¥rd
She had time to make room for him in her closet. The cat had time to get used to him. They had all the time they needed, because he'd told her he was hers, and he was a man of his word. "I've got all I need," she told him. He leaned down and kissed her again, then stroked a finger over her temple, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I want you to know," he said. "That you're the best choice I ever made." "No regrets?" "No regrets.
It was her grandfather who'd told her the tale of this particular violin, over and over, as if the telling could stave off loss, as if the weight and scope of human history were not found in books or in those mythic universities in Rome and Naples that no one in their village had ever seen but, rather, were encoded in objects like this one, a violin touched by hundreds of hands, loved, used, stroked, pressed, made to outlive its owners, storing their secrets and lies
Carolina De Robertis
How not to imagine the tumors ripening beneath his skin, flesh I have kissed, stroked with my fingertips, pressed my belly and breasts against, some nights so hard I thought I could enter him, open his back at the spine like a door or a curtain and slip in like a small fish between his ribs, nudge the coral of his brains with my lips, brushing over the blue coil of his bowels with the fluted silk of my tail.
What about your freedom?" he whispered in her ear over a minute later, bracing his hands palms down on the wall beside her head. He made no move to stop her as she stroked and petted every inch of that sinfully gorgeous chest, all hard muscle and gleaming skin overlaid with silky-rough strands of dark hair. "Idiot." She nipped his jaw with her teeth. "The only freedom I ever wanted was the right to love you.
And again there are no words. Words exist that can, used by a poet, achieve a dim monochrome of the body's love, but beyond that they fail clumsily. My love flowed out to her, hers back to me. Mine stroked and soothed. Hers caressed. The distance - and the difference - between us dwindled and vanished. We could meet, mingle, and blend. Neither one of us existed any more; for a time there was a single being that was both. There was escape from the solitary cell; a brief symbiosis, sharing all the word ...
Leo smiled and stroked her hair. 'We'll both be fine, Marks. We've just begun our journey...and there's so much we have yet to do.' He spoke more softly as he heard her breathing turn even and steady. 'Rest against my heart. Let me watch over your dreams. And know that tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, you'll awaken next to someone who loves you.' 'Dodger?' she mumbled against his chest, and he grinned. 'No, your confounded ferret will have to stay in his basket. I was referring to myself.' 'Yes, I know.' Catherine slid her hand up to his cheek. 'Only you,' she said. 'Always you.
Leo smiled and stroked her hair. 'We'll both be fine, Marks. We've just begun our journey... and there's so much we have yet to do.' He spoke more softly as he heard her breathing turn even and steady. 'Rest against my heart. Let me watch over your dreams. And know that tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, you'll awaken next to someone who loves you.' 'Dodger?' she mumbled against his chest, and he grinned. 'No, your confounded ferret will have to stay in his basket. I was referring to myself.' 'Yes, I know.' Catherine slid her hand up to his cheek. 'Only you, ' she said. 'Always you.
The only reaction Alexis could express to his response was: Mine. She pulled his neck lower, eager to feel his lips on hers, his warm mouth entwined with hers. He stroked her hunger with each brush of their lips, his body now laying on hers, kissing her until she wasn't sure which way was up or down. Only, it didn't stop with a kiss. Alexis knew it would never again stop with just a kiss.
A woman once held a Canary in the palm of her hand and stroked her and whispered a careful warning. The canary, seeking some freedom to fly, went into the mine while the woman watched in worry. The mine was filled with toxic gases and the Canary began to sing. She flew into danger, realized the threats around her, and wished to return to a place of refuge.
Donna Lynn Hope
Mallory dropped her head to the steering wheel. "Look, I'm mad at you, okay? This isn't about me. I know my painful memories are relative. My life is good. I'm lucky. This isn't about how poor little Mallory has had it so hard. I'm not falling apart or anything." He stroked a hand down her back. "Of course you're not. You're just holding the steering wheel up with your head for a minute, that's all.
He made a small sigh, as he swallowed the first blood, then his mouth closed over my earlobe, mouth working at the wound, tongue coaxing blood from the wound. He pressed his body the length of mine, one hand cupping my turned head, the other playing down the line of my body. Maybe it was just blood, but I never stroked my steak while eating it.
Laurell K. Hamilton
I shut up everything inside. Everything." Words ground out through clenched teeth. "I thought if I could hold it, just hold it, it would be fine. But it's not." "Why?" she asked. "Why are you losing control so badly?" The answer, when it came, broke Sascha's heart. "Hawke." It was an almost soundless whisper. "Oh, Sienna." She stroked her hand over the girl's hair, even as her mind worked at piercing speed. "Has it been cumulative?" Sienna nodded. "The second I met him, everything crumbled, my shields, my conditioning, everything!
He got worse as the night wore on. Tessa tried not to think about the wound, tried not to think about what she was going to do if he died and left her alone. Instead, she concentrated on doing what she could to keep the fever down and keep him comfortable, dragging a chair over to the side of the bed when she became too weary to stay awake any longer and dozing in it for short respites. Toward morning, he began to thrash about on the bed, muttering. She bathed his heated skin again and finally climbed into bed beside him. He quieted when she pulled his head against her breasts and stroked his hair soothingly.
After he died, there was a deep calm to his face; he seemed a kind of unfathomable, still well which opened on and down beneath the suddenly smooth surface of his skin... The heat in him lasted a long time. I loved that heat. I don't know how long I held his face and his shoulders and stroked him; as he began to cool I kept my hands on his belly, where the last of his warmth seemed to pool and concentrate. Here the fire of the body came to rest, smoldering longest, down to the last embers.
I wept bitterly, surrendering momentarily to my fear and heartbroken confusion, but slowly I began to quiet a bit, as Jamie stroked my neck and back, offering me the comfort of his broad, warm chest. My sobs lessened and I began to calm myself, leaning tiredly into the curve of his shoulder. No wonder he was so good with horses, I thought blearily, feeling his fingers rubbing gently behind my ears, listening to the soothing, incomprehensible speech. If I were a horse, I'd let him ride me anywhere.
I think she's afraid to even hug me now. It's my fault, but I miss it, Andrew. I miss it so much it aches sometimes, you know?' I do know. I do know, I want to tell him, but I let him talk. And he does, with a gut-wrenching honesty that tears at my heart. 'I want to be held. Is that so wrong? I want to be held, and stroked. I want to know that someone loves me. I want to feel it on my skin.' He looks at the ceiling and exhales, then meets my eyes again. 'But nobody touches me anymore. Not even when I have a fever. Mom just hands me a thermometer now.' He drops his eyes and his ears redden. 'Even when you kiss me, you don't touch me. It's like I'm a leper or something. I can hardly keep my hands off of you, but it's not the same for you, is it?
For a while he'd tried molding himself into the tragic Romantic hero, brooding and staring clench-jawed off into space as he composed dark verse in his head. But it turned out that trying to appear tragic in Incontinence, Indiana, was redundant, and his mother kept shouting at him and making him forget his rhymes. "Tommy, if you keep grinding your teeth like that, they'll wear away and you'll have to have dentures like Aunt Ester." Tommy only wished his beard was as heavy as Aunt Ester's---then he could stare out over the moors while he stroked it pensively.
Painfully, the tips of his fingers grazed over her neck, torturing her soul. She didn't move as his hand stroked the length of her nape, feeling the slight warmth of her aura make him lightly tingle with a frenzied anticipation. Her blood burned for him, feeling her veins bubble hot as he continued to linger his seductions along the rims of her body. He listened attentively as the beating of her heart increased tri-fold, the quickening pulse thump beneath his horny fingertips.
Keira D. Skye
She was only really a female to him. But perhaps that was better. And after all, he was kind to the female in her, which no man had ever been. Men were very kind to the person she was, but rather cruel to the female, despising her or ignoring her altogether. Men were awfully kind to Constance Reid or to Lady Chatterley; but not to her womb they weren't kind. And he took no notice of Constance or of Lady Chatterley; he just softly stroked her loins or her breasts.
It's not reasonable to love people who are only going to die, " she said. Nash thought about that for a moment, stroking Small's neck with great deliberation, as if the fate of the Dells depended on that smooth, careful movement. "I have two responses to that, " He said at last. "First, everyone is going to die. Second, love is stupid. It has nothing to do with reason. You love whomever you love. Against all reason I loved my father." He looked at her keenly. "Did you love yours?" "Yes, " she whispered. He stroked Small's nose. "I love you, " he said, "even knowing you'll never have me. And I love my brother, more than I ever realized before you came along. You can't help whom you love, Lady. Nor can you know what it's liable to cause you to do.
His words were almost soundless. "I've gotten to a really dark place, Melly. The darkest place I've ever been." "You don't have to be there anymore, " she told him gently. "Don't you know what happens at the darkest point of the day?" He stroked her soft lower lip with the ball of one thumb. "What?" She rubbed her fingers soothingly along his muscled forearms. "A beautiful, brand-new day begins, and it's all fresh and full of promise." She smiled into his gaze. "That's why magic in the fairy tales happens at midnight, you know. When you reach that point, you have the power to change everything.
Tengo's lectures took on uncommon warmth, and the students found themselves swept up in his eloquence. He taught them how to practically and effectively solve mathematical problems while simultaneously presenting a spectacular display of the romance concealed in the questions it posed. Tengo saw admiration in the eyes of several of his female students, and he realized that he was seducing these seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds through mathematics. His eloquence was a kind of intellectual foreplay. Mathematical functions stroked their backs; theorems sent warm breath into their ears.
Sorry, I got hung up or I'd have been here earlier. I made sure I made it for closing, though. I didn't want the streets to suffer if you walked alone.' A glance at him showed his lips twitching. Humor, a new facet to my knight in leather armor; one I liked, given my oftentimes sarcastic attitude towards life. He wore the same leather duster of the previous evening, and, once again, I enviously admired it. Unable to resist, I reached out a hand and stroked its supple surface, feeling a thrill that my hand strayed so close to his actual body. 'It's so soft, ' I murmured. 'Not for long, if you keep stroking it, ' he drawled.
Malphas surveyed the women's bodies with utter disgust and sorrow until he realized Tabitha was still alive. He knelt by her side and cradled her head tenderly. "Tabby... I'm so sorry" Grimacing she opened her eyes as she labored to breathe. She laughed bitterly, exposing a set of bleeding teeth. "there are some things that sorry doesn't fix, Caleb." "Shhh, don't speak. I can-" "you failed us, " She went limp in his arms. Her eyes went Dull. Wincing, Caleb held her close to his heart and stroked her bloody hair. "No, Tabby. I failed myself." "Most of all, I failed Nick.
I was on my way to talk to Davis when the car hit me"... "A dark figure emerged from the shadows, half-lit by the glittering streetlight and the pale glow of the moon"... "Huge black wings erupted out of her back like a blooming rose. She was beautiful."... "I knew who this woman was.'Are you Death?'"... ''Most people have something holding them down to this world, ' she said, 'like a tether on a balloon. It could be something material, a person, or persons, an unfinished goal. There are many reasons to want to keep living. I wonder, Juvenalius, what is yours?' I smiled just thinking about it. 'His name's Davis.' Her hand stroked my cheek so gently I wanted to cry. 'Tell me about him, ' she whispered." And Juvenalius does. And you will be transfixed as Juve's first friend comes to life in his memory in this Tale with a gay twist.
Max, you can change your mind.' His voice was like autumn leaves dropping lightly onto the ground. 'I don't know how.' Then my throat felt tight, and I rubbed my fists against my eyes. I dropped my face onto my arms, crossed over my knees. This sucked! I wanted to be back with the oth- Fang's hand gently smoothed my hair off my neck. My breath froze in my chest, and every sense seemed hyperalert. His hand stroked my hair again, so softly, and then trailed across my neck and shoulder and down my back, making me shiver. I looked up. 'What the heck are you doing?' 'Helping you change your mind, ' he whispered, and then he leaned over, tilted my chin up, and kissed me.
She needed Andrew Simpson Smith, it was that simple. And he had spent his life training to help people like her. Gods. "Okay, Andrew. But let's leave today. I'm in a hurry." "Of course. Today." He stroked the place where his slight beard was beginning to grow. "These ruins where your friends are waiting? Where are they?" Tally glances up at the sun, still low enough to indicate the eastern horizon. After a moment's calculation, she pointed off to the northwest, back toward the city and beyond that, the Rusty Ruins. "About a week's walk that way." "A week?" "That means seven days." "Yes, I know the gods' calendar, " he said huffily. "But a whole week?" "Yeah. That's not so far, is it?" The hunters had been tireless on their march the night before. He shook his head, an awed expression on his face. "But that is beyond the edge of the world.
Then little Gerda said the Lord's Prayer; the cold was so intense that she could see her own breath; it came out of her mouth like smoke. Her breath became thicker and thicker, and took the form of little angels who grew larger and larger as soon as they touched the ground. All had helmets on their heads, and lances and shields in their hands; their numbers increased, and when Gerda had finished her prayer a whole legion stood around her. They trust their lances against the horrible snow-flakes, so that the latter flew into a hundred pieces; and little Gerda went forward safely and cheerfully. The angels stroked her hands and feet, so that she felt the cold less, and she hastened on to the Snow Queen's castle.
Hans Christian Andersen
As she felt his fangs against her neck, she was in another world. There was screaming. A woman was somewhere in agony. Everything was black, and the tormented scream was overwhelming, echoing through the emptiness. After the screaming subsided, there was panting, loud and steady, and it wasn't as dark anymore. There was a room visible now, in a reddish light. A pale man with black hair hovered over a woman dressed in white. She lay on a bed, looking disheveled and sweaty. Her brown-black hair clung to her wet forehead and shoulders. She was covered in blood. The man sat next to her, and held her close to him. He stroked her hair as her chest heaved desperately. 'I love you, my dearest Katerina, ' he said, cradling her in his strong arms. 'Soon, we'll be together forever.' Everything faded to black once more, and the woman stopped breathing. All was silent and still.
Simon?' 'Yeah?' 'Can you tell me a story?' He blinked. 'What kind of story?' 'Something where the good guys win and the bad guys lose. A nd stay dead.' 'So, like a fairy tale?' he said. He racked his brain. He knew only the Disney versions of fairy tales, and the first knew only the Disney versions of fairy tales, and the first image that came to mind was A riel in her seashell bra. He'd had a crush on her when he was eight. Not that this seemed like the time to mention it. 'No.' The word was an exhaled breath. 'We study fairy tales in school. A lot of that magic is real-but, anyway. No, I want something I haven't heard yet.' 'Okay. I've got a good one.' Simon stroked Isabelle's hair, feeling her lashes flutter against his neck as she closed her eyes. 'A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...
The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture-the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation. Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.
TESLA'S CAT [Nikola Tesla's favorite childhood companion] was the family's black cat, Macak. Macak followed young Nikola everywhere, and they spent many happy hours rolling on the grass. It was Macak the cat who introduced Tesla to electricity on a dry winter evening. 'As I stroked Macak's back, ' he recalled, 'I saw a miracle that made me speechless with amazement. Macak's back was a sheet of light and my hand produced a shower of sparks loud enough to be heard all over the house.' Curious, he asked his father what caused the sparks. Puzzled at first, [his father] finally answered, 'Well, this is nothing but electricity, the same thing you see through the trees in a storm.' His father's answer, equating the sparks with lightning, fascinated the young boy. As Tesla continued to stroke Macak, he began to wonder, 'Is nature a gigantic cat? If so, who strokes its back? It can only be God, ' he concluded.
W. Bernard Carlson
Before she could think, he bent his head and was kissing her, only this wasn't anything like the chaste kiss she'd gave him. His mouth slanted across hers, demanding her response. Soft and warm, his tongue brushed against the tender skin. With a sigh, Clarissa parted her lips and he quickly took advantage, deepening their kiss. His hand cupped the back of her head and his fingers tangled in her hair, while his other arm around her waist locked her against him. Clarissa twined her arms around his neck and felt the cold wall of the house at her back as he pressed her into it. Her pulse raced as their kiss became even more heated, each second that passed marking time they didn't have. Langston's tongue stroked hers in a dance that set fire to her blood. The shadow of whiskers on his face softly abraded her skin. His hair was silky, and she couldn't resist from pushing her fingers into the thick strands, which he must have liked, judging by the masculine groan that met her ears. When he finally lifted his head, both of them were breathing hard.